Chapter 4 #2
From her hiding spot, Libby found herself oddly fascinated by the dynamics.
His responses were terse to the point of rudeness, each answer clipped and minimal.
Every question seemed designed to needle him, to push for the reaction he clearly worked hard not to give.
Whether that control was arrogance or something else, she couldn't tell—but it certainly fit the image of someone who thought himself above media obligations.
"Same old robot routine," muttered a male voice near her cart.
"That's what happens when Daddy owns the team," another voice replied quietly. "Guy's never had to earn anything."
"Shut it, both of you," growled a passing veteran in a Portland jacket, his beard showing streaks of gray. "D'Arcy's put up more points against us than anyone in the conference. He's earned everything he's got. Save the trash talk for someone who doesn't make you look stupid on the ice."
The younger players fell silent, chastened by the rebuke. Libby mentally filed away both perspectives, her journalistic instincts still functioning despite her ridiculous position.
The corridor gradually emptied as media personnel dispersed and players headed to their buses. The staff member returned, grabbing Libby's cart handles again.
He wheeled her through another set of doors into what was clearly Portland's treatment area—teal and white colors everywhere, their anchor logo on the equipment. He positioned the cart against the wall and left, presumably his towel-delivery duties complete.
Libby was finally about to emerge when footsteps approached. She pressed back down into the towels, suppressing a frustrated groan.
The door opened, and Gray Wickham entered, his blonde hair still damp from the shower, now dressed in Portland Mariners travel attire. He moved toward the medical freezer, grabbing an ice pack for what was presumably a post-game ache.
As he turned to leave, he paused, noticing the fresh towel cart. He reached for one from the top of the pile, and that's when disaster struck.
The accumulated lint from Libby's extended hiding finally won. She sneezed—a small, muffled sound, but audible enough in the quiet room.
Wickham froze. "Hello?"
Libby held her breath, but it was too late. Wickham approached the cart cautiously, then pulled back the top layer of towels to reveal her mortified face.
"What the—" He jumped back, then his shocked expression transformed into something delighted. "Well, this is unexpected."
Libby emerged from the towels with as much dignity as she could muster, which wasn't much considering she was covered in lint and had just been discovered hiding in a laundry cart.
"I can explain," she began, brushing towels off herself.
"Please do," Wickham said, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Because finding an entire journalist in a towel cart is definitely a first."
"I got lost looking for the press room, ended up locked in your—in Boston's treatment room, and hid when players started coming in. Then I got wheeled here like some kind of investigative journalism luggage." She picked a piece of lint from her hair. "Not my finest professional moment."
Wickham laughed—a warm, genuine sound that somehow made the situation less mortifying.
"That's the most entertaining thing that's happened all week.
Certainly better than losing to Boston again.
" He stepped closer, reaching out to pluck a piece of towel fuzz from her shoulder, his fingers lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary.
"Though I have to say, you wear towel lint beautifully. "
Libby felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm Libby Bennet-Cross. Herald coverage. It's my first day on the beat."
"And already getting the most exclusive behind-the-scenes access," Wickham said, offering his hand. When she took it, he brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "Gray Wickham. And here I thought my evening was going to be boring."
"I should go," Libby said, aware of how inappropriate this all was. "Find the actual press room, do my actual job."
"Let me guess—you were trying to catch the D'Arcy show?" Wickham asked, leaning against the trainer's table with casual grace. "Can't blame you for choosing the towel cart instead. Probably more personality in those towels."
"I was actually trying to do my job," Libby said. "Got to observe from an... unique perspective."
"Observing D'Arcy's media routine is like watching paint dry," Wickham said. "All surface, no substance. Trust me, I know from experience."
Something in his tone caught her attention. "You played together?"
"Briefly." A shadow crossed his features before being replaced by that easy smile.
"Look, the team bus doesn't leave for an hour.
Let me buy you a coffee—compensation for the trauma of being transported around our facility like cargo.
Plus," he moved closer, close enough that she caught the scent of his expensive cologne, "I know a shortcut to the media center that doesn't involve any laundry carts. "
The offer was inappropriate but irresistibly tempting. "I probably shouldn't..."
"Probably not," he agreed cheerfully. "But the coffee shop is completely public, lots of people around.
And you did just survive a potentially career-ending towel cart incident.
I'd say you've earned some insider information.
" He smiled, the expression both charming and slightly dangerous.
"Besides, I give much better interviews than D'Arcy. "
Twenty minutes later, Libby found herself seated across from Gray Wickham in the facility's upscale coffee shop, trying to maintain professional distance despite his obvious flirtation.
"So you're the one who wrote that viral playoff beard roast," he said, stirring his latte. "That was brilliant."
"You saw that?"
"Half the league saw it on Twitter," he said with a grin. "Pretty savage for a beard joke." He leaned forward, his knee brushing hers under the small table. "Though I have to admit, it was accurate."
"I call it like I see it," Libby said, shifting slightly to break the contact, though he immediately found a way to restore it.
"Clearly," Wickham said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Most journalists covering this beat play it safe. You're different."
"You barely know me."
"I know you chose to hide in a towel cart rather than brazen out being in the wrong place," he said. "Shows good instincts. And you haven't tweeted about it yet for clicks. Shows integrity."
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers around her coffee cup. "Plus, anyone who can survive being wheeled around in a towel cart with their dignity intact has my respect."
"Easy there, Casanova," Libby said, pulling her hand back with a pointed look. "We just met, and I'm still covered in towel lint."
Wickham laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
"Sorry, sorry. Post-game adrenaline makes me forget boundaries.
Occupational hazard of being repeatedly slammed into plexiglass.
" He settled back in his chair with a self-deprecating grin.
"I promise to keep my hands to myself. Scout's honor. "
"Were you actually a boy scout?"
"God, no. Too many rules." His smile turned rueful. "Which might explain a few things about my career trajectory."
Libby found herself smiling despite her better judgment. "Speaking of your career—you mentioned you played for Boston?"
The warmth in his expression dimmed slightly. "Ancient history. Didn't work out."
"Professional differences?"
Wickham hesitated, tracing the rim of his cup. "You could say that." He glanced around, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Look, you seem honest, which is rare in this business. Can I tell you something off the record? Just for context?"
The journalistic alarm bells were deafening, but curiosity won out. "Of course."
"Liam D'Arcy and I came up through the system together," Wickham said, his voice carrying no bitterness, just what seemed like honest regret.
"We were actually friends, if you can believe it.
But when his father took full control of the team after his grandfather's death, things changed.
Liam started having more say in roster decisions than a player should. "
"That happens when the owner is your father," Libby observed.
"It's more than that," Wickham continued.
"Liam cultivates this image of the dedicated, serious player, but behind closed doors…
" He shook his head. "Let's just say if you don't worship at the altar of D'Arcy, your days are numbered.
Three teammates who questioned his leadership were traded within a month.
Another guy who dated a woman Liam was interested in found himself demoted to the minors. "
Libby's journalistic skepticism fought with the apparent sincerity in Wickham's expression. "That seems..."
"Extreme?" Wickham raised his hands. "I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't lived through it." He met her eyes directly. "But Liam has this way of making problems disappear when you have family money and connections."
Libby thought of Liam's tense shoulders during the interview, his obvious discomfort with personal questions. "He doesn't seem to enjoy the media attention."
"Because he can't control it completely," Wickham said.
"That's what bothers him—anything outside his narrative.
" He touched her hand again, warm concern in his brown eyes.
"Just be careful. The D'Arcy family has long memories and longer reaches.
One critical article and suddenly editors stop returning your calls. "
"I can take care of myself."
"I don't doubt it." His smile returned, warmer and definitely flirtatious. "In fact, I'm betting on you, Libby Bennet-Cross." He pulled out his phone. "Give me your number. For professional insights, of course."
"Of course," Libby echoed, knowing they both recognized the pretense.