His legs were heavier in morning skates. Bruises bloomed faster and lingered longer. He caught himself staring at the ceiling in hotel rooms, replaying shifts he should’ve buried, passes that were a fraction late. The chase had weight now—not the abstract goal of “making the playoffs,” but the responsibility of dragging a team there when expectations said they should already be safe.
They talked less during those weeks. Not because they didn’t want to, but because there were only so many hours in a day, and both of them were running on fumes.
Cassie flew commercial, back-to-backs stacking on top of each other, red-eye flights bleeding into morning skates. She filed stories from airport floors, from rideshares, from her couch at 2 a.m. with her shoes still on. Her editor wanted sharper angles,urgency, urgency, urgency. Fans wanted reassurance…or blood, depending on the night.
Luke wanted quiet. The tension finally cracked on a gray afternoon before a must-win home game.
Cassie had stopped by the arena to confirm a lineup change at the morning skate, and Luke caught up to her afterward near the hallway that led to the locker room.
“You’re coming tonight?” he asked, already knowing the answer. She nodded, distracted. “Yeah. I’ve got a deadline window not long after it ends. I might have to leave early to file.”
Luke frowned. “It’s a big game.”
“I know,” she said, sharper than intended. “Which is why I have to work.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been busy every night this week,” he whispered, making sure there wasn’t anyone in earshot.
“And you’ve been barely speaking to me,” she shot back, finally looking at him. They both froze. The hallway felt suddenly too small.
“I’m under a lot of pressure,” Luke said, voice low. “I can’t afford distractions right now.”
Cassie’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a distraction. I’m trying to hold my career together while covering a team on the brink.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what it sounded like.”
They stood there, neither quite willing to apologize first, the words hanging heavier than either intended. A trainer passed by. Cassie stepped back.
“I have to go,” she said. “Good luck tonight.”
She didn’t look back.
The game was tight and ugly and stressful in exactly the way playoff-race games always are. Luke played nearly twenty-eight minutes, blocking shots, clearing bodies, grinding. The veteran Ilya Belov held strong in net. The Renegades won 3–2 on a late goal from Tanner Brooks, the building erupting with relief more than joy.
Cassie filed cleanly, professionally, praised Luke’s defensive work without flourish. She went home afterward, drained, kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her couch, replaying the argument in her head until it made her stomach ache.
There was a knock at her door just after midnight.
She opened it to find Luke standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hair damp, eyes tired but earnest.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said immediately. “About distractions. I was wrong.”
Cassie crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I know you’re carrying a lot.”
He nodded. “I’m not good at this part. The waiting. The not knowing if it’s going to be enough.” He hesitated. “But pushing you away isn’t helping.”
She stepped aside, letting him in.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, the space between them charged with unspoken things. Luke leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “Not just about the playoffs. About messing this up. About hurting you.”
Cassie’s shoulders softened. She moved closer. “I’m scared too.”
They looked at each other, exhaustion giving way to honesty.
“I don’t need perfection,” she said. “I just need you to talk to me.”
