Chapter 4 #3
After they exchanged numbers, Wickham stood, offering his hand to help her up—another unnecessary touch she pretended not to notice.
"Let me show you that shortcut to the media center," he said. "And Libby? Next time you're covering a game in Portland, dinner's on me. Somewhere without towel carts, I promise."
The invitation was unmistakably personal. "I'll consider it."
"Do," he said, guiding her through the facility with a hand at the small of her back. "I give exclusive interviews to my favorite journalists."
As promised, his directions to the media center were perfect. Before leaving, he caught her elbow gently.
"Whatever D'Arcy's media game is tomorrow, don't let him intimidate you. You're too talented for their usual tricks." He winked. "Trust me, you've got something most reporters covering this beat don't—actual spine."
As she navigated the final corridor toward the exit, her mind buzzing with Wickham’s revelations, she nearly collided with a solid wall of muscle coming around the corner.
Liam D’Arcy.
He was in his suit now, looking every inch the corporate heir Wickham had described. His eyes flicked to the coffee cup in her hand—the one Wickham had bought her—and his expression tightened imperceptibly.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross."
“Mr. D’Arcy.” She adjusted her bag, feeling strangely defensive.
"I saw you with Wickham." His voice was low, lacking the usual indifference he showed the press. "Be careful with him. He has a way of spinning history to suit his current needs."
Libby bristled. It felt exactly like the controlling behavior Wickham had warned her about. "He seems to think everyone deserves a second chance. That doesn't seem like such a terrible philosophy."
Liam went very still. The air between them cooled instantly, the temperature dropping ten degrees.
"Mistakes deserve second chances, Libby. Betrayal doesn't." His green eyes were hard, unflinching. "Once my trust is broken, it doesn't grow back. It's gone."
He stepped around her without another word, leaving her standing in the hallway with a chill that had nothing to do with the rink's air conditioning.
Back at her hotel, Libby opened her laptop to write her article. The blank page stared back at her, cursor blinking accusingly.
She had material—the game, the team dynamics she'd observed, even some color from her unintended behind-the-scenes tour.
But now every observation was filtered through multiple lenses: Wickham's warnings, Liam's uncomfortable media presence, her own visceral reaction to seeing him in that treatment room.
That last part she pushed firmly from her mind. It was simply surprise at the unexpected situation. Nothing more.
Steel center Liam D'Arcy, heir to the franchise his family has owned for three generations, continues to demonstrate the technical precision that has defined his career.
His on-ice performance remains statistically impressive, though questions persist about his leadership approach and team dynamics as the Steel advance through increasingly challenging playoff rounds.
She paused, rereading the paragraph. It wasn't overtly critical, but the wording emphasized his inherited position and hinted at underlying tensions. Was that fair journalism or was she letting Wickham's account color her coverage?
Then she remembered those Portland players' comments, the dismissive "robot routine" remarks, his own admission that he didn't "perform" for reporters. If multiple sources suggested the same narrative, didn't that indicate credibility?
She filed the story just before midnight, exhausted but oddly energized. Tomorrow she'd approach Liam D'Arcy directly, ask the questions others apparently didn't dare raise. If he was the controlling heir Wickham described, she'd find evidence. If not, she'd report that too.
Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown
Hope you recovered from your towel adventure. Looking forward to that dinner - GW
Despite herself, Libby smiled. Then another text arrived, this one from Jane.
Jane
Saw your article. Interesting angle…
Libby
Not here to make friends
Jane
Clearly lol
Libby set the phone aside. Tomorrow would bring more questions, more observations, more attempts to understand the puzzle that was Liam D'Arcy. Tonight, she needed sleep.
But as she drifted off, her traitorous mind kept returning to those few moments in the treatment room—water droplets on skin, the controlled power in his movements, that rough-edged voice that seemed to resonate somewhere deep in her chest.
Pure professional observation, she told herself firmly.
Nothing more.
Liam D'Arcy's morning routine never varied, regardless of game schedules or travel demands.
Five-thirty alarm. Protein shake. Forty-five minutes of focused conditioning.
Shower. Breakfast—always the same carefully measured portions of eggs, oatmeal, and fruit.
News review. By seven-fifteen, he was at the training facility, typically the first player to arrive.
This morning, however, he added one element to his routine: reading the Herald's newest reporter's first article.
He'd noticed her at practice yesterday—hard not to.
Where the regular hockey reporters blended into a familiar, predictable mass, she stood out.
Something about the way she observed, the intensity of her focus.
When he'd glanced up at the media viewing area, she hadn't immediately looked away like most new reporters did when caught watching.
She'd held his gaze with a directness that was… unexpected.
Liam scrolled through the article on his phone, his expression remaining neutral even as he noted the subtle implications in her coverage.
The repeated mentions of his family connection, the questioning of team chemistry, and the faint suggestion that his performance was somehow less earned than his teammates'.
It wasn't overt criticism—that would have been easier to dismiss. This was skillfully crafted doubt, wrapped in technically accurate reporting.
His jaw tightened. He'd faced media skepticism his entire career, weathered the whispers about nepotism and privilege since his first day in the league.
He'd answered with performance—with points, with championships, with a work ethic no one could question.
Yet here was another voice suggesting he hadn't earned his position, that his success came from his last name rather than his dedication.
The phone chimed with a text from Varlenko:
Andre Varlenko
Pretty new reporter has claws. She single?
Liam
Focus on your own game and you’ll be fine
Andre Varlenko
Touchy. Maybe if you smiled once she'd write nicer things. Or is smiling extra charge for D'Arcy?
Liam didn't bother responding. Varlenko's needling was as predictable as his slap shot—hard, direct, and usually effective at getting under people's skin.
He set the phone down and finished his breakfast methodically, compartmentalizing his reaction to the article. The playoffs demanded complete concentration; media distractions were simply another obstacle to manage, like an opposing defense or a hostile crowd.
Still, as he drove to the facility, Liam found himself wondering about Libby Bennet-Cross.
Her analysis of their power play structure had been surprisingly insightful for someone new to their coverage.
If she hadn't included those subtle digs about his position, he might actually have respected her hockey knowledge.
He pulled into his reserved parking space, noting that he was still the first player to arrive despite his detour into media analysis. The facility was quiet at this hour, just maintenance staff and early-arriving trainers.
"Morning, Mr. D'Arcy," called Ed, the maintenance supervisor, currently checking the ice equipment.
"Morning, Ed," Liam replied, remembering to ask, "How's Michael's college applications going?"
Ed's face brightened. "Got into his first choice! That recommendation from the foundation really helped. We can't thank you enough."
Liam nodded, uncomfortable as always with gratitude for what he considered basic decency. The D'Arcy Foundation's scholarship program was the least they could do for loyal employees.
"He earned it," he said simply. "Congratulations to him."
In the locker room, Liam changed into his training gear quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. The early-morning ice was his sanctuary—no coaches, no teammates, no media. Just the clean surface and the meditative rhythm of drills.
As he laced his skates, he thought again of the article. Someone had been talking to her—probably multiple someones, given the specific angle she'd chosen. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who one of those sources might be.
Gray Wickham had been in the building yesterday for the game. And Wickham never missed an opportunity to spin his version of history to sympathetic ears.
Liam pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Georgia's security team, got an immediate confirmation. His sister didn't need any surprise encounters, not after everything she'd been through.
With that handled, Liam pushed the thought aside as he stepped onto the ice. Whatever narrative Ms. Bennet-Cross was constructing, he'd answer it the only way he knew how—with performance, with victory, with the quiet excellence he'd spent his career perfecting.
The ice was perfect at this hour, unmarked and pristine. Liam began his routine—edges, crossovers, acceleration drills—losing himself in the familiar rhythm. This was where everything made sense, where effort translated directly to results, where he didn't have to explain or defend his presence.
He didn't need the media's approval or understanding. He needed to win games, lead his team, honor the legacy his family had built.
If Libby Bennet-Cross wanted to see him as just another entitled heir coasting on family connections, that was her prerogative. He'd faced worse misconceptions and survived.
But as he executed a particularly sharp turn, sending ice spray into the air, Liam couldn't quite shake the image of those direct, challenging eyes that had met his across the practice facility.
Maybe Ms. Bennet-Cross would prove different from the others—willing to look beyond the narrative she'd been fed.
Or maybe she'd just be another reporter who saw what she expected to see.
Time would tell.
He increased his speed, focusing on the ice ahead rather than the media storm behind.