The margins were razor thin now.
Cassie barely slept between games. She lived on caffeine and adrenaline, rewriting the same ledes with slightly different verbs. Luke moved through days in a fog of soreness and focus. They barely spoke, but when they did, it mattered.
Game 5 in Philadelphia was heartbreak.
The Renegades led 2–0 entering the third. Luke blocked two shots in the first five minutes of the period, grimacing but staying in the lane. Then the Liberty scored. Then again. The tying goal came with under four minutes left, off a puck that ricocheted in a way no one could control.
Overtime again.
This time, Philadelphia didn’t waste it.
Cassie watched Luke skate slowly off the ice, jaw clenched, hair plastered to his forehead. She wrote the gamer with hands that wouldn’t quite stop shaking.
Down 3–2 in the series, the Renegades came home facing elimination.
Game 6 was desperation hockey.
The crowd was deafening. The bench short. Every shift felt like a season. Luke played over thirty minutes, throwing his body in front of everything. Tanner Brooks scored in the second period, jamming a puck through traffic, and raised both arms like a man who refused to go quietly.
Philadelphia answered late in the third.
Tie game.
Overtime.
Cassie’s stomach twisted as she watched from the press box, nails digging into her palm. Luke nearly ended it five minutes in—his shot rang off the post, the sound sharp enough to make the entire building gasp.
Moments later, the Liberty broke the other way.
A clean shot sailed past the veteran Ilya Belov. The red light turned on.
Silence fell like a held breath finally released.
The Renegades were eliminated in six games.
In the locker room, the air was heavy. Some players sat motionless. Others stripped gear mechanically. Tanner Brooks stood at his stall long after the media cleared, staring at the floor. Luke leaned forward, elbows on his knees, breathing slow and controlled.
Cassie didn’t write right away.
She stood in the hallway afterward, notebook pressed to her chest, listening to the muffled sounds of a season ending behind closed doors. She knew this might be Tanner’s last game. She knew it had been close. Too close.
When she finally filed, her words were quiet and deliberate.
Not about failure.
About how thin the line was. About how the Renegades had learned they belonged—even if they weren’t ready yet.
Later, Luke found her outside the locker room, eyes tired but steady.
“We were right there,” he said.
“I know,” she replied, reaching out to touch his forearm.
They stood alone together in the empty hallway, no urgency now, no games left to chase—just the echo of what might have been.
The season was over.
Twenty-Five
