Pittsburgh took a 2–1 series lead.
Chicago answered in Game 4 the way experienced teams do—without panic. They tightened their structure, clogged the middle of the ice, and suffocated Pittsburgh’s offense. A disciplined 2–1 win evened the series, the Blades reminding everyone how thin the margins were.
Game 5 back in Pittsburgh went to overtime.
It ended on a deflection in front, the kind of goal that breaks hearts because no one is truly at fault. The Blades poured off the bench. Pittsburgh skated slowly to the tunnel, heads down.
Down 3–2 in the series, the Renegades returned to Chicago facing elimination.
The pressure before Game 6 was suffocating.
Cassie felt it as a constant churn in her stomach, the familiar rhythm of deadlines now accompanied by something sharper—finality looming in every sentence she wrote. Luke carriedit differently. He barely spoke at practice, eyes focused, movements precise. When the puck dropped that night, he played like a man who refused to let this end quietly.
He logged nearly thirty minutes, blocking shots, winning battles along the boards, clearing bodies from Connor’s crease with ruthless efficiency. In the second period, he threaded a pass from the point that set up Tanner Brooks’ power-play goal—another small step closer to the Cup for a captain who’d waited a lifetime.
Damien scored the eventual game-winner off a rebound late in the third. Connor shut the door. The horn sounded.
The series was going to Game 7.
One game for the Preston Cup. One game to decide everything.
Cassie watched Luke skate off the ice, shoulders squared, face unreadable. She knew better than to read meaning into expressions now. There would be time later—if there was time at all.
For now, there was only one more game.
Forty-Four
The day of Game 7, the city buzzed. Offices emptied early. Bars filled by noon. Allegheny Arena’s parking lots were jammed hours before puck drop. Cassie arrived at the arena at noon, notebook in hand. She wandered the concourse, absorbing the tension.
In the hallway outside the locker room, Luke sat on a mat in the hallway, finishing his pre-game stretches. headphones on, head bowed. Cassie stood on the periphery with other reporters, recording Coach Scott Parker’s final comments. When Luke looked up, their eyes met for a fraction of a second. No smile. All business.
The first period was chaos. Chicago scored first on a deflection. Two minutes later, Luke pinched and set up Damien for the equalizer. Five minutes in, Luke went to retrieve a puck behind his net. Chicago’s heavy winger barreled into him from behind, sending him shoulder-first into the boards. He crumpled. Cassie’s heart stopped. Trainers rushed to him. He skated off, hunched, his hair hiding his face. After watching Luke go down the tunnel to the locker room, Cassie typed the update with shaking fingers.
“It looked like his left shoulder,” a fellow reporter whispered.
Cassie swallowed. She focused on the ice. Chicago took a 2–1 lead on the ensuing power play. The period ended with theRenegades trailing and their star defenseman in the locker room. Cassie wrote her between-period update grimly, noting that Luke’s absence exposed the defense.
In the second period, the door to the tunnel swung open. Luke emerged. The crowd erupted. He skated a lap during a stoppage, then settled back into his pairing. Cassie’s eyes filled. He took his first shift and threw a hit on Chicago’s winger, sending him sprawling. The Renegades fed off it. Damien Morris scored on a tip. Caleb Zheng wired a shot under the bar. Luke cleared the front of the net with fury. By the end of the second, the game was tied 3–3.
In the third period, the tension was suffocating. Every shot felt like fate. With five minutes left, the Renegades cycled the puck in the offensive zone. Luke hovered at the blue line, ready. The puck squirted to him. Chicago’s forward lunged. Luke pulled it onto his forehand, sidestepped the challenge and unleashed a one-timer through a screen. The puck flew like a comet, past the goalie, bulging the net. Goal horn. Red light. Explosion. Luke thrust both fists skyward and jumped into his teammates’ embrace. Cassie’s throat closed. Her fingers flew as she typed: “Luke Anders, who had been knocked out of the game in the first period, returned with a vengeance.”
Chicago pressed. Connor made a last-minute glove save. The horn sounded. Sticks and gloves flew. The Renegades, for the first time in Cassie’s career, were Preston Cup champions. Luke hugged Elias and Nick, then found Tanner, then found Connor. He looked up at the press box. Cassie stood there, fighting back tears as she recorded video of the scene on her phone. He tapped his heart, then pointed. She hid her hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing.
On the ice, the Cup presentation unfolded. Connor, the brash backup turned backbone, was named playoff MVP after backstopping the Renegades through four rounds, finishing the postseason with the best goals-against average in franchise history. Connor accepted the trophy with both hands, holding it close instead of lifting it. He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes shining in a way that made the moment feel smaller and bigger at the same time. He scanned the ice — teammates, coaches, the crowd — and then glanced back at the crease he’d defended all postseason, like he needed to see it one more time.
When he skated back, he handed the trophy off without ceremony, retreating to the group as the officials reset for the Cup. Whatever he’d felt, he kept it contained — but the grin that broke through as the celebration swelled again told everyone watching that this one had meant something different.
The commissioner presented the Preston Cup to Tanner first, tears in the captain’s eyes as he finally saw a dream realized after two decades in the league. After taking a lap with the trophy raised above his head, Tanner gestured toward Luke, passing it off to the man that scored the clinching goal. He raised it high, hair falling over his face, eyes shining. He screamed wordlessly. Cassie’s story poured out of her like rain. She wrote about redemption, about perseverance, about the beauty of sport. She wrote about Luke’s goal and his return. She wrote about Tanner passing him the Cup, about Connor’s saves, about Damien’s net-front battles. When she hit send just before midnight., she wept into her hands. Then she went downstairs to the locker room, where the party continued.
The scene was joyous chaos. Beer flowed. Smiles stretched wide. Cassie hugged players she’d covered since they were rookies. She found Luke standing by his stall, eyes bright, hair slick withchampagne. He saw her and surged forward. For a moment, professionalism be damned, he wrapped her in his arms. Cassie buried her face in his shoulder for half a second and whispered, “Congratulations.”
He grabbed her hand. “Did you make your decision?” he said, voice hoarse.
“I did,” she whispered. Her throat tightened. “I’m done covering the Renegades. I want a life with you. I’m moving to the booth.”
He grinned, his bruised face splitting into joy. He leaned down, his frame eclipsing her, and kissed her. Cameras snapped. This time, she didn’t care.
Forty-Five
