In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

TEN

Leaving the hotel room, I give the door a quick check to make sure it's locked. Can't have any surprises, right? 

Braden's hand slides onto my hip, pulling me closer, like he's marking his territory or some shit. "Damn, M, you look insane," he says, eyes locked on me, like he's about to do something he might regret later.

I'm in this long, black dress that's, like, straight fire. It's tight in all the right places, sleeves all flowy, and the slit? It's giving way too much thigh, but honestly, I'm feeling myself. Every step I take, it's like, "Here's a little more leg for you." And the back of the dress? Might as well be non-existent. Not gonna lie, it's risky, but that's the whole point.

I'm also rocking these black stilettos. Yeah, they're a pain to walk in, but that's part of the vibe.

My hair's all curled up, half up, half down, tied with this little black bow. And my Dior purse is a tiny little thing, barely big enough for my lipstick, phone, and maybe a piece of gum. You know, essentials.

We're here for the All-Star NHL weekend, which, yeah, sounds super bro-y, but it's actually kind of fun. It's Christmas-themed, so everything's a little extra festive. And let's be real—there's something about a bunch of hockey players in suits that's hot as hell. Braden had practice in New York earlier, and now we're here, ready to take on the night.

Tonight's all about the gala. The players, their girls, everyone pretending they're not sizing each other up. Tomorrow's for the game, but tonight? It's all about the glam, the drinks, and, of course, the gossip.

"Thanks, Mr. Schneider," I say, teasing him with a bite of my lip. "You better keep your eyes on me tonight. Someone might try and steal me."

I flash him a smirk and look down for a sec, making sure I don't trip in these damn heels. Knowing my luck, I'll faceplant before we even get to the party.

"I'm going to make sure that everyone knows that you're mine," he says, all confident and possessive, like he's marking his territory or something. He opens the door for me with this little flourish, and I have to admit, it's kind of hot.

We step out into the night, and Vegas hits me with that cold, slightly sticky air. It's weird. The wind's got me shivering already, but my outfit? Yeah, no coat was definitely a mistake, but I'd rather freeze than cover up this dress. It's worth it. Tonight's about looking good, and I'm not backing down.

We slide into the car, and the chauffeur gives us a nod, but I'm barely paying attention. The seats are stupid comfy, all plush leather that feels like you're sinking into a cloud. I glance out the window as we drive, and Vegas is just doing its thing—neon lights, big flashy signs, people everywhere. Winter in Vegas doesn't hit the same, though. It's cold but still somehow sticky? Like, make it make sense.

The engine's humming, and I can feel the car heat up, but I'm getting that weird nervous sweat under my dress. It's not cute. I crack my knuckles, trying to focus on anything but the fact that we're about to hit this gala, and I have no idea what to expect. "Okay, so like, you tried to explain it earlier, but there's two teams, right?" I ask, glancing over at Braden.

He smirks, probably thinking it's cute that I'm trying to get this hockey thing down. "Yeah, they pick players from all the NHL teams, and then we play some fun, like, fake games," he explains. "Last year I wasn't in it."

I nod like I'm totally keeping up, but let's be real—sports aren't my thing. Still, I know he loves it, so I'm trying to be the supportive friend. My stomach's doing flips, though, and we haven't even gotten out of the car yet. My hands are all fidgety, and I feel Braden's hand slide over mine, squeezing it gently. Ugh, he knows I'm freaking out, and the way he's being all sweet about it is almost annoying. Almost.