He pressed down, lightly at first, and she let out a gasp. He glanced up at her face, checking in, adjusting when her breath hitched or her shoulders relaxed.
“Like this?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, steady. “Exactly.”
She kept her hand over his, anchoring him there, letting the moment stretch as she let out soft moans. She inhaled, steadying herself, then reached and caught his wrist, stopping the slow, deliberate pressure of his hands.
“Do you think,” she asked quietly. “That you could fuck me and still hold that steady?”
Luke froze for a beat, his jaw tightening with concentration. “Yeah,” he said, low and certain. “I think I can do that.”
She sat up and undid his belt, sliding his jeans down for him. When she pulled his boxers down, she kissed the tip of his cock before laying back down and spreading her legs a little wider for him.
He moved between her knees, steadying himself as he slowly thrust inside of her. He leaned forward to kiss her deeply, holding himself up with one hand as he began slow, rhythmic movements. After a few deep, steady thrusts, he took the vibrator with his free hand and moved it back over her clit. He started thrusting deep inside of her again, watching her face contort as she tried to stifle screams of pleasure.
The sight of her made Luke struggle to hold it together. He started to worry that he might finish before she was able to find release, until she let out a yelp and he started to feel her pulse around him. Then he finally let go, too.
He turned off the vibrator, and without the low hum the only sound in the room was the labored breathing from both as he collapsed next to her.
“I like this,” he said quietly after gathering his breath. “You telling me what to do.”
She smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. “You’re a fast learner.”
He laughed under his breath. “Guess I like being coached.”
He pulled her closer into him, wrapping one arm around her and running his free hand up and down the small of her back. Theylaid there naked in the silence, feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies, and for the first time that day, the noise in her head went quiet.
Thirty-Nine
Late February, the Renegades righted their course. Connor Martin was playing his best hockey of the year. The defense tightened. Luke was steady, using his long reach to break up rushes and his calm to steady the breakout. Cassie’s stories grew more optimistic. She wrote about the chemistry between the lines, about the coach’s adjustments, about Connor’s unexpected emergence. She also revisited the earlier slump with the benefit of hindsight.
Personally, she and Luke clung to stolen hours. After a Saturday matinee win over Boston, they met for a walk at a park along the Monongahela. The river was partially frozen, the sun low. Luke wore a beanie pulled down over his ears. Cassie tucked her hands into her coat pockets, resisting the urge to link her arm through his. They walked in silence, the cold biting their cheeks, until Luke stopped and turned to her.
“This is hard, Cassie,” he said quietly, slipping her hand into one of his. His breath curled in white clouds. “Sneaking around, hiding every time we want to grab a coffee. It’s not fair to you.”
Cassie looked at him. He looked weary but determined. “I know,” she said. “I don’t want this forever either.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking more about this offer from the network. Maybe it’s time that I switch to broadcasting. The hours would be better, and I’d get to be a part of something big here with the women’s team.”
She stopped walking, and Luke wrapped his arms around her in a hug. His eyes widened. “You’d give up the beat?”
She nodded slowly. “I’ve been on it eight years. I’ve loved it. But I also want a life. And maybe it’s time to help build something new…with the new team, but also with you, too.”
He bent his head down, kissing her on the top of her head. “Then let’s go win you a storybook ending.”
March meant ramping up intensity. Every point mattered. Cassie found herself writing phrases like “critical juncture” and “playoff positioning” with increasing frequency. She also wrote about mental fatigue. She interviewed sports psychologist Dr. Jen Pierce, who worked with the team to teach breathing exercises and visualization. “You can condition a brain the way you condition a body,” Pierce said. Cassie tried the techniques herself: breathing in for four counts, holding for four, exhaling for eight while sitting in the press box before overtime. It steadied her.
Luke’s play during this stretch was quietly dominant. Cassie wrote about it, breaking down a sequence where he retrieved a puck under pressure, faked out a forechecker and hit Damien Morris in stride at the far blue line. She included a quote from Scott Parker about how sessions with video coach Lexi Hartley had emphasized deception at the blue line. Luke texted her after the article:“You notice everything.”She responded with the eyes emoji.
The Renegades clinched a playoff berth in early April with a shootout win over Montreal. Fans erupted as the final horn sounded. Cassie’s gamer quoted Scott Parker calling it a “first step.” The first-round matchup was set: the archrival Philadelphia Liberty. The series promised blood and bruises.
Forty
The Liberty weren’t flashy. They weren’t a Cinderella. They were structured, heavy, irritating in the way teams that had been together too long often were. They forechecked in layers. They clogged the neutral zone. They turned games into trench wars and dared opponents to lose their patience first.
Cassie spent the days leading up to Game 1 buried in video. She wrote about matchups and tendencies, about how Philadelphia’s fourth-line thrived on dragging opponents into after-whistle scrums, about how their power play lived off second chances and net-front chaos. She tried to keep her language neutral, but the stakes leaked through anyway. This was different. Everyone could feel it.
Luke felt it too—in his body before his mind caught up.
Practice sharpened. Drills shortened. Guys finished checks they might’ve peeled away from a week earlier. The room changed in subtle ways: fewer jokes lingering past warmups, music turned down instead of up. Tanner Brooks spoke more, but said less—short reminders, quiet corrections, the weight of someone who’d been waiting a long time for another run.
