Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
She sat in her rental car for a full minute, her chest tight as she gathered her courage.
The Springfield Falcons practiced in a converted warehouse where the heating was questionable and the locker room smelled permanently of industrial disinfectant and broken dreams. This place looked like it belonged in architectural magazines.
You earned this. Viral tweet or not, they called you.
The parking lot reinforced the intimidation factor.
BMWs, Mercedes, and Teslas gleamed in the morning sun, the occasional Range Rover offering some variety.
Libby's ten-year-old Honda Civic, still sporting a faded Springfield Falcons decal on the bumper, looked like it had wandered in from a different economic ecosystem entirely.
She grabbed her bag—a worn leather messenger bag that had seen her through college and every assignment since—and headed for the entrance.
Her press credentials hung from a Steel-branded lanyard that had arrived via overnight delivery, along with a parking pass and a information packet that was more professionally designed than most magazines.
The security checkpoint stopped her cold.
"Credentials?" The guard, a man built like he'd played hockey himself, albeit fifteen years ago, barely glanced at her lanyard before frowning at his tablet. "You're not in the system."
"I should be. Libby Bennet-Cross, covering for the Herald."
He scrolled through his screen with the speed of someone who dealt with this regularly. "No Bennet-Cross. You sure you're supposed to be here today?"
"Yes, I'm—" She pulled out her phone to show Reid's email. "Sully Reid hired me yesterday to cover—"
"Girlfriends and family entrance is around back," he interrupted, not unkindly but with the tone of someone who'd had this conversation before. "They have a different check-in process."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I'm not a girlfriend. I'm media. Boston Herald."
His skeptical look said everything about what he thought of that claim. Behind her, she heard footsteps—other media members approaching, no doubt witnessing this spectacular first impression.
"Everything okay here?" a male voice asked, and Libby turned to see a couple of men in overpriced golf attire, press badges marking them as ESPN contributors. Their expressions held a mix of amusement and secondhand embarrassment.
"Just a mix-up," she said brightly, though her face burned. She turned back to the guard. "Could you call Sully Reid? He can confirm—"
"I can vouch for her," Jane's voice cut through the awkwardness like a blessing. Her sister appeared with her staff badge prominent, looking every inch the competent professional. "She's covering for Jackson. It was a last-minute addition, probably why she's not in the system yet."
The guard's demeanor shifted immediately. "Oh, you're Jane's sister? Why didn't you say so?" He handed her a temporary pass. "This'll work until IT gets you properly set up."
"Thank you," Libby managed, following Jane through the checkpoint while acutely aware of the ESPN guys' knowing looks.
"Rough start?" Jane asked quietly as they walked.
"Just establishing my reputation as the girl who needed her sister to get her in the building," Libby muttered.
"It'll be forgotten by lunch," Jane assured her, though they both knew that wasn't true. In the insular world of sports media, first impressions stuck like ice to a windshield.
The lobby took her breath away. Soaring ceilings showcased championship banners and retired numbers, and display cases held gleaming trophies that caught the light from floor-to-ceiling windows.
The air smelled of expensive coffee and success, a far cry from the stale beer and hot dog aroma that permeated Springfield's arena.
"First time?" asked the receptionist, a polished woman who looked like she could have been a news anchor herself. Her name tag read "Stephanie," and her smile was professionally warm.
"Is it that obvious?" Libby replied, trying for self-deprecating humor while internally cringing at how small-town she probably sounded.
"The looking-around-like-you're-in-a-museum thing," Stephanie said kindly. "Plus I don't recognize you, and I know most of the regular media. You must be the Herald's fill-in."
"Libby Bennet-Cross," she said, showing her credentials.
"Welcome to Boston Steel. Media room's through those doors, down the hall, second left. Practice starts in eight minutes. You'll want to grab a spot in the observation area early—it gets crowded during playoffs."
Libby thanked her and followed the directions, her footsteps echoing in the polished hallway. Framed action shots lined the walls, dramatic black-and-white images of Steel players in motion. She paused at one showing a player mid-celebration, arms raised, joy evident even behind his helmet.
The media room buzzed with activity as reporters prepared for the day.
Libby recognized some faces from television—ESPN contributors, network affiliates, sports radio personalities.
They moved with the casual confidence of people who belonged, their conversations peppered with insider references and shared history.
She found an empty chair at the back, pulling out her notebook and trying to look busy while observing the room dynamics.
The male reporters—and they were almost all male—clustered in familiar groups, their golf-course-casual attire, stretch slacks, and quarter-zip pullovers marking them as members of an exclusive club she'd never managed to sneak into.
She could read the pecking order in their body language—who got the armrest, who laughed loudest at whose jokes, who could interrupt without apology.
"—can't believe Reid hired the playoff beard blogger," a voice carried from the group nearest her. "What's next, hiring someone from Barstool?"
Libby kept her expression neutral, but her ears sharpened.
"The one from Springfield?" another voice replied with obvious disdain. "What was she covering before this—beer league? High school JV?"
"Reid must be desperate for younger demographics after the Q1 numbers tanked," the first voice continued. "Though I heard the real reason she got the gig is her sister works here. PT department."
The third man in the group laughed. "She probably thinks plus-minus is a math problem. Remember when that lifestyle blogger asked Liam about his 'uniform' instead of jersey?"
"At least she was hot," the first man replied. "This one's just another Twitter personality who thinks viral posts equal journalism credentials."
Heat rose in Libby's cheeks, but she forced herself to remain still. Getting defensive now would only confirm their assumptions. Instead, she opened her notebook and began reviewing her practice observations notes, channeling her anger into professional focus.
"Hey," Jane said, reappearing at her elbow. "Sorry about that—had to grab my stuff from the PT room."
After the hostile undercurrents of the media room, her sister's familiar presence felt like a life preserver.
"Thank god you're back," Libby said quietly. "I was starting to feel like fresh meat at a shark convention."
"Not sharks," Jane said diplomatically, though her eyes flicked toward the group of reporters who'd been discussing Libby. "Just… territorial. Playoffs make everyone a little tense."
Jane looked perfectly at home in her Steel-branded polo and khakis, her physical therapist credentials clearly marking her as team staff. Her presence immediately elevated Libby's status in the room—sister of an insider, not just another outsider trying to break in.
"How was the drive?" Jane asked, guiding Libby toward the observation windows overlooking the practice rink.
"Fine. Though I think my Civic lowered the property values in your parking lot."
Jane laughed. "You should see some of the rookies' cars. They're worse than yours." She lowered her voice. "Don't let the fancy facility intimidate you. At the end of the day, it's still just hockey."
"Just hockey," Libby repeated, though her gaze was drawn to the pristine ice surface below where players were beginning to take the ice for warm-ups. "Right."
"They're good guys, mostly," Jane continued. "The team, I mean. Some egos, obviously, but that comes with the territory. Liam D'Arcy gets most of the media attention, but he's actually—"
Jane's words faded as Libby's attention was captured by the scene below. The players moved with the fluid efficiency of elite athletes, their warm-up drills choreographed with military precision. But even among this collection of professional hockey players, one figure commanded attention.
The moment Liam D'Arcy stepped onto the ice, Libby's body recognized him before her brain caught up.
It was like the air pressure in the room changed, her lungs suddenly working harder to draw breath.
On television, he'd been contained, reduced to pixels and commentary.
In person, he was something else entirely—taller, broader, more physically present than any camera could capture.
Her pulse jumped, and she found herself gripping her pen tighter, fingernails pressing into her palm.
This was ridiculous. She'd interviewed professional athletes before—basketball players, football stars, even a few Olympians.
Men who could bench press her body weight with one arm, who had Stanford MBAs to go with their championship rings, whose signing bonuses had more zeros than she'd see in a lifetime.
None of them had made her feel like she'd suddenly forgotten how to regulate her own breathing.