Chapter 40
Forty
The Liberty weren’t flashy. They weren’t a Cinderella. They were structured, heavy, irritating in the way teams that had been together too long often were. They forechecked in layers. They clogged the neutral zone. They turned games into trench wars and dared opponents to lose their patience first.
Luke felt it too—in his body before his mind caught up.
Practice sharpened. Drills shortened. Guys finished checks they might’ve peeled away from a week earlier.
The room changed in subtle ways: fewer jokes lingering past warmups, music turned down instead of up.
Tanner Brooks spoke more, but said less—short reminders, quiet corrections, the weight of someone who’d been waiting a long time for another run.
Luke and Cassie didn’t talk much about the series itself.
Their texts stayed lighter than expected—small check-ins, shared observations that stopped just short of analysis. Cassie knew better than to cross that line now. Luke appreciated that she didn’t try to manage his nerves. They both understood the other was holding something back.
The night before Game 1, the city felt coiled.
Allegheny Arena sold out in minutes. Talk radio dissected line combinations and goaltending decisions like state secrets.
Cassie caught herself double-checking her credentials before leaving the house, like the playoffs demanded a higher standard of preparedness.
From the press box before Game 1, she watched Luke take his first laps during warmups, shoulders loose, stride long and controlled.
He looked ready in a way that had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with acceptance.
This was the grind he’d signed up for. The margins would be thin. The nights long.
When he glanced up, their eyes met briefly—nothing overt, nothing lingering. Just acknowledgment.
Game 1 saw the Renegades erupt. Damien Morris bullied his way to the front of the net and banged home two greasy goals.
Luke logged twenty-seven minutes, shutting down Philadelphia’s top line.
In the third period, he flattened a Liberty forward with an open-ice hit that sent the crowd into hysterics.
Cassie typed feverishly, capturing the sound of bodies slamming into glass and the smell of popcorn and anticipation.
Game 2 was tighter. The Liberty clogged the neutral zone and took a 2–1 lead midway through the third.
Cassie watched from the press box, stomach roiling.
With four minutes left, Luke pinched down the boards, kept the puck in, and set up Damien for the tying goal.
In overtime, Tanner Brooks tipped a point shot to win it. The Renegades seized a 2–0 series lead.
In Philadelphia, the hostility was palpable. Fans hurled insults; someone tossed a battery onto the ice in Connor Martin’s direction. The Renegades remained composed. Connor stole Game 3 with 45 saves.
Game 4 was a slugfest, complete with a line brawl in the second period.
Luke fought again, this time with Philadelphia’s enforcer.
He left the game briefly to get stitched up along his jawline, then returned in the third to block two shots on the penalty kill.
Nick Delgado scored the series-clinching goal with three minutes left.
The Renegades swept. Cassie’s column called it a statement: “The Renegades exorcised playoff demons and did it with a snarl.”
After the handshake line, Luke skated by the glass near where Cassie often stood post-game. He tapped his stick against it once, then twice, a gesture that meant nothing to anybody else but everything to her.
Back at the hotel, Luke’s adrenaline hadn’t worn off so much as sharpened into something restless. His jaw throbbed, his shoulders ached, and his hands still felt like they were buzzing. He didn’t bother with pleasantries when he called. “I need you,” he said simply.
Cassie was at his door minutes later. He opened it and pulled her inside, his mouth finding hers with a hunger before the door could even fully close.
He picked her up and carried her to his bed, pinning her arms above her head with one hand as he continued to kiss her.
He slid his free hand down the front of her leggings, first teasing her by tracing up and down her lips, then thrusting two of his fingers inside of her as she gasped.
He sat up, not breaking eye contact as he licked her wetness off of his fingers.
He slid his T-shirt over his head, and Cassie scrambled to slide off her jeans and toss her blazer and tank on the floor.
He slipped his sweatpants down, too, and quickly pinned her back down as he thrust deep inside of her.
They made quick, intense love, moaning into each other’s mouths as they continued to make out with frantic passion.
When they both finished, he collapsed on top of her.
Later, when the city outside had gone still, they lay tangled together beneath the sheets, his arm heavy across her waist, her cheek resting against his chest as she ran her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair.
The game, the noise, the stakes—all of it faded.
Soon enough, the next series would demand that all back.