Tanner clinked his bottle against Luke’s. “Hell of a year,” he said.
Luke nodded. “Yeah.”
He took a drink and looked out into the dark yard, the sounds of his teammates fading into background noise. Tomorrow would bring cleanout day, questions, answers he’d learned how to give without giving anything away.
Tonight, he let himself feel it — the loss, the weight, the certainty he wouldn’t voice yet.
Some things were worth holding carefully.
Even love.
Twenty-Six
The next day, the locker room looked wrong.
Stalls stood half-empty, nameplates already peeled off in places, duffel bags scattering the floor. The music was low, almost polite. Cleanout day always felt like this—a slow exhale after months of held breath, the season laid bare in piles of gear and unanswered questions.
Cassie moved carefully through the room, notebook tucked under her arm, aware that this was not a day for sharp elbows or aggressive follow-ups. This was the day players talked about bodies and futures, about summer plans and maybes.
She found Tanner Brooks at his stall, folding a practice jersey with deliberate care.
“So,” she said gently, “you coming back?”
He smiled before he answered, the kind of smile that carried both relief and resignation. “Yeah,” he said. “One more.”
Cassie’s recorder hovered between them. “You sound sure.”
“I am,” Tanner said. Then, after a beat, “About this one.”
He leaned back against the stall, crossing his arms. “I promised my wife. Promised the kids too. They know what this year meant, and they’ve been incredible. But next year? That’s it.No more long road trips. No more missing school plays.” He swallowed. “I want to finish on my own terms.”
“And you still believe you can win here? In Pittsburgh?” Cassie asked.
Tanner nodded without hesitation. “More than ever. We were close. Closer than people think.” He looked around the room, at the younger players packing up. “I want them to know what it takes. Then I’ll walk away.”
Cassie thanked him and stepped aside as another reporter moved in. She lingered for a moment, watching him tuck a photo of his kids into the front pocket of his bag before zipping it closed.
Across the room, Luke Anders sat surrounded by microphones.
He looked different today—less armored. Hair loose, shoulders relaxed, a faint bruise still blooming along his jaw. The questions came easily, predictably.
“How would you assess your season, Luke?”
“What changed for you after the slow start?”
Luke brushed a strand of hair out of his face, then looked up.
“I think…” he began, then stopped, choosing his words with care. “I think I learned how to settle in. How to stop trying to be everything at once. Just play my own game.”
A reporter nodded. “Was that tactical? Coaching? Teammates?”
Luke’s gaze flicked—just briefly—to Cassie standing at the edge of the scrum. His lip twitched, fighting back a smile.
“A lot of things,” he said evenly. “Trust. Stability. Having people who…keep you grounded. Remind you why you play.”
It was an answer that could live comfortably on paper. Nothing controversial. Nothing personal.
And yet.
