Two days after the parade wound through Downtown Pittsburgh, Cassie sat across from Stan in his office. Confetti still clung to her shoes. Stan leaned back, his grizzled face unreadable.
“So,” he said, steepling his fingers. “You going to do it?”
Cassie took a breath. “Yes. I’m taking the broadcast job when the WNHL expands to Pittsburgh.” She swallowed. “And… Luke and I are together. I didn’t want to hide it anymore.”
Stan exhaled, a small smile cracking his stern facade. “About time,” he said. “I’ve known for a while.”
Cassie’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I’m not blind,” Stan said, chuckling. “I see you two looking at each other like you’d melt the ice. But you never let it affect your work. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Also, my daughter loves his hair.”
Cassie laughed, relief flooding through her. “Will you be okay without me?”
Stan’s smile softened. “We’ll survive. You’ve built something here. You deserve to build something new. And the women’s game needs voices like yours.”
She spent the next week writing her farewell column. It was the hardest piece of her life. She started with her internship eight years prior, when she had sat in the press box with trembling hands. She wrote about the smell of stale popcorn, the camaraderie of the night shift, the thrill of a late goal. She wrote about learning to ask tough questions and to apologize when she made mistakes. She wrote about the fans who sent her hate mail and the ones who sent thank-you notes. She wrote about the players who trusted her with their stories and the coaches who glared at her. She did not mention Luke by name but wrote about “the relationships that both fueled and challenged me.” She ended with hope: “I’m not leaving hockey. I’m just moving to another angle. I’ll still be talking about passing lanes and penalty kills—only now, you’ll hear my voice live.”
The afternoon after her farewell column ran, the network announced Cassie Pearson as the lead color commentator for Pittsburgh’s forthcoming WNHL team. Social media buzzed. Fans were thrilled.
At home, Luke opened a bottle of champagne. He poured two flutes and handed one to Cassie. “To us,” he said.
“To us,” she echoed. They clinked glasses and toasted to a future filled with fewer secrets.
Forty-Six
Tanner Brooks’ house sat on a quiet, tree-lined street just far enough from downtown that the parade noise felt like a memory instead of an echo. The front yard was already packed when Cassie arrived—players’ trucks angled awkwardly along the curb, coolers hauled up the driveway, someone’s speaker balanced precariously on a patio chair.
The Cup was inside.
Cassie knew that without seeing it yet. You could feel it, like a gravitational pull drawing people toward the back of the house, where laughter spilled through open doors and someone yelled about needing more ice.
Luke squeezed her hand as they stepped onto the lawn.
“You good?” he asked, leaning down slightly so only she could hear.
She smiled up at him. “I’ve never been better.”
That, she realized, was true.
For the first time, she didn’t hover on the edges. Didn’t scan for cameras. Didn’t calculate sightlines or second-guess body language. She wasn’t here as a reporter, or a professional presence that needed to be neutral and careful. She was here as Luke’s girlfriend. Publicly. Openly. Without apology.
Inside, the house was chaos in the best way.
Damien Morris was already barefoot, a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other, telling an exaggerated story to a knot of rookies who listened like he was folklore come to life. Caleb Zheng leaned against the kitchen counter talking animatedly with Nick Delgado gesturing with his hands as if diagramming a breakout. Elias Johansson stood near the back door, laughing with two trainers.
Connor Martin spotted Cassie the second she came in.
“Oh my god,” he announced loudly, pointing. “She’s real. Guys, she’s actually real.”
Cassie laughed despite herself. “I was always real.”
Connor grinned, the kind of grin that had fueled half the league’s scouting reports about his swagger. “Yeah, yeah. But now I don’t have to pretend I didn’t see you two in that hotel lobby in Vancouver.”
Luke groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Connor said cheerfully. “For the record, I knew the whole time. I just didn’t know when I was allowed to say it without getting murdered by PR.”
Cassie shook her head, amused. “You’re insufferable.”
