Chapter 3 #2
The sound of his blades cutting ice carried differently here, sharp and authoritative.
He moved with an economy of motion that was mesmerizing to watch, but it was more than that.
There was a contained violence in his grace, power held in perfect check.
Where other players attacked the ice with aggressive energy, he commanded it, each stride purposeful and controlled.
The space around him seemed to bend to his presence, other players instinctively adjusting their paths to accommodate his.
Professional observation, she told herself firmly. You're noting details for your coverage.
As if sensing her gaze, he looked up toward the media viewing area.
For a brief moment, their eyes met through the glass, and Libby felt checked, pinned against the glass by nothing more than his attention.
His eyes were darker than she'd expected, intense in a way that made her stomach flip.
He held her gaze for perhaps two seconds before returning his attention to the drill, but those two seconds left Libby oddly unsettled and uncomfortably warm.
She forced herself to look away, to focus on her notebook, to write something—anything—that looked professional. Her handwriting came out shaky:
D'Arcy anchors first line with obvious authority.
Obvious authority. That was one way to describe whatever had just happened to her nervous system.
"—really quite thoughtful once you get past the media training," Jane was saying.
"Sorry, what?" Libby forced her attention back to her sister.
"Liam," Jane repeated with an amused smile. "I was saying he's more thoughtful than his interviews suggest. The whole stoic thing is mostly protection."
"Protection from what?"
Jane's expression grew serious. "His sister went through some difficult times with the media during her Olympic training. Figure skating. Liam tends to be… cautious about reporters now."
"Cautious meaning hostile?"
"Cautious meaning he doesn't trust easily," Jane clarified. "But he's fair. He won't give you anything extra, but he won't shut you out either if you do your job professionally."
Below them, practice had shifted into full gear.
Coach Taylor barked instructions while his assistants—including Chase Bingley, whom Libby recognized from Jane's occasional mentions—worked with specific position groups.
The pace was intense, playoff-focused, with none of the relaxed atmosphere she'd observed in Springfield.
Liam anchored the first line, his passes finding teammates with surgical precision. He called plays with subtle hand signals and stick taps, a private language that his linemates read instantly. This wasn't nepotism or inherited position—this was earned leadership.
"He's really quite good," she said, more to herself than to Jane.
"He works hard," Jane said simply. "First one in for training, last to leave. Always polite to staff, remembers people's names. Some of the guys can be…" she paused diplomatically, "demanding. Liam never is."
"Sounds like you like him," Libby observed, watching as Liam set up what looked like a perfect scoring chance.
Jane's cheeks pinked slightly. "Chase speaks very highly of him. They're close friends, and Chase says Liam is nothing like his media image suggests."
"Ladies," a voice interrupted, drawing their attention to a well-dressed man in his fifties approaching with a professional smile. "Ms. Bennet-Cross, I presume? Sully Reid, sports editor."
"Mr. Reid," Libby said, shaking his offered hand. "Thank you for the opportunity."
"Thank you for being available on short notice," he replied. "Jackson's still basically living in his bathroom, so we're grateful you could step in. I've been reviewing your recent coverage—sharp analysis."
"I've been following the Steel all season," Libby said. “Lifelong fan. I’m ready to jump right in."
"Excellent. Press conference starts in about an hour. Coach Taylor first, then a few players. Should give you a good feel for the routine." Reid checked his watch. "I'll leave you to observe practice. Any questions, find me."
As Reid departed, Libby became aware of voices behind her—the same group of reporters who'd been discussing her earlier.
"—needed her sister to get her through security, apparently."
"The nepotism is even worse than I thought. Family connections at every level."
"Wonder if she'll ask D'Arcy about his skincare routine. That beard tweet was basically a beauty blog post."
"Ten bucks says she brings up 'toxic masculinity' in the press conference."
"Twenty says she doesn't last the week once playoff intensity really kicks in."
This time, Libby didn't suppress her reaction. She turned to face the group, her expression carefully neutral but her voice carrying the authority she'd spent years cultivating.
"Excuse me," she said pleasantly, causing all three men to look at her with varying degrees of discomfort. "I couldn't help but overhear your analysis of my hiring. I'm curious—do you think the Herald's circulation has suffered from their apparent commitment to diversity over qualification?"
The oldest of the three, a man whose expensive suit couldn't quite hide his expanding waistline, looked uncomfortable. "We were just—"
"Because based on their recent coverage," Libby continued smoothly, "their readership has actually increased by twelve percent since Reid took over.
Which suggests that maybe, just maybe, they're making hiring decisions based on competence rather than demographics.
But what do I know? I'm just a small-market blogger who somehow managed to get hired by one of New England's most respected sports publications. "
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Jane's barely suppressed laughter.
"I'm Libby Bennet-Cross," she said, extending her hand to the nearest reporter. "Looking forward to working with you all."
The handshakes that followed were reluctant but offered, and Libby could practically see the recalculation happening behind their eyes. She wasn't going to be the easy target they'd expected.
As the group dispersed, presumably to find new targets for their commentary, Jane grinned at her sister.
"That was impressive. Diplomatic but firm."
"Had to be. If they smell weakness, they'll never let me live it down." Libby shrugged. "Besides, I've been dealing with condescending sports bros since college. These ones just have better health insurance."
"Good strategy. Though you might want to save some of that fire for the actual press conference."
Libby nodded, her gaze returning to the ice where practice was winding down. Liam D'Arcy led his teammates through a final drill, his movements still crisp despite the workout's intensity. As the players began skating toward the exit, he glanced up at the media area once more.
This time, Libby didn't look away. Whatever game they were about to play—professional adversaries in the theater of sports journalism—she was ready for it. She'd spent too many years proving herself to be intimidated by expensive facilities or dismissive colleagues.
The Boston Steel might be out of her league in terms of budget and prestige, but hockey was hockey. Questions were questions. And despite what those reporters assumed, she knew the difference between a blue line and a goal line—along with about a thousand other things that might surprise them.
As the players disappeared into the locker room and the media began preparing for the press conference, Libby opened her notebook to a fresh page. Time to show Boston what real hockey analysis looked like.
She had questions to ask, and she suspected Liam D'Arcy was going to hate every single one of them.