Pride and Pregame (The Athletic Society #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a female sportswriter in possession of a press pass must be in want of a man to explain the offside rule to her.

At least, that seemed to be the prevailing theory in the Springfield Arena press box.

Libby Bennet-Cross knew that the Springfield Falcons' playoff hopes had died somewhere around minute fourteen of the second period, but nobody else in the room seemed to have noticed.

She frowned at her notes, black ink sprawling across the page in the shorthand her grandmother had taught her.

The pattern was clear as day. Coach Sullivan kept running the same failed power play setup—a predictable drop pass that the Utica defenders had read like a children's book since game two.

Four games into the series, and he still hadn't adjusted.

"Hey, Libby, what'd you think of Kowalski's goal?" Derek from the Springfield Courier called across the cramped press box, not bothering to look up from his phone.

"Lucky bounce off Lindqvist's skate," she replied, still scribbling. "But I'm more concerned with their zone entries. They're telegraphing every—"

"Cool, cool," Derek interrupted, clearly not listening. "Think they can pull off the comeback?"

Libby suppressed an eye-roll. "About as likely as you actually reading my column tomorrow."

That earned a dutiful chuckle from the three other reporters in the press box—the sum total of media coverage for Springfield's middling minor league team. She turned back to her laptop, fingers flying across the keys as she tried to explain, for the eighth time this season, why Sullivan’s system was fundamentally broken.

The press box television flickered in the corner, sound muted but closed captioning scrolling across the bottom.

ESPN was showing highlights from the Boston Steel playoff game.

Liam D'Arcy, the Steel's star center and heir to the franchise, deked past two defenders before sliding the puck between the goalie's pads.

"Speaking of lucky," muttered Andy from the local radio station, nodding toward the screen. "Drafted first overall in the genetic lottery."

Libby glanced up just in time to see D'Arcy's celebration—a simple raised stick, no dramatic knee-slides or glass-pounding.

The camera lingered as he pulled off his helmet, dark hair damp with sweat, jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

His teammates mobbed him while he remained stoic, already focused on the next play.

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "That goal was all skill. The way he used the defenseman as a screen—"

"Please," Derek snorted. "Like Daddy's precious boy would be anywhere near the NHL if his family didn't own the team."

Libby bit her tongue. She'd learned the hard way that hockey analysis fell on deaf ears in this press box. Instead, she refocused on the Falcons game below, where the home team was limping toward another predictable playoff exit.

Three hours later, she was still at the rink, laptop balanced on her knees in the empty stands while the cleaning crew worked around her.

The Falcons had lost 4-2, ending their season with a whimper rather than a roar.

The other reporters had filed their generic game recaps and disappeared to the nearest bar, but Libby remained, combing through her notes to find something—anything—that readers might actually care about.

Her gaze drifted to center ice, where a solitary maintenance worker was removing the playoff decal. Springfield's twelfth consecutive year without advancing past the first round.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her father.

Dad

How’s the Rise and Fall of Minor League Hockey coming along?

She smiled despite her fatigue.

Libby

Someone has to document the historic collapse.

Dad

Sullivan still running that awful drop pass?

Libby

All night. Zone entries like they were blindfolded.

Dad

At least you noticed. Come by for breakfast tomorrow? Mom's making those cinnamon things.

Libby

Wouldn’t miss it

Libby stretched, feeling the knots in her shoulders from hunching over her laptop.

The article wasn't coming together. Nobody wanted to read another technical breakdown of a losing team's failures.

She needed something fresh, something that would make people feel something about this forgettable game.

Her eyes landed on her notes about Falcons defenseman Trevor Shea, whose playoff beard had evolved into something truly spectacular—and spectacularly awful. What had started as simple superstition had morphed into what looked like a small woodland creature clinging desperately to his face.

She opened Twitter and, without overthinking it, typed:

Trevor Shea's playoff beard journey: Game 1: Respectable stubble.

Game 2: Lumberjack chic. Game 3: Viking warrior.

Game 4: Full Hagrid hosting an ecosystem.

If the Falcons had grown their offensive game as aggressively as Shea grew that facial forest, they might still be playing. #FalconsEliminated #PlayoffBeardWatch

She hit send, closed her laptop, and headed for the parking lot.

"—and he scores! Liam D'Arcy with the game winner for Boston! Steel lead the series three games to one!"

The TD Garden erupted as twenty thousand fans leapt to their feet.

Liam raised his stick once, acknowledging the moment before his teammates crashed into him against the boards.

He allowed himself exactly five seconds to feel the rush before his mind was already processing the next game, the next series.

In the visitor's locker room an hour later, Liam sat patiently as reporters crowded around him, their microphones and recorders forming a semicircle of intrusion he'd never quite gotten used to.

"Liam, talk about that game-winning goal," demanded a reporter from the Boston Herald.

"Right place, right time," he replied, keeping his face neutral. "Varlenko made a great pass."

"Some are calling it the goal of the playoffs so far," pressed another reporter.

Liam adjusted the Rolex on his wrist—a nervous habit he couldn't seem to break. "It was just one goal. We need sixteen wins for the Cup."

"You're now the leading scorer in the playoffs. Does that—"

"Team stat," he interrupted. "Doesn't matter who scores as long as we advance."

He could see their frustration building. They wanted emotion, sound bites, personality. He gave them statistics and clichés. His media training, intensified after what happened with Georgia, had become second nature.

"With your father in attendance tonight, was there extra pressure to—"

"I think that's enough for tonight," interrupted the Steel's PR director, stepping in smoothly. "Early flight tomorrow. Coach Taylor will take questions now."

Liam nodded his thanks and retreated to his stall, away from the cameras. His teammates were used to his post-game demeanor, to the way he transformed from the vocal on-ice leader to the reserved, almost cold figure in media scrums.

"Dude, your robot routine isn't getting any better," said Varlenko, dropping onto the bench beside him. "The memes are evolving faster than your press conferences."

"They can make all the memes they want about me. You know why I don't give them anything personal," Liam replied quietly, so only his linemate could hear.

Varlenko's smile faded. "Fair point."

Liam changed quickly, meticulous as always. His post-game routine never varied: shower, protein shake, stretching, ice bath. By the time he emerged from the training room, the locker room had mostly cleared out. Just as he preferred it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from his sister:

Georgia

Beautiful goal. Dad actually smiled.

He allowed himself a small grin.

Liam

Didn't think his face could still do that.

Georgia

Minor miracle. Like your backcheck on Magnus in the second. Chat tomorrow?

Liam

After practice. Sleep well, G.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and straightened his tie.

The walk from the locker room to the players' exit was lined with premium ticket holders and sponsors—another gauntlet to navigate.

Liam had perfected the art of moving efficiently through these crowds: firm handshake, brief eye contact, polite nod, keep walking.

"Liam! Stellar performance tonight!" called out Kate Davenport, his godmother and owner of the rival Montreal franchise. "Though I still say you chose the wrong team."

"Kate," he acknowledged with a nod. "Enjoying Boston hospitality?"

"Tolerable, as always," she sniffed, her perfectly styled silver hair gleaming under the hallway lights. "Anne sends her regards. She's still in Paris for the gallery opening, but she'll be at the next series—if Boston wins out, of course."

"Please give her my best," he said diplomatically. "If you'll excuse me—early morning tomorrow."

Outside, his Range Rover waited in the players' lot.

Liam slid behind the wheel, finally alone with his thoughts.

The solitude was welcome after the sensory overload of the game, the media, the fans.

He sat for a moment, eyes closed, compartmentalizing the night's events, filing away observations about the opposing team's penalty kill, noting adjustments for the next game.

His phone buzzed again.

Charles D’Arcy

Good game. Shot percentage still low. Talk tomorrow.

A man of few words, his father. No praise, just analysis—just the way Liam liked it. There was always something to improve, always a weakness to address. Such was life as the heir to the Boston Steel dynasty.

He started the car and pulled out into the Boston night, already mentally preparing for tomorrow's practice.

"Elizabeth Marie Bennet-Cross! Get down here this instant!"