Cassie closed her eyes. “Okay.”
“I don’t think I really understood it before,” he said. “Not all the way. I knew it was harder for you. I just… I didn’t sit with what that actually means.”
She didn’t interrupt.
“If we dothis… and someone finds out,” he continued, choosing his words carefully, “they write a headline about me. Maybe a joke. Maybe a paragraph about distractions. I get a warning from PR and everyone moves on.” He exhaled. “If they find out about you, they don’t write a headline. They rewrite your credibility.”
Cassie swallowed. Hearing him say it out loud loosened something tight in her chest. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s the part people don’t like to acknowledge.”
“I should’ve acknowledged it sooner,” Luke said. “I keep thinking about you sitting on that plane, turning this over by yourself. That’s not fair.”
She stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t want to make it sound like I was blaming you.”
“I know,” he said. “But I want to be clear about something.” He paused again, longer this time. “You don’t ever have to ask me to step back.”
Cassie’s breath caught. “Luke—”
“No,” he said gently. “Let me finish.” His voice softened. “If this ever starts to cost you—your sleep, your focus, your reputation—I’ll be the one to pull away. Publicly. Completely. No explanations required.”
Her fingers curled into the couch cushion. “That’s… a big thing to say.”
“It’s the bare minimum,” he said. “You built something before I got here. I don’t get to be the reason it cracks.”
Cassie felt a sting behind her eyes and blinked hard. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re disposable in this.”
“I don’t.” He paused a beat. “Caring about you means I don’t get to be reckless.”
Cassie shifted on the couch, drawing her knees closer. “I don’t want to lose you,” she admitted. “But I can’t lose myself either.”
“I know,” Luke said. “So we move at your speed. We follow your rules. And if the safest thing at some point is distance, then I’ll take it.” He gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve spent my whole career being told to wait my turn. I can do it here too.”
She smiled despite herself. “You hate waiting.”
“I hate hurting people more,” he said.
They sat in the silence that followed, not awkward, just full. Cassie realized she was breathing easier than she had since Vancouver.
“Thank you,” she said finally.
“For what?”
“For seeing it,” she replied. “Really seeing it.”
“Always,” he said. “Get some rest. Long flight.”
“You too,” she said. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Yeah,” Luke said. “We will.”
When the call ended, Cassie stayed where she was for a long moment, phone warm in her hand. Nothing had been solved. Nothing had been decided. But for the first time since boardingthe plane in Vancouver, the weight didn’t feel like hers alone to carry.
Seventeen
Two weeks later, the Renegades were on the tail end of a road trip and about to face the division rival Columbus Arsenals. Cassie arrived at the arena early, as usual, and found her spot in the press box. She did her pregame ritual—drinking her latte, writing notes, reading up on matchups. On the ice, she could see Luke taking warm-up laps, his hair flowing without his helmet. She felt a familiar pang and told herself to focus.
Midway through the second period, Luke took a hard hit along the boards. He stayed down, clutching his left shoulder. Cassie felt her stomach drop. Trainers came out. He got up slowly and skated off, head down. Cassie’s fingers moved automatically, taking notes, recording details. Her heart pounded. By the third period, the team announced he would not return to the game.
After the game, the locker room hummed with tension. Luke sat shirtless at his stall, a bag of ice strapped to his shoulder. Cassie approached with the rest of the scrum. He answered questions about the hit, said he’d be re-evaluated tomorrow. His eyes kept darting to her, perhaps looking for something. She kept hers cool, professional.
