Page 1 of Breakaway Bet

CHAPTER 1: Cash Maddox

Vegas Vengeance Seeks Vengeance

The bottle comes with sparklers. That’s Vegas bottle service for you, I guess.

I don’t even look up from my phone.

It’s theatrics, and I’m not here for that. What am I here for?

That’s a damn good question. It’s fucking July. You’d think by now I’d be over the tragic ending to what was supposed to be our season.

But if we had won the Cup, I’d still be celebrating right now. Just as well that I’m still lamenting it instead.

“Put your phone down and drink some sparkly 1942,” my buddy West says, referring to the bottle of Don Julio 1942 that just arrived at our table.

He was there with me, one of the two wingers I’m tightest with. Our lockers are beside each other, and we’re constantly in the rink together in practice.

Hell, even our seats on the plane are usually together. I never had much choice but to become close with the two assholes who share the line with me in season, and we have a hell of a lot of fun together. We’re known for our locker room antics, pranks, and one-upping each other.

But I’m not in the mood for any of that tonight.

He knows how much it hurts.

We lost by one in Game Seven, one round before the Finals. It should’ve been ours. We should’ve had the chance to fight for the Cup.

It feels like the one that got away.

Maybe it’ll always feel that way, or maybe we can seek vengeance this season. I nearly laugh at the thought. Vegas Vengeance Seeks Vengeance.

I’m not getting any younger. Once guys hit thirty, they notoriously start to go downhill. I refuse to be one of those guys. I’m more focused than ever—just look at me now. I’m sitting in a goddamn Vegas nightclub in the offseason rewatching that final play for the ten thousandth time.

I should be drinking with my buddies, enjoying all Vegas has to offer, finding a woman with a hotel bed waiting for me tonight.

Instead, I’m sulking.

I blow out a breath as Kellan, my other winger, walks over and hits the top of my phone so it tumbles out of my hand.

“Dick,” I mutter, as if anyone can hear me over the music in this place. I let the phone clatter to the table and offer a glare.

“Snap out of it, Maddox,” he demands.

“Fuck off,” I mutter.

“Look, we were all there. It sucks ass. But now we’re in the height of the offseason, and we should be celebrating how far we made it. The offseason is short. I’m here to have fun, so either get on board or go home.”

“Home it is.” Yeah, so I’m in a bit of a mood tonight.

Kellan leaves me alone, and I chug down what’s left in my glass of 1942. I slam my glass back on the table, ready to get the fuck out of here.

But when I glance up, my eyes catch on blonde hair in the middle of the dance floor.

It swings with her movement as she dances to the beat of some electronic song that I’d never in a million years be able to actually identify.

I’m more of a classic rock kind of guy. Ozzy, AC/DC, the Stones…give me that over this shit any day.

I blame my mother for my strange penchant for music. My teammates seem to think it makes me old, but I’d venture to argue that being born an entire decade before most of them has more to do with it than my musical preferences.

Back to this girl.