She glanced at it without much thought, then froze.
Luke noticed immediately. “What?”
She picked it up, reading the message again to make sure she wasn’t misinterpreting it. It was from one of her usual sources in the Renegades’ hockey operations department.
“Heads up, we’re finalizing a deal to move Belov in net. Pick + a prospect coming back. Should be done by tonight. Want to give Connor a shot as the No. 1.”
Cassie’s stomach flipped.
“They’re doing it,” she said softly.
Luke’s hands stilled. “Doing what?”
“Trading Belov,” she said. “Clearing the crease.”
Luke sat up a little, attention fully on her now. “For real?”
She nodded, already pulling her laptop closer. “It makes sense. Cap flexibility. Timeline. Connor’s been ready.”
Luke leaned back again, processing it. “He’s earned it.”
Cassie glanced over at him, something warm in her chest. “He has.”
Luke shifted closer, her feet still in his lap, and resumed the slow, steady pressure with his thumbs. Grounding. Present. “You gonna break it?”
“I think I have to,” she said. “If I sit on this and someone else runs with it…”
He nodded. “Then you’d be late.”
Cassie shook her head and began typing, fingers moving quickly now, the words lining up almost too easily. She framed it carefully—what the trade meant, what it signaled, what it didn’t. She didn’t speculate on Connor’s emotions. She didn’t need to. The move spoke for itself.
Luke watched her work, quiet now, hands still moving over her foot like it was something he was entrusted with. When she paused, staring at the screen, he pressed a little firmer, grounding her back into the moment.
“Okay,” she said finally, exhaling. “Sending.”
She hit publish and leaned back against the couch, eyes closed for just a second.
Luke squeezed her foot once, gentle. “Proud of you.”
They sat there for a moment, the television murmuring, the city carrying on outside, the story already making its way through timelines and group chats and front offices.
Then Luke bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her foot, soft and unassuming.
“Still an off day,” he said. “Right?”
Cassie smiled, climbing over him to lay her head down on his chest. “For now.”
Thirty-Three
Cassie noticed it before the skate even really got going.
She stood along the glass with the rest of the beat, coffee cooling in her hand, eyes tracking the familiar rhythm of line rushes. Wingers rotated through instinctively; defense pairs stayed mostly intact. It was early November, still early enough in the season that patterns mattered more than panic.
Caleb Zheng wasn’t there.
Not drifting at the end of a line. Not rotating in late. Not talking with a trainer. He skated on his own at the far end of the rink, helmet on, the usual gold practice jersey, stride clean and easy. Healthy. Very clearly healthy.
Cassie frowned and checked her notes. No injury update. No maintenance day listed. No indication of a scratch coming. Caleb had been solid through the first stretch of the season. It had the makings of a breakout season – he was reliable, fast on the forecheck, responsible defensively, and he was getting rewarded on the scoresheet and with a spot on the top power play. Not the kind of player you quietly pull out of the lineup without reason.
