Chapter 12
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, making sure 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.
After the final buzzer, a rare sight awaited him at his locker: a circle of microphones and recorders.
Typically, forwards and goaltenders drew the biggest scrums; defensemen like Luke were used to answering a few questions off to the side, if that.
Tonight, a dozen reporters, cameras and cell phones crowded around his stall.
Cassie hung back, waiting for an opening.
She was used to these scrums, where older male reporters sometimes boxed her out with their elbows or cut her off mid-question.
She had learned to lean in, speak up and not apologize.
Still, on nights like this, jostling for space among broad shoulders and booming voices left her feeling smaller than her five-foot-five frame.
“Luke, what was different about tonight?” one TV reporter barked, not bothering to look at Cassie trying to ask her own question.
“Were you motivated by the criticism?” another asked before Luke could answer the first.
Luke blinked, clearly taken aback by the barrage.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again as the questions overlapped.
Cassie stepped further forward, recorder out, waiting for a pause.
One journalist raised his voice and physically shifted in front of her.
She drew a breath, ready to wedge back in.
Luke’s gaze flicked over the scrum and settled on her. He lifted a hand subtly. “Hang on,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the hubbub. The room quieted a fraction. He nodded toward Cassie. “Let Cassie ask hers.”
A couple of heads turned. The man who had been blocking her frowned but stepped aside. Cassie felt her cheeks heat. She squared her shoulders. “Luke,” she began. “Did those blocked shots early give you a boost? And can you walk us through the goal?”
Luke’s lips curved into a quick smile. “Yeah, blocking shots always gets you into a game,” he said, directing his answer to the whole group but keeping his eyes occasionally on her.
He described seeing the lane open up, trusting his teammate to put the puck where he could shoot.
He gave credit to his goalie for keeping them close.
He answered the follow-ups patiently, even when the questions strayed back to his earlier struggles.
When a radio host tried to interrupt Cassie’s follow-up, Luke gently held up a finger to signal he wasn’t finished.
The signal worked; Cassie finished her question about the Renegades defending the lead without being drowned out.
After the scrum dissipated, Cassie lingered to grab a last quote for color. Luke wiped sweat from his brow and leaned toward her afterward. “Thanks for sticking with me this week,” he murmured under his breath. “I know I haven’t made it easy.”
“Just calling it like I see it,” she said back, keeping her voice low. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, the noise of the locker room swirling around them. “Nice goal.”
“Felt good,” he said, his grin boyish. Then the equipment manager tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to hand over his skates, the moment over.
Cassie walked back to the press box, fingers already composing her lead: “After a week of stumbles, Luke Anders reminded fans why the Renegades signed him—and reminded everyone that redemption stories are written one shift at a time.”