Chapter 6
Six
Cassie realized it halfway through putting on mascara.
She paused, wand hovering, studying her reflection with a flicker of irritation. She’d already changed once—ditched the sweater she wore on road mornings for something a little more fitted. She’d re-curled her hair twice. She reached for perfume, hesitated, then added one extra spritz at her neck.
For a second, she didn’t understand why.
Then she did—and the realization sent a sharp, unwelcome jolt through her chest.
This a routine morning skate, the kind she’d covered hundreds of times without thinking twice about what she wore beyond comfort and professionalism. And yet here she was, calibrating herself. For him.
She frowned at her reflection. “Get it together,” she muttered, already annoyed at the part of herself that felt exposed by the awareness.
At the rink, the cold air steadied her.
Cassie settled along the glass with the rest of the beat, notebook open, eyes scanning the ice out of habit more than intention. The lines formed quickly—centers rotating, defense pairs sliding into place. She followed the movement automatically, tracking patterns.
Then she noticed what wasn’t there.
Luke wasn’t taking line rushes.
He skated on the far side of the ice with an extra forward, helmet on, stride smooth and unhurried. Not injured. Not late. Just…separate.
Cassie stilled.
She knew the difference between maintenance and message. This wasn’t a maintenance day. Luke had struggled more the last two games—late reads, a bad pinch that led directly to a goal. Not catastrophic, but noticeable.
Healthy scratch.
She wrote it down, then forced herself to keep watching, to not let her gaze linger. When the skate wrapped, the media clustered outside the locker room, waiting for the coach to speak.
“Scott,” she said when Coach Parker walked to the front of the group. “Who are you starting in net tonight?”
“Connor Martin,” Parker replied, his thick Boston accent making the Renegades’ young netminder’s name sound more like Cawnah Mahtin. “Ilya will back up.”
She nodded. “And Luke Anders, he wasn’t taking line rushes. Is he dealing with anything, or is that a lineup decision?”
Parker didn’t bristle.
“Yeah,” he said evenly. “We’re sitting him tonight.”
“Is that performance-based?” she asked, careful with her tone.
“It’s about details,” Parker said. “Luke’s a veteran. He knows our expectations. Sometimes you slow things down so a guy can reset. We’re hoping he can gain something from watching the game from a different angle, since he’s still learning what we’re trying to do out there in our system.”
Cassie nodded as he continued.
“But at the same time,” Parker added, “We need to put the lineup on the ice that give us the best chance to win. And so we decided to make a change.”
That night, the press box buzzed between periods as usual—reporters lining up for coffee, soda, anything with sugar. Cassie stepped away during the intermission, weaving toward the cooler tucked against the back wall.
Luke stood there already, hands in his pockets, dressed in a tailored black suit that skimmed his broad shoulders and long frame, the cut precise enough to look intentional without trying.
Her heart kicked, but her face didn’t change.
“Hey,” she said lightly, reaching for a Diet Coke.
“Hey,” he replied. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” she said. “You?”
“Good,” he said, just as casually.
There were people around them—another beat writer grabbing coffee, a PR intern waiting at the printer for box score sheets, broadcasters mingling during their break. Their bodies stayed angled apart, professional distance intact. If anyone looked, it would register as nothing.
But when Luke met her eyes, something passed between them—quick and contained, but unmistakable.
“You holding up okay?” she asked, voice neutral and low.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just watching, I guess.”
She nodded. “That’s got to be tough.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
They stood there a beat longer than necessary, then Cassie twisted the cap off her soda.
“Well, I’ve got to go start writing. I’ll see you around,” she said.
“See you,” he replied.
She walked back to her seat aware of the quiet electricity trailing behind her. Something had shifted. They hadn’t crossed a line. They hadn’t said anything that mattered.
And yet, as Cassie opened her laptop and Luke returned to his seat at the other end of the press box, both of them carried the same private knowledge:
This wasn’t just about hockey anymore.
But neither of them could yet name what it was.