Chapter 13
Thirteen
After practice she drifted toward the assistant coach responsible for the team’s power play scheme for the next interview.
The Renegades had quietly climbed into the top ten on the man advantage, thanks to crisp puck movement and a newfound willingness to shoot from the bumper spot.
Cassie spoke to power-play quarterback Elias Johansson, who provided insightful answers to her questions about zone entries and faceoff plays.
Her recorder captured talk of seams and rotations.
She had no reason to go near Luke’s stall, but her eyes kept finding him anyway.
Across the room, Luke sat in his stall, his wet hair dripping onto the mat below, laughing at something his defensive partner said.
He leaned back to peel off his padded undershirt, revealing tanned skin and a sprawl of ink across his ribs—a compass.
She watched, transfixed, as he lifted the shirt over his head.
Long hair cascaded down his neck; muscles rippled down his torso.
Cassie had interviewed half-naked athletes for years; she had seen tattoos, scars and bruises without feeling anything but professionalism.
But something about Luke’s nonchalant grace—the way his brown eyes flicked up and caught hers for a split second—sent a flare of heat through her.
She blinked and looked away, forcing herself to focus on her notes about power-play percentages.
He tugged on a hoodie and slipped his feet into slides.
As he slung his bag over one shoulder and stood to leave, he glanced back at her.
Their eyes met again. He tilted his head slightly, as if to say hello, but didn’t approach.
Cassie’s pen hovered over her notebook. Her heart thudded an uncomfortable rhythm.
She reminded herself she had stories to file and a reputation to protect.
She inhaled, exhaled and turned back to her notebook.
That night, she went home to her apartment atop Mount Washington, made a simple dinner and tried to shake the image of Luke’s tattoos.
She curled up on her couch with her laptop, finishing her feature on the backup goalie, describing the “quiet confidence” in his stance and the way he studied film of league stars.
She emailed her editor, then cleaned up, rolled out her yoga mat and stretched until her muscles loosened.
She clicked off the lights and slipped into bed, determined to sleep.
Sleep did not cooperate. Her mind conjured Luke.
In her dream, they were alone in the locker room long after practice.
He stood in front of her, his hair damp, the compass tattoo on his ribs clear enough to trace.
His calloused fingers brushed her cheek.
He leaned down—he always had to bend to kiss her—and his mouth found hers.
Heat flooded her veins. She dreamed of his hands sliding down her sides, of her own exploring the ink on his skin.
It was softer and more vivid than reality, as dreams often are; every nerve felt tuned to him.
When she woke, her heart hammered. The room was dark, except for the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds.
Her hand was fisted in the sheets. She lay back, breathing hard, chastising herself and smiling at the same time.
She stared at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that it meant nothing, that a dream was just her subconscious working through the unusual pull she felt toward Luke.
But the next morning, when she walked into the arena and saw him talking with a teammate, the memory of that dream tugged at the edges of her composure.
She scribbled notes for her power-play story and told herself that professional boundaries were still intact.
They were—technically. But as she watched him laugh, his hair falling over his eyes, she knew a line inside her had shifted.