Chapter 2 #2
Jane, who had arrived early to help with dinner, gave Libby an apologetic smile.
With her gentle demeanor and patient nature, Jane had always been the eye of the Bennet-Cross hurricane—calm amid the family chaos.
As one of the Steel's physical therapists, she'd built a reputation for both professional excellence and unflappable poise, qualities Libby admired and occasionally envied.
"That's wonderful news, Lib," Jane said sincerely. "The Herald is a great opportunity. Their sports section has really improved since Reid took over."
"Is this the beard tweet thing?" asked Mary, the middle Bennet-Cross sister, not looking up from her laptop screen. "Statistically speaking, viral content rarely translates to sustainable career advancement."
"Thank you for that uplifting analysis, Mary," Libby replied dryly.
"Will you get to interview Liam D'Arcy?" Lydia, the youngest sister, perked up from her phone where she'd been documenting dinner preparations for her modest fitness influencer following.
At twenty-three, Lydia approached life as if it were one continuous audition for a reality show no one else knew was filming.
"He's so hot, in that broody, emotionally unavailable way. "
"I'll be covering the team, Lydia, not speed dating the roster."
"But you could be!" Linda interjected, placing a casserole dish on the table with theatrical flourish. "Just think, Libby! All those professional athletes, and you'll be right there asking them clever questions. Men love clever questions from pretty girls."
Robert Bennet-Cross emerged from his study where he'd been grading papers, drawn by the increasing volume. "I gather from the noise level that Libby shared her news?"
"She's going to Boston!" Linda repeated, as if he might have missed it the first three times.
"So I heard," he said mildly. "The Herald's a solid paper. Good hockey coverage, traditionally."
"Boston," Linda sighed dreamily. "So glamorous. Jane, you'll have to show her all the best places. And introduce her to those handsome coaches you work with."
"Mom, I'm going to work, not audition for The Bachelor: Hockey Edition," Libby protested.
Jane shot her another sympathetic look. "The team's focused on playoffs right now. It's pretty intense around the facility."
"Chase Bingley seems to have time for coffee dates," Linda said with a knowing smile, causing Jane to blush slightly.
"We've had coffee exactly twice, and both times were to discuss rehabilitation protocols for Jensen's ankle."
"Of course they were, dear," Linda patted Jane's hand. "Kitty! Come down! Libby's going to Boston to find a hockey husband!"
"I'm not—" Libby began, then gave up as her second-youngest sister Kitty clattered down the stairs.
"Is it the Steel? Will you meet Hunter Mattingley? His Instagram is literally my religion," Kitty gushed, already pulling out her phone.
"Wait, let me check something—" Kitty grabbed their mother's tablet from the counter. "Mom, can I—OH MY GOD. Your search history!"
"Give me that!" Linda lunged for the device.
"'Liam D'Arcy girlfriend 2025', 'Chase Bingley net worth', 'How to casually run into hockey players Boston'—MOM!"
"I was researching for Libby's benefit!" Linda protested, wrestling the tablet away.
"'Do hockey players like older women'?" Kitty continued. "Mother, you're married!"
"That was clearly for Jane," Linda said with wounded dignity.
“Ah yes, the decrepit age of twenty-seven. I’m leaving now," Jane announced to no one in particular.
"I'll be in the press box, not the locker room," Libby clarified, wondering if any part of this conversation was actually registering with her family.
"Girls, leave your sister alone," Robert intervened. "She's been offered a professional opportunity based on her work, not her dating potential."
"Thank you," Libby said gratefully.
"Though I wouldn't turn down playoff tickets," he added with a wink.
Dinner proceeded with Linda peppering Libby and Jane with questions about Boston, most involving eligible bachelors, luxury shopping, and whether the Steel had any players who might be interested in "a vivacious young fitness expert" (meaning Lydia) or "a sweet girl with excellent fashion sense" (meaning Kitty).
Mary occasionally interjected with statistics about journalist salary averages and the declining print media industry, while Robert maintained his amused silence, interjecting only when Linda's matchmaking fantasies threatened to reach escape velocity.
After dessert, Libby escaped to the back porch with Jane, both clutching mugs of tea and seeking refuge from the continuing celebration inside.
"Sorry about Mom," Libby said, though the apology was unnecessary between sisters who'd spent their lives navigating their mother's enthusiasms.
"She means well," Jane replied, the same thing she always said. "She just wants us to be happy."
"And married to professional athletes with seven-figure contracts."
Jane laughed softly. "That too." She studied Libby's face in the porch light. "How are you really feeling about this? It's a big step."
Libby exhaled slowly. "Excited. Terrified. Convinced they'll realize they made a huge mistake about three minutes after I arrive."
"You're more than qualified," Jane assured her. "Your analysis is better than half the established hockey writers in Boston."
"But they don't know that," Libby pointed out. "All they've seen is a viral tweet about a beard. What if that's all they want? Some quirky female voice to add diversity to their coverage?"
Jane considered this. "Then prove them wrong. Show them what you can really do."
The back door opened, and Robert stepped out, joining his oldest daughters at the railing.
"Your mother's planning your joint wedding to the Steel's first line," he informed them dryly. "I thought you might need reinforcements."
Libby groaned. "Can I stay at your place in Boston until I find something?" she asked Jane. "I'm not sure I can handle Mom's daily calls if I'm in a hotel."
"Of course," Jane nodded. "My roommate's away on a yoga retreat for the next month anyway."
Robert leaned against the porch railing. "You know, Libs, your mother's enthusiasm aside, this is a real opportunity. The Herald's a serious paper."
"I know," Libby said. "I just don't want to be the token female voice making jokes while the men do the real analysis."
Her father nodded, understanding immediately. "Your grandfather used to say that in journalism, you get one chance to define yourself. The first impression sticks."
"Great, so no pressure," Libby muttered.
"Just be yourself," Jane advised. "Your real self, not what you think they want."
"And watch your back," Robert added. "The sports world hasn't changed as much as they'd like us to believe."
Libby thought of Clara's warning earlier that day. "So I've been told."
"You'll be brilliant," Jane said with her characteristic optimism. "The Steel are lucky to have you covering them."
"The Steel don't even know I exist yet," Libby pointed out.
"They will," her father said with quiet confidence. "Just remember who you are and why you're there. Don't let them make you doubt yourself."
Libby nodded, grateful for her father's faith in her. Inside, Linda's voice carried through the open window: "Lydia, what do you think—Steel blue or burgundy for the wedding colors?"
"I'm doomed," Libby sighed, but she was smiling as she said it.
Later that night, Libby sat cross-legged on her childhood bed, laptop balanced on her knees as she frantically researched the Boston Steel. Her open suitcase lay beside her, half-filled with what she hoped were appropriate clothes for covering a professional sports team.
She'd read through the Boston Herald's recent Steel coverage, familiarizing herself with Jackson's style and approach. Solid but traditional. Heavy on game recaps, light on analytical depth. She could do better—if they let her.
Her browser tabs multiplied as she dug deeper: team statistics, player profiles, recent trade acquisitions, injury reports.
She pulled up Liam D'Arcy's career highlights, watching clip after clip of the Steel's star center finding gaps in coverage that shouldn't exist, turning defensive formations into Swiss cheese.
Derek's dismissive comment about D'Arcy being a "daddy's boy" echoed in her mind, but the evidence on screen told a different story. His hockey IQ was off the charts, his positioning always perfect, his passing lanes creating opportunities that other players wouldn't even see.
But it was what happened after the plays that caught Libby's attention.
While teammates celebrated goals with elaborate routines, D'Arcy's reactions were always muted—a raised stick, a brief helmet tap, then immediately back to game mode.
In interviews, the same pattern: minimal emotion, deflection of personal praise, redirection to team accomplishments.
A post-game interview from last week auto-played.
D'Arcy stood at his stall, still in half his gear, patiently explaining a complex play to a young reporter who'd clearly misunderstood the strategy.
Instead of the condescension she'd seen from other stars, his explanation was clear, respectful, almost teacherly.
When the reporter stumbled over a follow-up question, D'Arcy waited, gave him time to reformulate, then answered what he'd meant to ask rather than what he'd actually said.
"Huh," Libby murmured, unconsciously leaning closer to the screen.
"What are you hiding behind that robot routine?" she murmured, watching him cut short yet another question about his personal achievements.
Her phone buzzed.
Clara
Have you packed your "I'm a serious journalist" blazer yet?
Libby glanced at the navy blazer draped over her desk chair.
Libby
Just about to. Along with my "please take me seriously despite my gender" sensible shoes.
Clara
Don't forget your "I'm not flirting I'm interviewing" notebook.
Libby
Already packed, right next to my "yes I actually understand the neutral zone trap" press credentials.
Clara
You're going to kill it. Just don't let the sharks smell blood.
Libby set down her phone and returned to packing. She carefully folded her most professional-looking tops, added her one pair of decent slacks, and debated over which shoes would strike the right balance between professional and practical for arena conditions.
From her desk, she took her battered reporter's notebook with its coffee-stained cover—a talisman against imposter syndrome.
The last item gave her pause: her father's old coaching whistle, the one he'd used at Westfield Prep before the wealthy parents of an underperforming player had orchestrated his dismissal.
He'd given it to her when she'd landed her first sports reporting job, a tangible reminder of both passion and caution.
She wrapped the whistle in a sock and tucked it into the side pocket of her suitcase. A reminder of what happened when you challenged the established order, but also of why it sometimes needed challenging.
With her packing finally done, Libby zipped the suitcase closed and sat back down on her bed, trying to quiet the butterflies in her stomach. Tomorrow she'd be in Boston, covering a professional hockey team for a major newspaper. Everything she'd worked for, dreamed of, was suddenly within reach.
Clara's warning replayed in her mind: They'll either dismiss you as a diversity hire or assume you're sleeping with the players.
She thought of her father's career derailment, of the countless female journalists whose legitimate questions were met with condescension, of the social media comments that inevitably focused on appearance rather than analysis.
The path ahead was strewn with obstacles, some visible, others hidden.
But if there was one thing Libby Bennet-Cross had in abundance, it was determination.
She would prove herself on merit alone, refusing to be intimidated or marginalized.
She would bring the same analytical eye to the Steel that she'd applied to the Falcons, and she would make them see her—really see her—as a journalist first.
Boston wouldn't know what hit it.