Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Over the holiday road trip through St. Louis, Dallas and Colorado, tensions flared elsewhere.
A line-brawl in St. Louis. In Dallas, Tanner Brooks took exception to a hit on Caleb Zheng and dropped the gloves.
But two nights later in Denver, the temperature tipped from combustible to dangerous, and the consequences followed them home.
The replay was unavoidable.
Cassie had watched it live from the press box in Denver, her stomach dropping even before the whistle blew.
Damien Morris came in fast, too fast, his elbow rising as Colorado’s captain cut across the neutral zone.
There was contact—clear, forceful, unmistakable—and then the sickening stillness that followed.
The Colorado captain crumpled to the ice, his helmet skittering away as trainers sprinted from the bench.
The arena went quiet in that way Cassie hated most. Not shock. Not outrage. Just the collective understanding that something had gone wrong.
By the time the horn sounded to end the period, Cassie already knew what the league would decide. Some plays lived in gray areas. This wasn’t one of them.
At morning skate two days later, the Renegades’ practice rink felt subdued.
Damien wasn’t on the ice. His stall sat untouched, nameplate stark against the bare wall.
Cassie stood along the boards with the other reporters, notebook already open, questions written in the margins before anyone spoke a word.
Coach Scott Parker didn’t flinch when the first one came.
“Have you heard from the league yet?” someone asked.
“Yes,” Parker said evenly. “Five games.”
A murmur rippled through the group. Cassie asked the follow-up.
“Scott,” she said, voice steady, “how do you balance defending a player who means a lot to this room with acknowledging that what happened crossed a line?”
Parker exhaled slowly. “You don’t balance it,” he said. “You tell the truth. Diesel’s a physical player. We value that. But there’s a difference between hard and reckless, and this crossed it. We don’t excuse it.”
When Damien returned five games later, the room felt heavier still. He stood at his stall in street clothes, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He didn’t deflect. He didn’t joke.
“I messed up,” he said when Cassie asked about the play. “I put myself in a bad position and I hurt someone. That’s on me.”
She studied his face as he spoke—this man she’d written about sweating through boxing workouts, about channeling aggression into control. This was the other side of that edge. The cost of stepping over it.
“What changes now?” she asked.
Damien met her eyes. “I have to be better. For my teammates. For the league. For the guy I hit.”
Cassie nodded, recorder still running. She would write it straight. No softening. No pile-on. The truth, again, was enough.
Later, as she typed the story alone in her hotel room, Cassie felt the familiar ache of the job settle in her chest. Loving the game didn’t mean loving every part of it.
Sometimes it meant sitting with the uncomfortable moments and naming them clearly—especially when they involved people you knew, people you liked.
Especially when they didn’t give you an easy out.