Chapter 2
Two
Luke Anders was the kind of hockey player marketing departments loved.
At six-foot-four, he had a lean, understated presence—broad through the shoulders, but not bulky, the kind of frame that read functional before flashy.
His dark hair fell just past his ears, usually pushed back rather than styled, giving him a slightly unpolished look that cameras seemed to favor anyway.
His face was sharp but boyish at the same time: straight nose, strong jaw, pale skin dotted with faint freckles, and wide brown eyes that made him look more open than most defensemen ever allowed themselves to be.
Luke signed with the Renegades this season on a multi-year, multi-million-dollar contract with a full no-movement clause—an investment that signaled the team expected him to be a cornerstone of the future.
For a franchise at the tail end of a rebuild and still trying to build a blue-line identity, he was supposed to be the missing piece, someone who at thirty years old could bring leadership to the young defense.
Luke had grown up on Vancouver Island, skating on frozen ponds until his toes went numb, then climbing onto a ferry to play travel games on the mainland.
His father worked long days at the shipyard; his mother stitched together extra jobs to pay for equipment.
After playing junior hockey in the prairies of Saskatchewan, he’d been drafted by the Chicago Blades at eighteen years old.
By twenty-five, he’d been a top-pair defender.
The contract with Pittsburgh was both a bet on his upside and a reward for his previous years of development.
Luke’s first few games with the Renegades were a disaster.
His passes sailed wide. He missed assignments in the defensive zone.
When the puck was on his stick, he second-guessed himself as he overthought the intricacies of the Renegades’ new system.
The local sports call-in radio shows were brutal.
Columnists called the signing a mistake.
Cassie, who prided herself on fairness, wrote about his slow start but also noted that adjusting to a new team can take time, especially for a defenseman.
She used quotes from his teammates and coach to contextualize his struggles.
In private, Luke appreciated that nuance even if the headlines screamed panic.
Luke had arrived in Pittsburgh early in the summer to get comfortable with his new home.
He rented a loft in the Strip District—a converted warehouse with exposed brick, industrial beams and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Allegheny.
He loved the loft’s open kitchen and the fact that he could walk to Primanti Brothers for sandwiches.
He spent August unpacking boxes, buying mismatched vintage furniture from local thrift stores and hanging posters for some of his favorite bands – The Blue Nile, Bon Iver, The National among them.
He wasn’t from Pittsburgh, but he wanted to root himself there.
The fact that he’d chosen the Strip instead of the suburbs was unusual for a player.
Aside from the rookies, most teammates gravitated toward gated communities in Sewickley or Cranberry.
Luke liked the bustle of the market stalls and the hum of trucks unloading coffee beans at dawn.
Luke hadn’t expected to be talking about his feelings to a journalist, especially not one as disarming as Cassie.
She was compact and fit, her dark hair usually pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she asked pointed questions without sugarcoating the truth.
On the third game of the homestand, he noticed her waiting near his stall in the locker room, a notepad in hand.
For a moment he wondered what it would be like to talk to her about something other than his plus-minus.
They exchanged professional pleasantries. She asked him about his confidence level, about whether he felt pressure to justify his contract. He gave the standard answers. Later, while they both waited for elevators, he said, “I read your piece last week. It was fair.”
Cassie blinked. Most players avoided acknowledging they read coverage. “Thanks. I try,” she replied, trying not to stare at his eyes.
The elevator doors opened. They stepped in with a videographer and an equipment manager. Silence hummed. Cassie felt Luke’s presence beside her like a live wire.
Cassie knew the unspoken boundaries of her job.
Every journalism ethics seminar hammered it home: personal involvement with sources can create conflicts of interest, and romantic relationships with sources can “give the appearance of partiality,” It was important for reporters to avoid even the appearance of a conflict, because trust was the currency.
Her newsroom’s policy echoed that. Staffers could have lunch with sources but had to remain aware of the line between business and friendship.
Anything more than that—regular coffee runs, shared gym sessions, romantic dinners—was out of the question.
So when Luke’s casual remark about reading her article sent a jolt of warmth down her spine, she immediately shut it down internally. Off limits. She told herself she’d simply caught him in a thoughtful mood. Or maybe he was just being polite? He was Canadian, after all.