Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
By mid-March, the season had stopped feeling like a long road and started feeling like a wall.
Every game mattered. Every mistake lingered.
The standings sat open on Cassie’s laptop at all hours, percentages and tie-breakers blurring together as she tried to calculate what the Renegades still needed.
Two wins. Maybe three. Help from someone else.
A regulation loss here, an overtime point there. It was math layered over exhaustion.
Luke felt it too, but in his body first.
His legs were heavier in morning skates.
Bruises bloomed faster and lingered longer.
He caught himself staring at the ceiling in hotel rooms, replaying shifts he should’ve buried, passes that were a fraction late.
The chase had weight now—not the abstract goal of “making the playoffs,” but the responsibility of dragging a team there when expectations said they should already be safe.
They talked less during those weeks. Not because they didn’t want to, but because there were only so many hours in a day, and both of them were running on fumes.
Cassie flew commercial, back-to-backs stacking on top of each other, red-eye flights bleeding into morning skates.
She filed stories from airport floors, from rideshares, from her couch at 2 a.m. with her shoes still on.
Her editor wanted sharper angles, urgency, urgency, urgency.
Fans wanted reassurance…or blood, depending on the night.
Luke wanted quiet. The tension finally cracked on a gray afternoon before a must-win home game.
Cassie had stopped by the arena to confirm a lineup change at the morning skate, and Luke caught up to her afterward near the hallway that led to the locker room.
“You’re coming tonight?” he asked, already knowing the answer. She nodded, distracted. “Yeah. I’ve got a deadline window not long after it ends. I might have to leave early to file.”
Luke frowned. “It’s a big game.”
“I know,” she said, sharper than intended. “Which is why I have to work.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been busy every night this week,” he whispered, making sure there wasn’t anyone in earshot.
“And you’ve been barely speaking to me,” she shot back, finally looking at him. They both froze. The hallway felt suddenly too small.
“I’m under a lot of pressure,” Luke said, voice low. “I can’t afford distractions right now.”
Cassie’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a distraction. I’m trying to hold my career together while covering a team on the brink.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what it sounded like.”
They stood there, neither quite willing to apologize first, the words hanging heavier than either intended. A trainer passed by. Cassie stepped back.
“I have to go,” she said. “Good luck tonight.”
She didn’t look back.
The game was tight and ugly and stressful in exactly the way playoff-race games always are.
Luke played nearly twenty-eight minutes, blocking shots, clearing bodies, grinding.
The veteran Ilya Belov held strong in net.
The Renegades won 3–2 on a late goal from Tanner Brooks, the building erupting with relief more than joy.
Cassie filed cleanly, professionally, praised Luke’s defensive work without flourish. She went home afterward, drained, kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her couch, replaying the argument in her head until it made her stomach ache.
There was a knock at her door just after midnight.
She opened it to find Luke standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hair damp, eyes tired but earnest.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said immediately. “About distractions. I was wrong.”
Cassie crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I know you’re carrying a lot.”
He nodded. “I’m not good at this part. The waiting. The not knowing if it’s going to be enough.” He hesitated. “But pushing you away isn’t helping.”
She stepped aside, letting him in.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, the space between them charged with unspoken things. Luke leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I’m scared,” he admitted quietly. “Not just about the playoffs. About messing this up. About hurting you.”
Cassie’s shoulders softened. She moved closer. “I’m scared too.”
They looked at each other, exhaustion giving way to honesty.
“I don’t need perfection,” she said. “I just need you to talk to me.”
“I can do that,” he said. “I want to.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in carefully.
Cassie lifted her head and looked at him, really looked at him, the tension of the past weeks written in the lines around his eyes.
Without a word, she took his hand and tugged him toward her on the couch, their knees bumping as he settled beside her.
The closeness felt deliberate, grounding.
Luke brushed his thumb along her jaw, a silent question.
She answered by leaning in, kissing him softly at first, like they were reminding themselves how to do this.
They moved slowly, unhurried, letting the weight of the season fall away piece by piece.
Luke pulled Cassie onto his lap and kissed her like he was memorizing her again, careful and gentle, his hands warm and steady.
Cassie pressed closer, breathing him in, the familiar comfort of him easing the tight knot in her chest. For a moment, it felt like time had widened just for them—no standings, no deadlines, no consequences beyond the room.
Weeks of missed chances and half-conversations surged forward all at once. The kisses deepened, urgency replacing restraint. Cassie pulled him closer, her fingers threading into his hair as Luke groaned softly against her mouth.
He pulled her sweater over her head, throwing it to the other side of the living room.
He unhooked her bra behind her with a flick of his wrist, causing her to gasp as the cool air hit her breasts.
She felt the warmth of Luke’s breath as he leaned into her chest, pausing before kissing each of her nipples – softly at first, then tracing her right nipple with his tongue before squeezing it between his teeth.
She threw her head back and moaned. He cupped her left breast with his left hand, allowing his right to trace her slit overtop her leggings.
When he could already feel how wet she was through the fabric, he pulled his face back from her chest.
“Flip over,” he rasped.
Cassie, with a quickness and desperation that surprised them both, dove onto the couch on Luke’s right, landing on her forearms and knees with her back arched, ass raised to him.
She looked back over her shoulder as he pulled his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion, before reaching for her leggings and pulling them down to her knees.
He teased her through her panties, tracing her slit with his tip until she let out a frustrated moan.
He pulled them down to her knees, digging his fingers into her hips as he slipped deep inside of her, causing her to let out a yelp.
They moved with a new urgency, making up for every night apart, every moment they’d chosen responsibility over want.
She came first, her legs shaking as she dug her fingernails into the couch and he continued to thrust into her. She felt his pace quicken, and then he let out a low moan as he came, too.
By the time they finally slowed, tangled together on the couch, the apartment was quiet again. Luke sat back, breathing hard, and Cassie laughed softly, the sound full of relief.
“God,” he murmured, “I needed that.”
“So did I,” she said, resting her head back against his shoulder—this time without doubt, without tension, just the steady comfort of being exactly where she wanted to be.
The push wasn’t over.
But neither were they.