“Forty-eight,” Luke said. “That’s mine. You sure you want it? I’m no Tanner Brooks.”
The boy nodded fiercely.
Luke helped him pull it on, adjusting the fabric so it didn’t bunch awkwardly. He didn’t rush. He didn’t joke loudly. He just stayed there, listening while the boy talked about watching games on TV and wanting to learn how to skate again.
Luke nodded at the right places. Asked questions that didn’t pry.
When the nurse tapped the doorframe gently to signal time, Luke thanked her — like she’d donehima favor — and gave the boy a careful fist bump.
Cassie felt something shift in her chest. She’d seen Luke under scrutiny — under lights, under boos, under the quiet pressure of expectation — but this was different. Here, there was no crowd to impress, no narrative to control. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t even aware he was being watched. He was just…there, patient and attentive, giving his time without calculation.
Luke stepped back into the hallway and lifted his head, as if sensing her gaze before he saw her. Their eyes met. For a split second, he looked almost caught — not guilty, just surprised — and then something in his expression eased when he realized it was her. He held her look, open and unguarded, like he understood exactly what she’d witnessed.
Cassie didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She gave him the smallest nod, an acknowledgment more than a gesture, and Luke’s mouth curved faintly in response. It wasn’t flirtation or secrecy, just recognition — of being seen clearly, and loved for it.
Then someone called his name down the hall, the spell broke, and they folded back into the group, carrying the moment with them as quietly as they carried everything else.
The visit wrapped with photos in the lobby, jerseys bright against hospital lighting. Nick threw an arm around Damien’s shoulders. Elias and Caleb stood politely to the side. Tanner folded his hands, posture calm. Connor laid on his side in the front, putting his hand on his hip like he was posing for a calendar shoot. Luke knelt next to Connor, a few feet from Cassie.
Outside, the cold air snapped her back into herself.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately — an editor asking for one last tweak on her season preview, a deadline reminder.
The season was starting.
Cassie typed back “On it”and slipped her phone away. She didn’t look back at the bus as it pulled away, didn’t search for Luke among the faces pressed to the windows.
She didn’t need to.
What she’d seen today was something new to carry, to file away alongside everything else she knew about Luke Anders.
Opening night was days away. There would be games to break down, systems to analyze, stories to tell.
For now, this was enough.
Thirty-One
The home opener crackled with electricity, but Luke barely noticed the noise at first.
He sat at the far end of the bench late in a scoreless first period, helmet off, Gatorade bottle pressed to his mouth as he stared out at the ice, trying to slow his breathing. Connor Martin sat on a folding chair beside him, fresh legs, easy grin, the kind of confidence that came from knowing you weren’t needed tonight for anything more than opening and closing the bench door.
Connor leaned in, voice casual. “So,” he said, nodding at Luke, “how’s the wife?”
Luke choked.
He coughed, spluttered, wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. “What?”
Connor didn’t look at him. Just smirked, eyes forward. “Relax. I’m kidding.” He paused, then added, “Mostly.”
Luke followed Connor’s subtle chin lift up toward the press box. Toward Cassie.
She was in her usual seat, laptop open, hair pulled back, scanning the ice with practiced focus. Professional. Untouchable. Luke forced himself to look away.
“She’s not—” he started.
Connor finally turned to him, eyebrows raised. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I’ve seen the way you look up there. Nothing gets by me, you know that.”
Luke shook his head, trying for neutral. “You’re imagining things.”
