“An insufferablePreston Cup champion,” Connor corrected. “It’s a protected status.”
They drifted toward the back of the house together, where Tanner stood near the dining room table, the Cup resting at its center like something alive. It gleamed even in the low light, fingerprints already smudging the silver.
Tanner looked older tonight. Not tired—just softened. His kids darted in and out of the room, wearing their “Pittsburgh Renegades, Preston Cup champions” T-shirts.
When Tanner cleared his throat, the room quieted instinctively.
“I’m not going to make this long,” he said, though no one believed him. “I’ve had a lot of time to think the last few weeks. About this group. About this run. About what it took.”
He gestured vaguely around the room. “I’ve been in this league a long time. I’ve lost more than I’ve won. I’ve said ‘next year’ so many times my kids thought it was a place.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
“But this—” Tanner tapped the edge of the Cup. “This was worth it. Every flight. Every bruise.”
His voice thickened, just slightly.
“This was it for me,” he said. “I promised them it’s my last. I wanted to do it right. And I wanted to do it with this room.”
He lifted his glass. “To doing hard things together.”
Glasses clinked. Someone whooped. Cassie felt Luke’s arm slide around her waist, easy and natural, and for a second she let herself just stand there and take it in.
This—this was what she’d missed while hiding. The warmth of being included. The freedom of not pretending.
Later, as the night stretched and the music grew louder, Cassie found herself on the back steps with a drink she’d barely touched, watching Luke across the yard. He laughed freely now, shoulders loose, hair falling into his eyes as he listened to something Damien said. He caught her looking and smiled—not careful, not restrained. Just happy.
Connor slid onto the step beside her. “You know,” he said, “I deserve credit.”
“For what?” Cassie asked.
“For not outing you two months ago. That’s maturity.”
She snorted. “That’s self-preservation.”
“Also true,” he admitted. He nodded toward Luke. “He’s different with you.”
Cassie followed his gaze. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I know.”
The night wound down slowly, like no one wanted to be the first to leave the moment behind. When Cassie and Luke finally slipped away, hands linked, she felt something settle in her chest—not anticipation, not anxiety.
Contentment.
Tomorrow, she would start something new. A new role. A new voice. A new chapter.
Tonight, she was exactly where she belonged.
Forty-Seven
Cassie’s first months as a broadcaster were a whirlwind. She shadowed established color commentators, sat in on production meetings, learned to rely on a producer whispering in her ear via an earpiece. She practiced talking while breathing differently from writing. She worried about tripping over words. She also found she loved the immediacy. There was no rewrite, no editor note. When a player executed a perfect saucer pass, she could gush in real time. When a penalty was called, she could explain why. When a player’s facial expression betrayed frustration, she could note it.
She worked to bring nuance without jargon. She used metaphors—likening a collapsing defense to an umbrella folding, describing a failed zone entry as a car stalling. She prepared more than she ever had for a single article: rosters, pronunciations, backstories. She watched endless tape. She visited practices and chatted with players.
The first broadcast felt like an adrenaline rush. The WNHL Pittsburgh Spirit faced the Minnesota Aurora in a pre-season tilt. The arena was three-quarters full. Cassie sat beside her play-by-play partner Josh Green, who had a deep voice and a calming presence. She wore a houndstooth blazer and a headset. “Good evening from Allegheny Arena,” Josh began. “I’m Josh Green alongside Cassie Pearson, a familiar voice to Renegades fans.” Cassie smiled into the camera. “Thanks, Josh,” she said.“It’s an honor to be here as professional women’s hockey comes to Pittsburgh.”
The puck dropped. Cassie’s world narrowed to the ice. She noted the speed of the game, the spacing, the creativity. She commented on how a winger used her edges to delay and find a trailing defender. She explained the difference between an overload and a spread power play. She kept her tone excited but measured. After the game, her phone buzzed nonstop. Texts poured in: from former colleagues, praising her. From fans, thanking her for explaining the sport without condescension. From young girls, saying they wanted to play hockey because of her voice. She cried.
Luke watched the broadcast from his phone in the stands with Tanner and Damien. “She’s a natural,” Damien said, elbowing Luke. Luke beamed. After the game, he waited by the zamboni entrance. Cassie walked out, headset off, hair slightly mussed. He hugged her, swinging her around. Fans cheered. “You were amazing,” he whispered.
