Chapter 63: The Playoff Push

The locker room exploded before I even got the door fully open.

Shouts, music, someone slamming a stick against the floor. Champagne already in the air and somebody laughing like the season had just ended instead of barely reaching its next stage.

We had clinched a playoff spot.

Cassian was the first person I saw.

He was right in the middle of it, grinning like he had just come off the ice with the game winner still burning under his skin. His hair was damp with sweat, his jersey half-unzipped, and he looked like he had been made for moments exactly like this. Loud. Bright. Impossible to ignore.

I stayed near the wall and watched the chaos move around me.

Raffi had one arm around somebody’s shoulders and a bottle in the other hand. Danton was in the doorway, pretending he was not proud. A few of the younger guys had started yelling over the music about who had forgotten the playlist and why it was suddenly all victory songs and terrible remixes.

Cassian turned and found me across the room.

That look hit me harder than the noise.

He crossed to me without hesitation, weaving through the bodies and the towels and the shouting players like the room had cleared just for him. By the time he reached me, he was smiling so hard it almost made me forget where we were.

Almost.

“Hey,” he said.

I let my mouth tilt. “Hey.”

He looked me over once. “You are standing very far away from the actual celebration.”

“I am observing.”

“That is not celebrating.”

“It is very responsible celebrating.”

He gave me a look like I was impossible on purpose, then glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the room before stepping in close enough that I could feel the heat of him. The smell of sweat, shampoo, champagne, and the sharp clean edge of victory was somehow still not enough to distract me from the fact that he was looking at me like he had already decided what he wanted.

He held out his hand.

I looked at it, then at him. “What is that?”

“My hand.”

“I can see that.”

“Good. Take it.”

I arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

That should have been simple. It was not.

His hand stayed there, open and steady, and the room kept roaring around us while I looked at him and felt the whole atmosphere shift a little. Not because anyone was watching us, though some of them probably were. Because Cassian had asked without a joke in it. No performance. No pressure. Just the ask.

I put my hand in his.

He smiled immediately, like he had won something small and important.

Then he tugged.

“Cassian,” I said as he started pulling me toward the center of the room.

He glanced back at me over his shoulder, grin widening. “Do not sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you are about to resist.”

I looked around the room as he kept pulling me forward. “I do not dance.”

“That is unfortunate for you.”

“I am serious.”

“So am I.”

He did not stop until we were in the middle of it all, between the speakers and the lockers and the music and the noise, with teammates shouting around us and nobody paying us any meaningful attention because they were too busy celebrating the spot we had earned.

Cassian finally turned to face me and still did not let go of my hand.

“Dance with me,” he said.

I stared at him. “No.”

His mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“I said no.”

“You said that like you expected me to listen.”

I looked at him for a second longer than I should have. His shirt was damp at the collar. There was a smudge of something on his cheek, maybe champagne, maybe water. He looked too pleased with himself for a man trying to drag me into public movement I had no intention of endorsing.

I said, “I do not dance.”

“Tonight you do.”

A cheer went up somewhere behind us when somebody played the wrong song at the wrong volume and decided it was perfect anyway. A bottle popped. Someone yelled Cassian’s name. Someone else started clapping along with the beat like they were in charge of the mood.

Cassian did not look away from me.

He just lifted our joined hands between us and said quietly, “Come on.”

I looked at him, then at the room around us.

Nobody cared.

Not really.

That was new.

I should have kept my feet planted. I should have made a point about dignity or balance or the fact that there were at least eight people in the room who would absolutely make this their new favorite thing to torment us with later.

Instead I let him pull me one step closer.

Cassian’s expression changed immediately.

“You are smiling,” he said.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He took another step in until our shoulders were nearly touching and the rest of the room blurred into noise again. Someone shouted for more champagne. Somebody else yelled that we were a disgrace to subtlety. Raffi, naturally, whooped loud enough from across the room to make three people laugh at once.

Cassian leaned in just enough for me to hear him. “The music is terrible.”

“I agree.”

“Then dance badly with me.”

“That is not a compelling argument.”

“You already came this far.”

I glanced down at our hands. His fingers were curled around mine like they belonged there.

I exhaled through my nose and looked back at him. “You are impossible.”

“I know.”

He moved first, and I let myself move with him.

He smiled when he felt it, and that was somehow worse than if he had said something smart.

“There,” he said.

I looked at him. “Do not sound so proud.”

“I am proud.”

“Of what?”

“That I finally got you to do something you said you would not.”

I gave him a flat look. “This is going to become a problem if you keep keeping score.”

Cassian’s grin turned sharp and bright. “I have been keeping score for months.”

“Of course you have.”

His hand slid a little lower at my waist, not enough to make a scene, just enough to make every part of me more aware of where he was. What he was doing. How little either of us cared about being careful in this room right now.

The movement was subtle, the effect was not.

I felt the heat of him through the thin fabric between us and had to force myself not to look at his mouth for too long.

He noticed anyway.

“You are staring,” he said.

“So are you.”

His expression changed. “That is not fair.”

“I am under no obligation to be fair.”

A teammate crashed past us, yelling over the music, “About time!”

Cassian did not look away from me. “See? Even they think this is necessary.”

“Necessary?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear this time, his voice dropping low enough that I had to listen. “Because you have been standing in corners all night like you are allergic to joy.”

I snorted despite myself.

He caught that immediately and looked pleased. “There it is.”

I shook my head once. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you keep dancing with me.”

That was true.

We moved another step, then another. Not a real dance. Not anything polished. Just a slow sway in the middle of the locker room while music pounded through the speakers and champagne misted across the floor and the entire team celebrated a playoff berth like it had been wrestled out of the season by force.

Cassian’s forehead brushed mine briefly as he turned us in a small circle.

My hand tightened once in his.

He looked up at me then, all warmth and intent and that same dangerous ease he got when he was very sure I was not going anywhere.

I said, “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I am enjoying you.”

That stopped me.

The room around us got louder, if that was even possible. Somebody was chanting something about the playoffs. Raffi had started a stupid wave with two of the rookies. Danton stood at the far end of the room with his hands on his hips and the look of a man who had accepted that his team had become unmanageable in the best possible way.

None of it touched us where we were.

Cassian tightened his hold just a little and smiled at me like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Still think you do not dance?”

“I think you are exploiting a technicality.”

“That is such a coach answer.”

I leaned in and let my mouth brush his temple, only a little, enough to make his breath catch. “You are lucky I am in a good mood.”

His eyes darkened a fraction. “I am always lucky with you.”

For a second I forgot the music, the room, the champagne, the teammates shouting around us.

I only saw him.

Then someone yelled, “Kiss him already!”

The whole room exploded in laughter.

Cassian did not even flinch. He just looked over his shoulder, flipped the middle finger at whoever had yelled it, and turned back to me like the interruption had barely existed.

I should have rolled my eyes, I probably did. Cassian smiled and kept one hand at my side.

“You heard them,” he said.

“I am not kissing you in front of the entire locker room.”

“Coward.”

“I am being selective.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Selective about kissing me?”

I looked at him for a second, then said, “Selective about giving the team more material.”

That got a laugh out of him, and then another voice from across the room shouted, “Too late!”

Raffi, naturally, added, “We have months of material already.”

I groaned. Cassian laughed harder.

He leaned in and kissed the side of my jaw, quick enough that nobody could claim it, slow enough that I felt it everywhere anyway. “You are smiling again,” he murmured.

I closed my eyes briefly. “You are impossible.”

“Yes,” he said, still grinning. “You said that already.”

Cassian swayed with me one more time and looked at me with a softness that only lived after the heat. “This is good.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He smiled. “You came around.”

“I was dragged.”

“That still counts.”

I shook my head, but I did not move away.

His hand stayed at my waist, mine stayed in his. We kept moving in that small, ridiculous circle while the room celebrated around us like the season had just cracked open into something bigger.

And for once, nobody in the room looked twice.

Because for once, no one was watching.

Not the way that counted.