Three dots appeared. Stayed.
Luke:
I’d like that.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Cassie:
We can see. Schedules get messy.
Luke:
They do. No pressure.
She appreciated that. Not because she believed him—but because he said it anyway.
Cassie:
I’ll let you know.
Luke:
I’ll look forward to it.
She stared at the words, aware of the restraint in them, the promise they carried without demanding anything yet.
She didn’t respond right away.
When she finally did, it was simple.
Cassie:
I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.
Luke:
You too.
She set her phone down, heart humming, fully aware she’d just done something small and significant. Not completely reckless. Not innocent. Just intentional.
Nine
Pittsburgh in winter was a city of steel and bridges, of snow swirling under yellow sodium lights. Cassie loved it fiercely. She loved walking the neighborhoods on off-days, exploring the local Italian deli in Bloomfield, grabbing a matcha from her favorite spot in Market Square before heading to practice. She loved the way the Duquesne Incline lights blinked at night and how the rivers froze in jagged sheets that sparkled like diamonds.
Luke began to see the city through her eyes. One weekend afternoon, she took him to the Mattress Factory art museum, where they wandered through immersive installations and debated whether a room full of blinking lights counted as art. He had never been to an art museum before; he’d grown up on logging towns and hockey rinks. Later, they walked up Polish Hill to a church festival and ate potato pancakes while an accordion band played. They visited the Heinz History Center, where Luke was fascinated by the glass elevator and the exhibit on the city’s industrial past. At night, when they couldn’t meet, Luke texted her photos of the view from his balcony—fog rolling over the Allegheny, barges inching downstream, fireworks after a Steelers win.
During their continued, occasional off-the-record coffee chats, he learned about her childhood in the South Hills, her stint covering junior hockey in Erie, her ritual of rolling out a yoga mat in whatever hotel room she found herself in to squeeze in aPilates session. He learned that she’d grown up playing hockey and had aspirations of playing Division I until a knee injury and a journalism teacher changed her path. She learned that he’d nearly quit hockey himself at sixteen after a coach told him he would never make it beyond the minors, and that his father had convinced him to give it one more year.
Luke shared slivers of himself. He talked about his father, a former longshoreman who’d woken him up before sunrise to do dryland training in the winters. He admitted he used to be shy about his long hair until an old coach told him not to change who he was. He confessed that he wore the same beat-up flannel on game day mornings because he was superstitious.
Despite their careful boundaries, the strain of their connection grew. A blogger tweeted a photo from practice where they could be seen in the background laughing at his stall in the locker room. The comment thread exploded. “Looks like Cassie’s cozying up to her new favorite,” one user sneered. Another wrote, “No wonder she always defends him.”
Cassie’s editor, a grizzled veteran namedStan, called her into his office. “We need to talk about Luke,” he said, fingers steepled. “I’ve heard whispers.”
Cassie felt her heart drop. “We’re friends,” she said quickly. “He needed someone to talk to. I haven’t done anything inappropriate. I haven’t hidden anything that should be reported.”
Stan sighed. “I believe you. You’ve always been above board. But perception matters. Romantic relationships with sources are a no-go. Even the appearance of one is a problem. If you think there’s any chance you and Luke could become more than friends, you need to tell me.”
