After the final buzzer, a rare sight awaited him at his locker: a circle of microphones and recorders. Typically, forwards and goaltenders drew the biggest scrums; defensemen like Luke were used to answering a few questions off to the side, if that. Tonight, a dozen reporters, cameras and cell phones crowdedaround his stall. Cassie hung back, waiting for an opening. She was used to these scrums, where older male reporters sometimes boxed her out with their elbows or cut her off mid-question. She had learned to lean in, speak up and not apologize. Still, on nights like this, jostling for space among broad shoulders and booming voices left her feeling smaller than her five-foot-five frame.
“Luke, what was different about tonight?” one TV reporter barked, not bothering to look at Cassie trying to ask her own question.
“Were you motivated by the criticism?” another asked before Luke could answer the first.
Luke blinked, clearly taken aback by the barrage. He opened his mouth, then closed it again as the questions overlapped. Cassie stepped further forward, recorder out, waiting for a pause. One journalist raised his voice and physically shifted in front of her. She drew a breath, ready to wedge back in.
Luke’s gaze flicked over the scrum and settled on her. He lifted a hand subtly. “Hang on,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the hubbub. The room quieted a fraction. He nodded toward Cassie. “Let Cassie ask hers.”
A couple of heads turned. The man who had been blocking her frowned but stepped aside. Cassie felt her cheeks heat. She squared her shoulders. “Luke,” she began. “Did those blocked shots early give you a boost? And can you walk us through the goal?”
Luke’s lips curved into a quick smile. “Yeah, blocking shots always gets you into a game,” he said, directing his answer to the whole group but keeping his eyes occasionally on her. He described seeing the lane open up, trusting his teammate to putthe puck where he could shoot. He gave credit to his goalie for keeping them close. He answered the follow-ups patiently, even when the questions strayed back to his earlier struggles. When a radio host tried to interrupt Cassie’s follow-up, Luke gently held up a finger to signal he wasn’t finished. The signal worked; Cassie finished her question about the Renegades defending the lead without being drowned out.
After the scrum dissipated, Cassie lingered to grab a last quote for color. Luke wiped sweat from his brow and leaned toward her afterward. “Thanks for sticking with me this week,” he murmured under his breath. “I know I haven’t made it easy.”
“Just calling it like I see it,” she said back, keeping her voice low. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, the noise of the locker room swirling around them. “Nice goal.”
“Felt good,” he said, his grin boyish. Then the equipment manager tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to hand over his skates, the moment over. Cassie walked back to the press box, fingers already composing her lead: “After a week of stumbles, Luke Anders reminded fans why the Renegades signed him—and reminded everyone that redemption stories are written one shift at a time.”
Thirteen
With two days until the next game, the arena felt both familiar and foreign without the roar of the crowd. Practices were open to media, though only a few reporters took advantage. Cassie arrived with a mental list of stories that had nothing to do with Luke Anders. She chatted with the backup goaltender, the wiry 22-year-old from Toronto, Connor Martin, who was pushing to unseat the veteran starter, the Russian Ilya Belov. She asked Connor about his new pads, his pre-practice playlists and learned that his pregame meal usually consisted of three chocolate chip cookies. The feature would run next week, a profile of youthful swagger and his simmering ambition.
After practice she drifted toward the assistant coach responsible for the team’s power play scheme for the next interview. The Renegades had quietly climbed into the top ten on the man advantage, thanks to crisp puck movement and a newfound willingness to shoot from the bumper spot. Cassie spoke to power-play quarterbackElias Johansson, who provided insightful answers to her questions about zone entries and faceoff plays. Her recorder captured talk of seams and rotations.
She had no reason to go near Luke’s stall, but her eyes kept finding him anyway. Across the room, Luke sat in his stall, his wet hair dripping onto the mat below, laughing at something his defensive partner said. He leaned back to peel off his padded undershirt, revealing tanned skin and a sprawl of ink acrosshis ribs—a compass. She watched, transfixed, as he lifted the shirt over his head. Long hair cascaded down his neck; muscles rippled down his torso. Cassie had interviewed half-naked athletes for years; she had seen tattoos, scars and bruises without feeling anything but professionalism. But something about Luke’s nonchalant grace—the way his brown eyes flicked up and caught hers for a split second—sent a flare of heat through her. She blinked and looked away, forcing herself to focus on her notes about power-play percentages.
He tugged on a hoodie and slipped his feet into slides. As he slung his bag over one shoulder and stood to leave, he glanced back at her. Their eyes met again. He tilted his head slightly, as if to say hello, but didn’t approach. Cassie’s pen hovered over her notebook. Her heart thudded an uncomfortable rhythm. She reminded herself she had stories to file and a reputation to protect. She inhaled, exhaled and turned back to her notebook.
That night, she went home to her apartment atop Mount Washington, made a simple dinner and tried to shake the image of Luke’s tattoos. She curled up on her couch with her laptop, finishing her feature on the backup goalie, describing the “quiet confidence” in his stance and the way he studied film of league stars. She emailed her editor, then cleaned up, rolled out her yoga mat and stretched until her muscles loosened. She clicked off the lights and slipped into bed, determined to sleep.
Sleep did not cooperate. Her mind conjured Luke. In her dream, they were alone in the locker room long after practice. He stood in front of her, his hair damp, the compass tattoo on his ribs clear enough to trace. His calloused fingers brushed her cheek. He leaned down—he always had to bend to kiss her—and his mouth found hers. Heat flooded her veins. She dreamed of his hands sliding down her sides, of her own exploring the ink on hisskin. It was softer and more vivid than reality, as dreams often are; every nerve felt tuned to him. When she woke, her heart hammered. The room was dark, except for the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. Her hand was fisted in the sheets. She lay back, breathing hard, chastising herself and smiling at the same time.
She stared at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that it meant nothing, that a dream was just her subconscious working through the unusual pull she felt toward Luke. But the next morning, when she walked into the arena and saw him talking with a teammate, the memory of that dream tugged at the edges of her composure. She scribbled notes for her power-play story and told herself that professional boundaries were still intact. They were—technically. But as she watched him laugh, his hair falling over his eyes, she knew a line inside her had shifted.
Fourteen
Practice had ended, but Luke lingered in the locker room longer than usual. From his stall, he watched Cassie cross the room, chatting animatedly with Connor Martin and the power-play coach. Jealousy was an unfamiliar ache; he had never been possessive about his friends or teammates. Yet seeing her laugh with others while he sat silent made his chest tighten. He flexed his fingers around the tape of his stick, reminding himself that there was nothing to be jealous of—she was doing her job. Still, his gaze tracked her, noting the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the way she leaned in just enough to hear without invading personal space. He forced himself to look away and start untaping his socks.
Normally he stripped out of his gear without a second thought. Years of hockey had made him casual about the ritual: shoulder pads clattered to the floor, undershirt peeled off, the air cool on sweat-slicked skin. But today he felt her eyes on him before he saw her. When he tugged his shirt over his head, he caught Cassie’s glance flick across his chest and the ink that wound along his ribs. For a heartbeat, he felt exposed in a way he never had before. Heat rose on the back of his neck, and he busied himself with folding his towel and pulling on a hoodie. It wasn’t shame—more like a new awareness of how she saw him, not just as a player but as a man.
That evening, back in his loft on the edge of the Strip District, Luke tried to shake the feeling. He cooked pasta, listened to a new album a teammate had recommended and stared out at the dark river. The exposed brick walls and lofty ceilings that usually felt inviting seemed cavernous. He picked up his phone twice to text Cassie about a mundane thought and put it down both times. When he finally stretched out on his bed, his body hummed with restless energy. Sleep pulled him under, but not into rest.
In his dream he was back in the locker room, but this time Cassie wasn’t across the room interviewing someone else. She was in front of him, her eyes warm and intent. He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. She traced the tattoo over his ribs with a curious finger. He bent down to kiss her, and everything dissolved into sensation: the press of her body against his, the way her hands slid up his back, the feeling of her lips opening to his. The dream grew dirtier, more insistent; in the half-light of his subconscious he laid her down on the bench, took in the flush on her cheeks and the way she whispered his name when he kissed the hollow of her throat. Each touch was gentle rather than frantic, but there was no mistaking the hunger. Her hands roamed over him, and he savored every glide of her fingers like a promise. By the time he woke, his pulse was racing and his sheets were tangled around his legs. He lay there for a moment, heat pooling low in his belly, and laughed softly at himself even as he reached for a glass of water. He hadn’t planned on falling for a reporter. He hadn’t planned on dreaming about her this way either.
Fifteen
If the early part of the season had been rocky for Luke, December and January were a grind. His game improved incrementally, but the Renegades hit a skid. The schedule took them from Pittsburgh to Edmonton, then to Calgary, Vancouver and Seattle. Cassie’s life became a blur of airports and hotels. She wrote game stories at one in the morning, sprinted across airports to make connections, and subsisted on hotel breakfasts and coffee.
Cassie occasionally caught sight of Luke in hotel corridors at odd hours or passing through the lobby after a team meal. In Vancouver, a snowstorm stranded them and several other reporters and players in the same hotel for an extra day. Cassie spent the afternoon in the lobby, writing and listening to Luke and a teammate play cards at a nearby table. When Luke’s teammate left, he walked over and sat down across from her.
“Crazy weather,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” she replied, typing. She fought the urge to look up and memorize the way his hair curled when damp.
They chatted about the schedule, about the best places to eat in Nashville and the worst arenas in the league. The conversation hovered at the edge of personal and professional, like a skater balancing on the blue line.
A throat cleared. “Hope I’m not interrupting date night,” a voice drawled. They turned to see Connor Martin, still in his workout gear, balancing a smoothie in one hand and his phone in the other. The 22-year-old goalie had swagger to spare — flashy pads, a quick smile, a penchant for calling his glove hand “the glove” like it was a separate entity — and he grinned as if he’d caught a teammate out past curfew. His dark hair flopped over one eye, and he raised his brows in exaggerated innocence.
