She gestured to the chair, feigning mild indifference. “Go ahead.”
“That’s a dangerous precedent,” he said, smiling as he sat.
They fell into a rhythm that surprised her with how natural it felt. No careful pauses. No recalibrating. Just conversation that picked up where it had left off.
“Did you see the Buffalo–Edmonton game last night?” he asked.
She snorted. “Buffalo’s third-period meltdown? Yeah.”
“Thought my phone was broken with how fast the group chat was lighting up,” he said. “Two defensemen lost the same guy on the same shift.”
“Classic Buffalo,” Cassie said.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table. “You working or pretending to work?”
“Pretending,” she admitted. “I filed today’s story early. I started tomorrow’s preview, but now I’m just buying myself ten minutes of not thinking.”
“Mind if I join you in that?”
“Only if you promise not to talk systems,” she said.
“No promises,” he replied, then softened it with a grin. “But I’ll try.”
They talked about the Strip District first — which places stayed open late, which ones closed too early, which Italian restaurants had best pasta but the worst pizza. Luke told her about his drummer neighbor with a resigned shake of his head. Cassie countered with a story about filing a gamer from a rental car outside an airport when her flight got canceled.
Somewhere between sips of coffee and the low hum of conversation around them, the talk shifted without either of them noticing.
“Can I ask you something?” Luke said.
“Depends,” she replied. “Is this a hockey question or a life question?”
“Life,” he said. “I think.”
She closed her laptop this time for real.
“You’re single,” he said, not asking so much as confirming.
“Yes,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”
He nodded. “Same.”
She glanced up at him. “Hard to believe.”
He shrugged. “It’s not that dramatic. I just… haven’t found anyone who really gets the job.”
Cassie smiled slightly. “You mean the schedule, the scrutiny, the fact that half your life happens in public?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And the other half is lonely hotel rooms and people assuming you’re fine because you’re paid well.”
That landed. She didn’t rush to fill the space.
“My last relationship ended because he said he felt like he was dating my calendar,” she said eventually. “And my phone.”
Luke winced in sympathy. “That sounds familiar.”
She studied him — the relaxed way he sat now, the absence of tension she’d seen after games. This wasn’t Luke-the-defenseman or Luke-the-contract. This was just Luke, thoughtful, quietly searching.
They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt outright. But when he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, their knees brushed beneath it, and neither of them pulled away.
