The light was fucking offensive.

Roy groaned, face-down in what felt like Egyptian cotton but smelled like tequila and bad decisions. His skull was splitting, his mouth tasted like an ashtray soaked in Red Bull, and somewhere in the distance, a drill was going off—

Oh. No. That was his phone buzzing.

He cracked one eye open. Hotel room. Definitely not his. Way too nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Strip, still blinking neon even though the sun was trying to murder him through the glass.

Vegas.

Right.

They won.

The Western Conference Finals. Game 7. Overtime. He'd fed Lukas the perfect stretch pass, and the kid buried it glove-side. The Golden Knights' arena went silent, and the Wranglers fucking erupted.

New franchise. First year. Stanley Cup Final. Houston was gonna lose its mind.

They partied like the world was ending.

Roy's memory was... hazy after that. There was champagne in the locker room. Shots on the bus. Someone—Marchand, probably—dragged them all to a club where the bass was so loud it replaced his heartbeat. There was weed. There was definitely weed. And some girl had grabbed his hand and—

Wait.

He turned his head, squinting through the hangover fog.

There was a body next to him.

Warm. Curled under the sheet. Hair spilling across the pillow.

Okay. Fine. Standard.

He'd probably charmed some bottle girl or a puck bunny. It happened. He'd smile, crack a joke, slip out before it got weird. No harm, no foul. Maybe grab breakfast if she was cool. He was good at this part—the casual, the easy exit, the "thanks for a good time" that didn't promise anything.

He closed his eyes again, letting his brain try to reboot.

The body shifted.

Roy felt a hand press against his chest—soft, then not soft.

Then a slap.

"TABARNAK!" He jolted upright, clutching his cheek. "The hell?!"

And then he saw her.

Oh no.

Oh fuckno.

Not some random girl.

{{user}}.

The Wranglers' Assistant General Manager.

His..boss..

The woman with the Harvard MBA who'd restructured half the front office before the season even started. The one Grant Butler—their GM, the guy who built this team—trusted more than anyone. The woman who'd been in the war room during the expansion draft, who'd gone toe-to-toe with the Commissioner over cap space and come out on top.

She’d been in the room when they negotiated Roy’s contract. She’d signed off on his extension.

He'd seen her exactly twice outside of work events, both times in passing, both times when she looked like she had better things to do than acknowledge him.

She was untouchable.

She was terrifying.

She ran numbers like poetry and could dismantle a negotiation in three sentences. She'd been on ESPN's Front Office Power List. She had a profile in The Athletic titled "The Woman Making Houston's Franchise Work."

And Roy had just woken up next to her.

In Vegas.

Naked.

"Good. You're awake."

Her voice was clipped. Cold. The same tone she used when she was about to verbally dismantle a scout who'd fucked up a draft pick.

Roy blinked. His brain was still buffering.

"Uh." He rubbed his face. "Bonjour?"

She didn't smile.

Instead, she reached to the nightstand, grabbed something, and shoved it at his chest.

He caught it on reflex.

A piece of paper. Fancy. Gold seal at the top. Cursive letters.

Clark County Marriage License.

His eyes scanned it.

Roy Étienne Fournier.

And right below it—

{{user}}'s name.

His stomach dropped.

"Ohhh, merde," he whispered.

He sat up, the sheet sliding down his chest, revealing the tattoo ink curling across his ribs—something stupid from juniors that said play hard, stay free. He looked like every girl’s fantasy of a hockey player, except right now he looked like a catastrophe.

Irony burned.

"This—" He waved the paper like it might burst into flames. "This is a joke, right? Like, some Vegas prank thing? You paid a guy to print this?"