Luke and Cassie didn’t talk much about the series itself.
Their texts stayed lighter than expected—small check-ins, shared observations that stopped just short of analysis. Cassie knew better than to cross that line now. Luke appreciated thatshe didn’t try to manage his nerves. They both understood the other was holding something back.
The night before Game 1, the city felt coiled. Allegheny Arena sold out in minutes. Talk radio dissected line combinations and goaltending decisions like state secrets. Cassie caught herself double-checking her credentials before leaving the house, like the playoffs demanded a higher standard of preparedness.
From the press box before Game 1, she watched Luke take his first laps during warmups, shoulders loose, stride long and controlled. He looked ready in a way that had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with acceptance. This was the grind he’d signed up for. The margins would be thin. The nights long.
When he glanced up, their eyes met briefly—nothing overt, nothing lingering. Just acknowledgment.
Game 1 saw the Renegades erupt. Damien Morris bullied his way to the front of the net and banged home two greasy goals. Luke logged twenty-seven minutes, shutting down Philadelphia’s top line. In the third period, he flattened a Liberty forward with an open-ice hit that sent the crowd into hysterics. Cassie typed feverishly, capturing the sound of bodies slamming into glass and the smell of popcorn and anticipation.
Game 2 was tighter. The Liberty clogged the neutral zone and took a 2–1 lead midway through the third. Cassie watched from the press box, stomach roiling. With four minutes left, Luke pinched down the boards, kept the puck in, and set up Damien for the tying goal. In overtime, Tanner Brooks tipped a point shot to win it. The Renegades seized a 2–0 series lead.
In Philadelphia, the hostility was palpable. Fans hurled insults; someone tossed a battery onto the ice in Connor Martin’sdirection. The Renegades remained composed. Connor stole Game 3 with 45 saves.
Game 4 was a slugfest, complete with a line brawl in the second period. Luke fought again, this time with Philadelphia’s enforcer. He left the game briefly to get stitched up along his jawline, then returned in the third to block two shots on the penalty kill. Nick Delgado scored the series-clinching goal with three minutes left. The Renegades swept. Cassie’s column called it a statement: “The Renegades exorcised playoff demons and did it with a snarl.”
After the handshake line, Luke skated by the glass near where Cassie often stood post-game. He tapped his stick against it once, then twice, a gesture that meant nothing to anybody else but everything to her.
Back at the hotel, Luke’s adrenaline hadn’t worn off so much as sharpened into something restless. His jaw throbbed, his shoulders ached, and his hands still felt like they were buzzing. He didn’t bother with pleasantries when he called. “I need you,” he said simply.
Cassie was at his door minutes later. He opened it and pulled her inside, his mouth finding hers with a hunger before the door could even fully close. He picked her up and carried her to his bed, pinning her arms above her head with one hand as he continued to kiss her. He slid his free hand down the front of her leggings, first teasing her by tracing up and down her lips, then thrusting two of his fingers inside of her as she gasped.
He sat up, not breaking eye contact as he licked her wetness off of his fingers. He slid his T-shirt over his head, and Cassie scrambled to slide off her jeans and toss her blazer and tank on the floor. He slipped his sweatpants down, too, and quicklypinned her back down as he thrust deep inside of her. They made quick, intense love, moaning into each other’s mouths as they continued to make out with frantic passion. When they both finished, he collapsed on top of her.
Later, when the city outside had gone still, they lay tangled together beneath the sheets, his arm heavy across her waist, her cheek resting against his chest as she ran her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. The game, the noise, the stakes—all of it faded. Soon enough, the next series would demand that all back.
Forty-One
The second-round opponent was the Columbus Arsenals, a bruising team built to wear opponents down. The series opened in Pittsburgh. Game 1 was a defensive chess match. Luke battled Columbus captain Riley Walsh in the corners, trading cross-checks. The game went to double overtime before Caleb Zheng snapped a shot under the crossbar. Cassie’s fingers shook as she typed at 1:30 a.m.
Game 2 saw Columbus respond with a physical 4–2 win, targeting Luke with constant hits. In the third period, he took a late boarding penalty that led to the Arsenals’ insurance goal. Cassie’s story noted his miscue. Luke texted her after:“You were right. Stupid penalty.”She replied with a heart and told him to get some rest.
The series shifted to Columbus, and the Arsenals threw everything at them. Luke absorbed shot after shot, his body bruised and mottled. In Game 3, he blocked a rising slap shot with his shoulder and left the ice. Cassie watched him hobble down the tunnel, fear clawing at her. He returned minutes later, shoulder wrapped, and finished the game. The Renegades lost 3–1.
Game 4 was pivotal. The Renegades were down 2–1 in the series. Midway through the second period, Columbus forward Brett Evans crashed hard into Luke’s back, drawing a boarding minor.On the ensuing power play, Luke quarterbacked from the blue line. He faked a shot, drew the penalty killer to him, then slid the puck cross-ice to Tanner, who blasted it home. The Renegades won 5–3. The series was tied.
Back in Pittsburgh for Game 5, the Renegades fed off the crowd. Connor posted a 28-save shutout. Damien and Caleb scored. Luke had two assists. Cassie’s lead captured the deafening roar: “Allegheny Arena shook like an earthquake as the Renegades wrested control of the series.” In Game 6 on the road, Columbus pushed back hard. The game was tied 2–2 late when Luke stepped up at the blue line, intercepted a clearing attempt and rifled a shot through traffic. The puck deflected off a skate and trickled past the goalie. Luke’s teammates mobbed him. Cassie wrote of redemption and resilience. The Renegades closed it out minutes later with an empty-net goal. They advanced to the Eastern Conference finals.
Forty-Two
The Washington Redlines were a different beast: speedy, skilled and coached by an analytics-driven staff. The series promised a clash of styles. Game 1 in Washington saw the Redlines skate circles around the Renegades, winning 6–2. Social media erupted with takes that the Renegades’ run was over. Cassie’s column acknowledged they’d been outclassed while noting that series aren’t decided in one game. Luke texted her at 2 a.m.:“We’ll be better.”She believed him.
Game 2 was a nail-biter. Luke played nearly thirty minutes, breaking up rushes and setting up Elias Johansson’s’ game-tying goal in the third. In overtime, Damien Morris crashed the net and swatted in a rebound. The series shifted to Pittsburgh tied 1–1.
Game 3 was an instant classic. The teams traded leads. Luke fought off two forecheckers to spring Tanner Brooks on a breakaway goal. The Redlines answered. With the score 3–3 in the final minute, Luke kept the puck in at the blue line, danced along it on his edges and flicked a wrist shot through traffic. It hit the post. Cassie’s gasp echoed through the press box. Overtime solved nothing. In double OT, a puck rimmed around the boards toward Luke. He one-touched it to Caleb in the slot. Caleb scored. The building shook.
Game 4 saw the Redlines adjust, shutting down the middle of the ice. They won 4–1. The series was tied 2–2. The tension ratcheted up. Game 5 in Washington was a defensive battle. It remained scoreless until midway through the third, when Luke pinched at the blue line to keep the puck in, spun away from a forechecker and fed Damien in front. Goal. The Renegades won 1–0. They headed home with a chance to clinch.
Game 6 might have been the loudest the Allegheny Arena had ever been. Fans hung banners. Cassie paced. The Redlines refused to go quietly. They took a 2–0 lead. Connor made save after save to keep it close. Luke threw his body in front of shots, grimacing with each hit. In the third period, Caleb scored on a breakaway. With a minute left, the Renegades pulled their goalie. Luke camped at the blue line. Tanner won the faceoff. Luke took the pass, faked, then blasted a shot. It hit Damien’s stick and deflected in. Tie game. Overtime again. Five minutes in, Washington’s sniper broke free. Luke dove, knocking the puck off his stick at the last second. Seconds later, he cleared the zone, sprang Tanner, and Tanner scored. Pandemonium. The Renegades were going to the Preston Cup Final, and their captain was the one that got them there.
Cassie stood frozen for half a second in the press box, hands hovering over her keyboard, pulse roaring in her ears. From her perch above the ice, she watched Luke and Tanner get swallowed by bodies as the bench emptied in a blur of gloves and helmets. Luke’s face broke open in a way she hadn’t seen all season, something unguarded and raw, and the sight of it made her chest ache.
She wanted—viscerally, irrationally—to run. To be there the moment he came down the tunnel, to grab him by the arms and tell him how happy she was for him, what it had felt like to watchhim sell out his body for the season, for the team, for this. She wanted to tell him she’d seen it before anyone else did—that the play started with him.
But the press box was already emptying. Deadline clock ticking. Obligation snapping her back into place.
Cassie slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the elevator, mind shifting gears as hard as it ever had. This was Tanner’s night. It had to be. Now forty years old, two decades of wear and near-misses, one clean look in overtime that put him closer to the Cup than he’d ever been. The story wrote itself whether she liked it or not.
