Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Cassie stayed in Pittsburgh, still on the beat. She covered the draft, the team’s prospects camp and wrote profiles of future stars. Luke returned to his offseason home in British Columbia to train, heal fully from all his bumps and bruises and spend time with his family.
They texted constantly. They planned visits under the guise of vacation time and stories that took Cassie west. In early July, she flew to Vancouver on the pretense of writing about west-coast junior hockey.
Luke picked her up at the airport, eyes bright.
He carried her bag with one hand, wrapped the other around her waist, and they grinned like teenagers sneaking out past curfew.
At his apartment overlooking the harbor, they were finally alone without a clock ticking.
Cassie kicked off her shoes and let Luke back her up against the kitchen counter.
He kissed her thoroughly, then lifted her onto the cool granite.
Her legs wrapped around his hips almost automatically.
They barely made it to the bedroom. Luke explored her like the first time all over again—kissing the curve of her hip, tracing his fingers up and down her thighs, murmuring about how he had imagined this every night.
Cassie responded in kind, letting her hands and mouth linger over the lines of his body, memorizing the way he shuddered when she whispered in his ear.
When they came together, it was like the ocean outside—rolling, endless.
Afterwards, they lay sated and smiling, the only sound being their heavy breathing and the faint sound of seagulls in the background.
They spent the week hiking forest trails, cooking breakfast in the mornings and making love in the afternoons.
Luke introduced her to his favorite café and his childhood goalie coach.
Cassie told a white lie to her editor about a feature she was researching.
It wasn’t entirely false—she did interview several local players.
She just failed to mention whose bed she slept in.
Luke took her kayaking in Deep Cove, and they laughed as they tried to keep their boats from capsizing.
They drove to Whistler and soaked in a hot spring where no one recognized them.
At night, they sat on his balcony and talked about everything from the books they read to the meaning of home.
At the end of July, Luke came east. He stayed at Cassie’s tiny apartment, ducking into her doorway under cover of darkness.
They explored Frick Park, ate pierogies from a food truck, and, in the privacy of her home, reacquainted their bodies.
They made love slowly on her sofa, quick and frantic in the hallway when laughter threatened to expose them to her neighbor, and leisurely in her bedroom with the morning light streaming across the bed.
Each time was a reminder of both their passion and their need for discretion.
On their last night together, they lay on her roof deck, the summer air thick, and counted stars.
Cassie traced constellations on his bare chest. Luke told her about a dream where they lived in a farmhouse with room for a dog and a studio for her writing.
She didn’t dare say it aloud, but she pictured it too.
When Cassie flew back out to British Columbia weeks later, Luke brought Cassie to his parents’ modest house near the shipyards.
The scent of cedar and salt was thick in the air.
His mother, a petite woman with a firm handshake, eyed Cassie with curiosity and protectiveness.
Over dinner, they told stories about Luke’s childhood—the time he practiced slap shots in the living room and shattered a picture frame, the way he’d get up before dawn to run with his father.
Cassie shared tales of her own upbringing in Pittsburgh, of learning to write by hand in a room filled with newspapers.
Luke’s father pulled Cassie aside after dessert and said softly, “You make him happy. Just don’t let the world chew you up.
” Cassie nodded, understanding more than he knew.
That night, in Luke’s childhood bedroom with hockey posters still on the walls, they made love under quilts.
It was sweet and slow, a claiming of space in each other’s histories.
Cassie felt safe enough to cry when pleasure overwhelmed her.
Luke kissed her tears away and whispered that what they had was worth the mess.
After breakfast the next morning, Luke pulled on a faded flannel and took Cassie out to the back porch where cedar trees lined the fence and the salty tang of the harbour hung in the air.
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the porch swing with steaming mugs of coffee cupped between cold hands, listening to gulls cry and the distant clatter of the shipyard.
Luke pointed to scratches along the railing where, as a teenager, he’d practised stickhandling drills until his mother yelled at him to come inside.
Cassie laughed at the mental image and traced the gouges with her finger.
Between their soft conversation and comfortable silences, Luke squeezed her hand and, almost shyly, blurted, “I love you.” The words hung between them like condensation in the cold morning.
Cassie pressed her palm to his heartbeat and whispered, “Oh, Luke…I love you, too.” Saying it aloud felt like stepping through a doorway they’d been circling for months.
They sealed the moment with a kiss under the soft western sun, committing not just to a return visit but to a future they both dared to imagine.