The locker room itself was a world of sounds and smells—tape being ripped off shin pads, rustle of jerseys coming off, the lingering smell of sweat. Players shouted over blaring music, athletic trainers darted between them with bags of ice, equipment managers sharpened blades in the back. Cassie had learned to insert herself just enough to get the quote without becoming a nuisance. The relationships were built in these chaotic five-minute bursts, where she could ask a rookie about his first fight or a veteran about his children’s Halloween costumes.
Luke quickly learned that she was someone he could trust. After one particularly rough night where he was on the ice for three opposition goals, he sighed and slumped on the bench in his stall before unlacing his skates. When Cassie approached, he braced for a grilling.
“Long night,” she began. “What did you see on that two-on-one?”
He could have given a cliché, but there was something in her tone—firm but empathetic—that loosened his tongue. “I read the play wrong. I cheated. I was thinking about jumping up the ice instead of holding back. It won’t happen again.”
Cassie nodded, switching off her recorder. “Appreciate it,” she said. “For what it’s worth, you weren’t the only one.”
Later, when her piece ran, she included his quote but contextualized it within a larger pattern. She noted his accountability and reminded readers of his track record with his former team. In the comment section, a few fans accused her of being soft. She ignored them. She wrote for fairness, not for clicks.
In the days that followed, Luke found himself paying attention to where Cassie stood in the scrum, how she angled her body to be out of the camera frame for television crews, how she scribbled shorthand that looked like a foreign language. In their brief exchanges, he learned she’d grown up watching Renegades games with her father and that she still flinched when hockey pucks clanged off metal beams.
After the Renegades’ next game, as she hustled back to the elevator, Luke caught up to her. “Hey,” he said, placing a large hand lightly on her elbow to get her attention. “I like how you wrote that the other day. It was hard to read, but you were honest.”
She felt heat rise in her cheeks. “It’s what I’m here for,” she said, voice tight.
“I know you have a job to do,” he said. “Just wanted to say thanks.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Cassie glanced up at him—the angle of his jaw, the stray damp curls. She shivered, telling herself it was the cold air from the ice surface.
Luke’s struggles weren’t just in his head. Fans expected an instant savior, forgetting that players take time to acclimate to new systems and teammates. Luke reminded himself that patience was part of the process. But expectations in a new city felt heavier.
What he didn’t expect was how those expectations would tether him to Cassie. She became his barometer, her writing reflecting his arc. When he played well, her articles praised his positioning. When he faltered, her analysis was sharp but fair. He found himself seeking her out after games—not to lobby for better coverage but because their short exchanges grounded him.
Five
It was a mid-November morning when Cassie had stopped by Novaria Coffee in the Strip District on a rare off day for the Renegades. She was hunched over her laptop, transcribing quotes, when a shadow fell across the table.
“Do you mind if I join you?” The voice was unmistakable.
She looked up to see Luke balancing a tray with an americano and a muffin. His hair was tucked into a beanie. In street clothes he looked like any tall guy in Pittsburgh—jeans and a Henley, not a professional athlete. She hesitated. The ethical alarms in her mind blared.
This wasn’t an accidental brush in the hallway; Luke had clearly sought her out in the café. Cassie’s heart beat faster, not just because of attraction but because she knew that even being seen with him in a social setting could raise eyebrows in the newsroom.
“If we’re going to talk,” she said carefully, “I have to be honest. We can’t…this can’t be a thing. I’m your beat reporter. If we start hanging out, people will think I’m biased.”
He leaned back, the color draining from his face. “I know,” he said. “I get it. I didn’t ask for…that. I swear. I just needed someone to talk to who knows hockey and who isn’t on my team.”
The sincerity in his voice softened her. “Okay,” she said. “Then let’s keep it that way. I’m happy to listen. But there’s a line. I can’t cross it.”
Luke nodded. “I respect that.” He hesitated, then added, “But if we weren’t who we are…”
Cassie considered him for a moment, then said, “If we weren’t who we are, I’d probably ask you what you think you’re chasing out there.”
Luke’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. More like recognition. “And if we weren’t who we are,” he said, “I’d probably answer you honestly.”
The air between them shifted—not lighter, just more deliberate.
She closed her laptop, not snapping it shut, just lowering the screen enough. “You didn’t sit down to talk about coffee,” she said.
“No,” he admitted. His fingers circled the rim of his cup once, then stilled. “I wanted your read. Not a quote. Not something that ends up in print. Just…your hockey brain.”
Cassie held his gaze. This was the line—close enough to feel it, far enough to stay standing on her side of it. “On the team,” she said. “Or on you.”
He didn’t hesitate. “On me.”
She exhaled slowly, choosing precision over softness. “You’re pressing. You’re trying to earn the contract every shift instead of trusting the game that got you here.”
