Cassie swallowed. She thought of Luke’s laugh, of the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, of the times she’d caught herself replaying their conversations late at night.
Stan leaned back. “You have two options. Keep it strictly professional, or recuse yourself from covering him. I can assign someone else to the beat, or at least to stories involving him. We can’t risk the integrity of our coverage. This is about the audience’s trust.”
Cassie stared at her hands. The thought of giving up the beat she’d worked so hard for made her chest ache. So did the thought of never seeing Luke outside of scrums. “I’ll keep it professional,” she said finally. “I can control this.”
“Okay,” Stan said. “But I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it.”
Cassie nodded, leaving the office with a heavy heart. She texted Luke later: “We need to dial back. My editor talked to me. Let’s stick to professional.”
He replied almost instantly: “Understood. I’m sorry if I caused trouble. I value your work—and you—too much to mess that up.”
She stared at the glowing words, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. After a minute, she typed back: “Me too.”
Ten
The night the Renegades were humiliated 7–1 by the Florida Tides on home ice will live in infamy in Cassie’s notebook. The visiting Tides pounced early, scoring a power-play goal off a sloppy penalty by 23-year-old Swedish defensemanElias Johansson. At six-foot-three with blond hair and a boyish grin, Elias had been touted as a mobile two-way defender. On this night, his skates looked like cinderblocks. He tripped over his own blue line, took a lazy holding call and missed his assignment on a backdoor goal. He finished the night a minus-four. The boos rained down. Cassie watched from the press box, fingers flying across the keyboard. Her lead wrote itself.
After the game, the locker room was silent save for the hiss of showers in the distance and the clatter of equipment being tossed into lockers. Cassie made her rounds. She interviewed the captainTanner Brooks, who repeated clichés about “turning the page,” and looking ahead to the next game. Then she headed toward Elias’s stall. He sat with his head down, still in his shoulder pads, his hair damp, jaw set. She waited until another reporter finished asking about the team’s slow start before stepping forward.
“Elias, can you talk about what went wrong on the penalty-kill?” she asked, recorder in hand.
He didn’t look up. “No,” he said flatly. The word hung in the air.
Cassie blinked. “Can you walk me through the holding penalty in the second period?”
Elias lifted his gaze, ice blue eyes sharp. “Did you watch the game?” he snapped in accented English. “Why would you ask me that? You write what you want. It doesn’t matter.”
Heat rushed to Cassie’s cheeks. She swallowed the urge to fire back. She’d been stonewalled before, but rarely so rudely. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Thanks for your time.” She turned to leave.
Two stalls down, Luke had been lacing his skates. His head snapped up at Elias’ tone. Cassie caught the flash of anger in his brown eyes. He said nothing with media around, but she could feel the tension radiating from him.
Cassie finished her interviews and retreated to the hallway to await Coach Scott Parker’s postgame press conference. When the last reporter joined the waiting scrum in the hallway, voices rose in the locker room. She heard Luke’s deep baritone, low but firm. “You owe her respect,” he said. “We all had bad games, Elias. Don’t take yours out on someone doing her job.”
Elias muttered something too soft to catch. Luke’s reply was sharper. “It’s not her fault you couldn’t keep up tonight,” he said. “Next time, answer the question or say you’ll talk tomorrow. Don’t be an ass.”
The reprimand stunned the room into silence. Cassie pretended to reread the postgame box score in her hand, heart pounding. A minute later, Luke emerged, jaw tight. He didn’t look at her as he walked past, but his fist brushed her elbow, a small gesture of apology.
That night, Cassie’s gamer detailed Elias Johansson’s struggles but didn’t include his snap. She knew better than to make herselfpart of the story. Still, the incident lodged between her ribs like a splinter. Later, in the quiet of her apartment, her phone buzzed. A message from Luke: “Sorry about Elias. You deserve better.” Her reply came quickly: “Thank you for saying something. I appreciate it.”
Eleven
Two days later, practice at Allegheny Arena had a different rhythm. The bleachers were nearly empty, the air filled with the scrape of skates and the low murmur of coaches. Cassie took her usual place along the boards, notebook in hand, intending to write about tactical tweaks and to avoid any awkward run-ins with Elias Johansson.
As Cassie made her way to the locker room for interviews afterward, the lanky Swede was waiting for her in the hallway. His blond hair was still damp, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. “Cassie,” he began, his English softened by his Gothenburg cadence. “Can I talk to you?” She tensed, but his expression held no arrogance. He shifted awkwardly, then blurted, “I’m sorry for the other night. I was angry at myself and I took it out on you. That’s not who I am.”
Elias fumbled for the right words, explaining that he’d never been jeered by the fans like that in Sweden, and that he felt like he was letting the team down. “My mother reads everything,” he added with a sheepish grin. “I didn’t want her to have to read about my stupid penalties.”
Cassie’s frustration melted. She remembered her own early missteps on the beat and how a harsh comment from a senior columnist had nearly derailed her confidence. “Thank you for apologizing,” she said, meeting his gaze. “It happens.” Elias nodded earnestly. As he turned to leave, Luke slowly approachedfrom down the hall, equipment bag slung over his shoulder. He watched Elias go, then looked at Cassie with a raised eyebrow. She shrugged and mouthed, “He apologized.” Luke’s jaw unclenched, relief flickering in his brown eyes. Cassie jotted the encounter in her notebook, not for publication but to remind herself that even quick tempers can cool. After practice, her story focused on the team’s defensive adjustments, with quotes from Elias explaining the drills they worked on in practice that day. No one reading would know about the quiet conversation that mended a small tear in the fabric of the locker room.
Twelve
The blowout loss against Florida had only amplified the scrutiny on Luke Anders. Over the next two games – a road back-to-back in Dallas and St. Louis – he looked tentative, and his breakout passes died on teammates’ blades. He took a delay-of-game penalty in Dallas when he air-mailed the puck over the glass and was on the ice for two against in St. Louis. The talk shows and online forums lit up with criticism. Fans questioned his contract. Fellow beat writers filed think-pieces about whether the offseason’s "prized acquisition" was becoming an albatross. Cassie felt the sting of those words even though she hadn’t written them. In her gamer, she acknowledged his mistakes but balanced it with context about defensive schemes and the difficulties of adjusting to new partners. She quoted the coach defending Luke’s work ethic, and she contextualized his minus-three rating by noting the forwards’ turnovers. Still, the comments section seethed. "Bust," one reader wrote. "Shampoo model, not a hockey player," wrote another.
Luke avoided reading the headlines, but he could feel the eyes on him when he skated back for pucks at practice. Cassie watched him from the bleachers, his shoulders slightly hunched as he waited his turn in drills. She itched to text him reassurance but kept her phone pocketed. They were still only colleagues in public. She channelled her empathy into her writing, makingsure she didn’t pile on. Her editors trusted her, but she could feel the invisible line tightening.
Back in Pittsburgh, a sold-out crowd awaited the Renegades for the first home game since the blowout, a meeting against the archrival Philadelphia Liberty. The air inside Allegheny Arena crackled with a mixture of skepticism and hope. The organ played a cover of a pop hit as fans filed in with pierogies and beers. Cassie took her seat in the press box, her laptop at the ready. In the first period, Luke looked like a different player. He threw his six-foot-four frame in front of a slap shot early, the puck caroming off his shin pad with a thud. He winced but stayed in the lane, blocking another seconds later. The crowd roared when he cleared the zone under pressure. Midway through the second, he skated the puck up ice, drew a slash from an overmatched Philadelphia winger and sprawled as he felt a stick across his hands. The referee’s arm shot up. The Renegades capitalized on the ensuing power play to tie the game. Luke tapped his stick on the boards in appreciation.
In the third period, with the game knotted at two, Luke jumped up on a rush. His forward Tanner Brooks circled high and flipped a pass toward the slot. Luke, stick cocked, blasted a one-timer past the opposing goalie. Red light. Goal horn. The building erupted. Fans who had groaned two nights prior now leaped to their feet. Luke raised both arms, relief and joy pouring off him. It was his first goal of the season, and it felt like an exhale for everyone who had defended him.
