Cassie felt it anyway—the undercurrent, the private meaning threaded beneath the words. She met his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking back down at her notes, her pulse steady but unmistakably present.
Luke continued. “Once I stopped pressing, everything else followed. The game slowed down. I did too.”
Someone asked about next year. About expectations.
“I know what this league demands,” Luke said. “I know what I’m capable of now. That part doesn’t scare me anymore.”
The scrum broke up slowly. Players filtered out with handshakes and jokes and summer plans spoken aloud like promises. Cassie packed up, her work nearly done.
As she headed for the door, Luke caught her eye again—longer this time.
No words. Just understanding.
Cleanout day always marked an ending. But sometimes, it also made room for what came next.
Twenty-Seven
Cassie stayed in Pittsburgh, still on the beat. She covered the draft, the team’s prospects camp and wrote profiles of future stars. Luke returned to his offseason home in British Columbia to train, heal fully from all his bumps and bruises and spend time with his family.
They texted constantly. They planned visits under the guise of vacation time and stories that took Cassie west. In early July, she flew to Vancouver on the pretense of writing about west-coast junior hockey. Luke picked her up at the airport, eyes bright. He carried her bag with one hand, wrapped the other around her waist, and they grinned like teenagers sneaking out past curfew.
At his apartment overlooking the harbor, they were finally alone without a clock ticking. Cassie kicked off her shoes and let Luke back her up against the kitchen counter. He kissed her thoroughly, then lifted her onto the cool granite. Her legs wrapped around his hips almost automatically. They barely made it to the bedroom. Luke explored her like the first time all over again—kissing the curve of her hip, tracing his fingers up and down her thighs, murmuring about how he had imagined this every night. Cassie responded in kind, letting her hands and mouth linger over the lines of his body, memorizing the way he shuddered when she whispered in his ear. When they came together, it was like the ocean outside—rolling, endless. Afterwards, they lay sated and smiling, the only sound beingtheir heavy breathing and the faint sound of seagulls in the background.
They spent the week hiking forest trails, cooking breakfast in the mornings and making love in the afternoons. Luke introduced her to his favorite café and his childhood goalie coach. Cassie told a white lie to her editor about a feature she was researching. It wasn’t entirely false—she did interview several local players. She just failed to mention whose bed she slept in. Luke took her kayaking in Deep Cove, and they laughed as they tried to keep their boats from capsizing. They drove to Whistler and soaked in a hot spring where no one recognized them. At night, they sat on his balcony and talked about everything from the books they read to the meaning of home.
At the end of July, Luke came east. He stayed at Cassie’s tiny apartment, ducking into her doorway under cover of darkness. They explored Frick Park, ate pierogies from a food truck, and, in the privacy of her home, reacquainted their bodies. They made love slowly on her sofa, quick and frantic in the hallway when laughter threatened to expose them to her neighbor, and leisurely in her bedroom with the morning light streaming across the bed. Each time was a reminder of both their passion and their need for discretion. On their last night together, they lay on her roof deck, the summer air thick, and counted stars. Cassie traced constellations on his bare chest. Luke told her about a dream where they lived in a farmhouse with room for a dog and a studio for her writing. She didn’t dare say it aloud, but she pictured it too.
When Cassie flew back out to British Columbia weeks later, Luke brought Cassie to his parents’ modest house near the shipyards. The scent of cedar and salt was thick in the air. His mother, a petite woman with a firm handshake, eyed Cassie with curiosityand protectiveness. Over dinner, they told stories about Luke’s childhood—the time he practiced slap shots in the living room and shattered a picture frame, the way he’d get up before dawn to run with his father. Cassie shared tales of her own upbringing in Pittsburgh, of learning to write by hand in a room filled with newspapers. Luke’s father pulled Cassie aside after dessert and said softly, “You make him happy. Just don’t let the world chew you up.” Cassie nodded, understanding more than he knew.
That night, in Luke’s childhood bedroom with hockey posters still on the walls, they made love under quilts. It was sweet and slow, a claiming of space in each other’s histories. Cassie felt safe enough to cry when pleasure overwhelmed her. Luke kissed her tears away and whispered that what they had was worth the mess.
After breakfast the next morning, Luke pulled on a faded flannel and took Cassie out to the back porch where cedar trees lined the fence and the salty tang of the harbour hung in the air. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the porch swing with steaming mugs of coffee cupped between cold hands, listening to gulls cry and the distant clatter of the shipyard. Luke pointed to scratches along the railing where, as a teenager, he’d practised stickhandling drills until his mother yelled at him to come inside. Cassie laughed at the mental image and traced the gouges with her finger. Between their soft conversation and comfortable silences, Luke squeezed her hand and, almost shyly, blurted, “I love you.” The words hung between them like condensation in the cold morning. Cassie pressed her palm to his heartbeat and whispered, “Oh, Luke…I love you, too.” Saying it aloud felt like stepping through a doorway they’d been circling for months. They sealed the moment with a kiss under the soft western sun, committing not just to a return visit but to a future they both dared to imagine.
Twenty-Eight
The summer after their clandestine season stretched hot and humid over Pittsburgh. Cassie and Luke maintained their careful balance—she wrote stories about the Renegades’ newest signings, and Luke, now back in town to prepare for training camp, spent mornings skating at the practice rink and evenings cooking dinner for her in his Strip District loft. Their secret was still safe. The rest of the city saw only a hardworking journalist and a defenseman trying to live up to his contract.
In early September, news broke that the new Women’s National Hockey League was awarding an expansion franchise to Pittsburgh in the next year. The announcement sent the city buzzing. Social media lit up with excitement about finally having a pro women’s team to cheer for. Cassie covered the press conference, writing about the ownership group and the historic significance of the league’s growth. At the end of the Q&A, a broadcasting executive from a regional network pulled her aside.
“Cassie,” he said, shaking her hand. “We’re going to televise the women’s games. We need someone who knows the sport inside and out but can also connect with viewers. Have you ever thought about stepping into the booth as a color commentator?”
The question sent a jolt through her. She had always been a writer. The cadence of typing, the thrill of chasing quotes, the satisfaction of a well-turned lede were her heartbeat. She’dnever imagined calling games on live television. “I haven’t,” she admitted, looking at the ice where the new team would practice. “I love writing.”
“Think about it,” he urged. “You know this market. You know the athletes. You could help elevate the women’s game.”
That night, she told Luke about the offer while they prepared dinner. He stood at the stove stirring marinara, his long hair tucked behind his ears. She leaned against the counter, small compared to his broad frame, chopping basil. “They want me to be the color commentator for the women’s team,” she said, watching his reaction.
He turned, surprise written across his features. “You’d be amazing,” he said immediately. “You’ve been covering hockey for years. You know the nuances. And it’s a chance to help build something new.” He reached out with his free hand and brushed a stray hair from her face. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, the foot of height between them always closing when he leaned down. “But what about the beat?” he asked. “You’ve worked so hard.”
Cassie chewed her lip. “That’s just it. I love the beat. I love the routine, the travel, even the bad coffee. And the Renegades are in a transition year. I want to see where they go.” She paused. “But I also know that opportunities like this don’t come around often, and women’s sports deserve voices that care.”
They spent days talking it through. Cassie made lists. She called mentors. She spoke with former athletes who had transitioned into broadcasting. Stan, her editor, told her that he would miss her on the beat but would support her if she chose to leave. “This sounds like a dream job,” he said. “And it’s still storytelling, just in a different format.” Meanwhile, the network continued to court her, offering to let her keep writing featureson off-days. Cassie began to imagine herself in a broadcast booth with a headset, describing plays, analyzing line changes, and interviewing players on the bench between periods.
Luke listened to every pro and con. He never once pressured her. He did, however, bring up one more factor late one night as they lay in bed, his arm around her, her head tucked under his chin. “If you take the job,” he whispered, “we won’t have to keep us a secret anymore. You won’t be writing about me.” Cassie’s stomach flipped. The idea of going public—of not having to hide texts or take different elevators—felt both liberating and terrifying.
The week before training camp opened, Cassie still hadn’t decided. She accepted an invitation to sit in on a preseason women’s game in Boston broadcast to shadow some of the women’s league’s current commentators. The experience was exhilarating. She loved the pace of live analysis, the camaraderie with the play-by-play announcer. She also missed the smell of the locker room and the satisfaction of crafting a gamer on deadline. She decided to wait. She would see how the upcoming season unfolded before making a call.
Twenty-Nine
