“It’s about details,” Parker said. “Luke’s a veteran. He knows our expectations. Sometimes you slow things down so a guy can reset. We’re hoping he can gain something from watching thegame from a different angle, since he’s still learning what we’re trying to do out there in our system.”
Cassie nodded as he continued.
“But at the same time,” Parker added, “We need to put the lineup on the ice that give us the best chance to win. And so we decided to make a change.”
That night, the press box buzzed between periods as usual—reporters lining up for coffee, soda, anything with sugar. Cassie stepped away during the intermission, weaving toward the cooler tucked against the back wall.
Luke stood there already, hands in his pockets, dressed in a tailored black suit that skimmed his broad shoulders and long frame, the cut precise enough to look intentional without trying.
Her heart kicked, but her face didn’t change.
“Hey,” she said lightly, reaching for a Diet Coke.
“Hey,” he replied. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” she said. “You?”
“Good,” he said, just as casually.
There were people around them—another beat writer grabbing coffee, a PR intern waiting at the printer for box score sheets, broadcasters mingling during their break. Their bodies stayed angled apart, professional distance intact. If anyone looked, it would register as nothing.
But when Luke met her eyes, something passed between them—quick and contained, but unmistakable.
“You holding up okay?” she asked, voice neutral and low.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just watching, I guess.”
She nodded. “That’s got to be tough.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
They stood there a beat longer than necessary, then Cassie twisted the cap off her soda.
“Well, I’ve got to go start writing. I’ll see you around,” she said.
“See you,” he replied.
She walked back to her seat aware of the quiet electricity trailing behind her. Something had shifted. They hadn’t crossed a line. They hadn’t said anything that mattered.
And yet, as Cassie opened her laptop and Luke returned to his seat at the other end of the press box, both of them carried the same private knowledge:
This wasn’t just about hockey anymore.
But neither of them could yet name what it was.
Seven
The second time they ran into each other at Novaria in early December, it didn’t feel like an accident.
Cassie had already claimed her usual table by the window, laptop open but untouched, her latte resting beside her. She was rereading a paragraph she’d written and not liking any of it, which usually meant she needed to stop pretending she was working and just let her brain idle for a few minutes.
Luke appeared at the edge of her vision without startling her this time.
“Morning,” he said, easy.
“Hey,” she replied, just as easy, like this was a thing they did now.
He held up his cup. “Mind if I sit?”
