“I can do that,” he said. “I want to.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in carefully.
Cassie lifted her head and looked at him, really looked at him, the tension of the past weeks written in the lines around his eyes. Without a word, she took his hand and tugged him toward her on the couch, their knees bumping as he settled beside her. The closeness felt deliberate, grounding. Luke brushed his thumb along her jaw, a silent question. She answered by leaning in, kissing him softly at first, like they were reminding themselves how to do this.
They moved slowly, unhurried, letting the weight of the season fall away piece by piece. Luke pulled Cassie onto his lap and kissed her like he was memorizing her again, careful and gentle, his hands warm and steady. Cassie pressed closer, breathing him in, the familiar comfort of him easing the tight knot in her chest. For a moment, it felt like time had widened just for them—no standings, no deadlines, no consequences beyond the room.
Weeks of missed chances and half-conversations surged forward all at once. The kisses deepened, urgency replacing restraint. Cassie pulled him closer, her fingers threading into his hair as Luke groaned softly against her mouth.
He pulled her sweater over her head, throwing it to the other side of the living room. He unhooked her bra behind her with a flick of his wrist, causing her to gasp as the cool air hit herbreasts. She felt the warmth of Luke’s breath as he leaned into her chest, pausing before kissing each of her nipples – softly at first, then tracing her right nipple with his tongue before squeezing it between his teeth. She threw her head back and moaned. He cupped her left breast with his left hand, allowing his right to trace her slit overtop her leggings. When he could already feel how wet she was through the fabric, he pulled his face back from her chest.
“Flip over,” he rasped.
Cassie, with a quickness and desperation that surprised them both, dove onto the couch on Luke’s right, landing on her forearms and knees with her back arched, ass raised to him. She looked back over her shoulder as he pulled his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion, before reaching for her leggings and pulling them down to her knees. He teased her through her panties, tracing her slit with his tip until she let out a frustrated moan. He pulled them down to her knees, digging his fingers into her hips as he slipped deep inside of her, causing her to let out a yelp. They moved with a new urgency, making up for every night apart, every moment they’d chosen responsibility over want.
She came first, her legs shaking as she dug her fingernails into the couch and he continued to thrust into her. She felt his pace quicken, and then he let out a low moan as he came, too.
By the time they finally slowed, tangled together on the couch, the apartment was quiet again. Luke sat back, breathing hard, and Cassie laughed softly, the sound full of relief.
“God,” he murmured, “I needed that.”
“So did I,” she said, resting her head back against his shoulder—this time without doubt, without tension, just the steady comfort of being exactly where she wanted to be.
The push wasn’t over.
But neither were they.
Twenty-Four
They clinched on the second-to-last night of the season.
It wasn’t dramatic in the way people would remember years later—no overtime winner, no single hero—but it was earned. A grinding 2–1 win on the road, sealed by disciplined defense and Connor standing on his head in goal. Cassie filed her story from a folding chair in a concrete hallway, heart still pounding as the final horn echoed through the arena. The Renegades had done just enough. Barely. But enough.
In the locker room afterward, the mood was muted joy. Relief more than celebration. Music played, but not loudly. Tanner Brooks stood in the center, still in half his gear, and addressed the room with a quiet authority that made the words feel heavier.
“This is what we wanted,” he said. “Now we earn it.”
Philadelphia loomed immediately.
The Liberty were everything the Renegades were not—fast, ruthless through the neutral zone. Their forecheck suffocated teams into mistakes. Their fans were loud and unforgiving. Cassie knew the matchup well; she’d written about it for days, breaking down tendencies and matchups, trying to convince herself that this wasn’t a death sentence disguised as a first-round series.
Game 1 in Philadelphia set the tone.
It was tight, suffocating hockey. No space. No room to breathe. Luke logged over twenty-six minutes, closing gaps, blocking shots, absorbing hits. The Renegades scored first on a deflection in the second period. The Liberty answered less than three minutes later on a rebound chaos goal that left everyone staring at the crease in disbelief.
Overtime came quickly and cruelly. A misread at the blue line. A two-on-one. A shot that beat the goalie far side.
Cassie typed the word “grit” more times than she wanted to admit.
Game 2 was better. The Renegades adjusted, slowed the game down, clogged the middle. Luke assisted on the opening goal with a clean breakout pass that sprang Tanner in stride. They protected the lead like it was fragile glass. When the final horn sounded on a 3–2 win, the bench erupted. Series tied.
Back in Pittsburgh, the city leaned in.
Game 3 was one of the best games Cassie had ever covered. End-to-end. Physical. Smart. Luke was everywhere—breaking up rushes, killing penalties, clearing bodies from the front of the net. The Renegades won 2–1, and for the first time, belief cracked open.
Game 4 took it back.
Philadelphia adjusted again, forcing turnovers, punishing mistakes. Luke took a late hooking penalty trying to stop a breakaway. The Liberty scored on the ensuing power play. The Renegades pushed late but couldn’t break through. 3–1 loss. Series tied 2–2.
