Chapter 5
Five
It was a mid-November morning when Cassie had stopped by Novaria Coffee in the Strip District on a rare off day for the Renegades. She was hunched over her laptop, transcribing quotes, when a shadow fell across the table.
“Do you mind if I join you?” The voice was unmistakable.
She looked up to see Luke balancing a tray with an americano and a muffin. His hair was tucked into a beanie. In street clothes he looked like any tall guy in Pittsburgh—jeans and a Henley, not a professional athlete. She hesitated. The ethical alarms in her mind blared.
This wasn’t an accidental brush in the hallway; Luke had clearly sought her out in the café. Cassie’s heart beat faster, not just because of attraction but because she knew that even being seen with him in a social setting could raise eyebrows in the newsroom.
“If we’re going to talk,” she said carefully, “I have to be honest. We can’t…this can’t be a thing. I’m your beat reporter. If we start hanging out, people will think I’m biased.”
He leaned back, the color draining from his face. “I know,” he said. “I get it. I didn’t ask for…that. I swear. I just needed someone to talk to who knows hockey and who isn’t on my team.”
The sincerity in his voice softened her. “Okay,” she said. “Then let’s keep it that way. I’m happy to listen. But there’s a line. I can’t cross it.”
Luke nodded. “I respect that.” He hesitated, then added, “But if we weren’t who we are…”
Cassie considered him for a moment, then said, “If we weren’t who we are, I’d probably ask you what you think you’re chasing out there.”
Luke’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. More like recognition. “And if we weren’t who we are,” he said, “I’d probably answer you honestly.”
The air between them shifted—not lighter, just more deliberate.
She closed her laptop, not snapping it shut, just lowering the screen enough. “You didn’t sit down to talk about coffee,” she said.
“No,” he admitted. His fingers circled the rim of his cup once, then stilled. “I wanted your read. Not a quote. Not something that ends up in print. Just…your hockey brain.”
Cassie held his gaze. This was the line—close enough to feel it, far enough to stay standing on her side of it. “On the team,” she said. “Or on you.”
He didn’t hesitate. “On me.”
She exhaled slowly, choosing precision over softness. “You’re pressing. You’re trying to earn the contract every shift instead of trusting the game that got you here.”
Luke nodded, eyes dropping briefly to the table. “You might be right.”
“And the noise makes it worse,” Cassie added. “Fans don’t have patience for adjustment. Especially not when money’s involved.”
A breath escaped him—half laugh, half sigh. “So, I should relax.”
“You should stop trying to prove something every shift,” she said. “You’re already here.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The café noise filled the space they didn’t.
Outside, trucks rattled past on Smallman Street.
Inside, the air felt charged—not because of what they were saying, but because of how easily it came.
Luke told her about getting lost in the Strip’s loading docks his first week in town, about organizing his bookshelf until midnight.
Cassie countered with stories about spilling an entire latte mid-flight and that time a rookie once asked her if beer counted as hydration.
They laughed. They talked hockey. They stayed just on the safe side of the line.
And still, the ease between them made that line feel both necessary and quietly unbearable.