Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Libby paused at the doorway of the physical therapy room, spotting Jane working with a player. She knocked lightly on the doorframe.
"Sorry to interrupt. I need to ask about the spare key to your apartment, but I can come back later."
Jane looked up with a smile. "It's okay, Lib. We're almost done." She turned to the defenseman on the treatment table. "Jensen, do you mind if my sister waits here while we finish? She's Libby from the Herald."
Jensen glanced over and gave her a teasing wink. "The one who wrote that piece on our defensive zone coverage? Yeah, no problem, Ms. Jane."
"Thanks," Libby said, staying near the door. "I'll just wait quietly."
She entered and found a chair in the corner, putting away her press credentials and pulling out her personal notebook rather than her work one.
From her position, she couldn't help but admire the way Jane guided the defenseman's injured shoulder through a series of precise movements.
Jane's hands were gentle but confident, her voice calm as she explained each exercise.
"That's it, Jensen. Hold for five, then release slowly. The muscle memory is building, even if you can't feel it yet."
The defenseman—six-foot-four of tattoos and missing teeth—followed her instructions with the obedience of a kindergartner. Jane had that effect on people. There was something in her quiet competence that inspired trust, even from men who body-checked opponents for a living.
Libby glanced down at her notes while she waited.
Three days into her Boston assignment, and she was already developing a rhythm—morning practice observations, player interviews, strategy analysis for the afternoon edition.
Her first three articles had been well-received, with Reid noting that her coverage was bringing "fresh perspective" to their playoff reporting.
The door opened, and Chase Bingley entered, his assistant coach credentials hanging around his neck. His sandy hair was slightly rumpled, as if he'd been running his hands through it while watching game tape.
"Jane, do you have the progression report for—" He stopped mid-sentence, noticing Libby. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."
"Not interrupting," Jane replied, her voice maintaining its professional tone though Libby didn't miss the slight color rising in her cheeks. "Jensen's almost finished, then I can get you those reports."
"No rush," Chase said, his easy smile warming the room. "Jensen, looking good. Coach wants you in walk-through at eleven if Jane says you're cleared."
"He's cleared for non-contact only," Jane said firmly. "Another three days before we test that shoulder against actual pressure."
Chase nodded without question. "Whatever you say, boss. Your expertise hasn't steered us wrong yet."
The simple deference to her sister's professional judgment made Libby like Chase immediately. Too many coaches viewed medical staff as obstacles rather than partners.
"I'll grab coffee while you finish up," Chase continued, his gaze lingering on Jane for a moment longer than necessary. "Can I bring you anything? Black with one sugar, right?"
Jane looked up from her work, genuine surprise crossing her features. "You remembered that?"
"Of course," Chase replied as if it were obvious. "Libby? Coffee?"
"I've reached my daily maximum of liquid anxiety, but thanks," Libby said, watching the interaction with undisguised interest.
As Chase left, Jensen caught Jane's eye with a knowing grin. "Coach Bingley sure remembers a lot about your coffee preferences, Ms. Jane."
"Focus on your rotator cuff, Jensen, not my caffeine habits," Jane replied, but her small smile betrayed her.
After finishing, Jane joined Libby, her professional composure returning despite the lingering warmth in her expression.
"So," Libby began, "that was subtle. 'Whatever you say, boss.' I'm surprised he didn't just hand you his heart in a medical cooler."
"We're colleagues," Jane insisted, though her blush deepened. "He respects my professional opinion."
"Mmhmm. And remembers exactly how you take your coffee, which is purely professional interest."
Jane busied herself with her tablet, avoiding Libby's gaze. "Chase is thoughtful with everyone. It's just who he is."
"And the fact that he looks at you like you hung the moon is also just his general demeanor?"
"It's still just professional," Jane insisted, finally meeting Libby's eyes. "We haven't had any more coffee meetings since those two I told you about."
"Of course," Libby nodded solemnly. "Very important to discuss ankle sprains over cappuccinos. Practically medical requirement."
"It's complicated, Lib. He's coaching staff, I'm medical. There are professional boundaries."
Libby softened, recognizing her sister's concern. "The best relationships usually start with mutual professional respect. And he seems to genuinely value your expertise, which puts him miles ahead of most men in sports."
Jane's expression turned thoughtful. "He's different from what I expected.
When I first met him, I assumed he'd be like most assistant coaches—focused solely on getting players back before they're ready.
But he actually prioritizes their long-term health.
" She hesitated. "Chase told me that Liam was the one who fought for medical staff to have final clearance authority on player returns.
He stood up to several owners who wanted coaches making those decisions. "
"Liam D'Arcy?" Libby couldn't keep the skepticism from her voice. "The same guy who can barely manage three words in a press conference actually fought for medical staff? Next you'll tell me he personally polishes everyone's skates."
"I'm just telling you what I've observed," Jane said carefully. "I've worked with him for three seasons now. He's reserved, yes, but he's always treated the support staff with respect."
"Let's just say I have reason to believe his family connections have benefited his career in ways beyond just getting drafted," Libby replied vaguely. "The whole 'hardworking team player' thing might be more image than reality."
"Lib," Jane said gently, "what exactly have you heard?"
"Jane," Libby said, deflecting the question, "I love that you see the best in everyone. It's one of your best qualities. But you're not in the press conferences or locker room scrums. You don't see how he shuts down legitimate questions or treats reporters like they're beneath him."
"You know what happened with his sister," Jane said quietly. "You can't blame him for being protective."
"One bad journalist doesn't make all media evil," Libby countered. "He plays professional hockey for a team his family owns. Media attention comes with the territory whether he trusts us or not."
Jane seemed about to say more but was interrupted by Chase's return, bearing two coffee cups. "One black with one sugar," he announced, handing it to Jane with a smile that could have powered the entire arena.
"Thank you," Jane said, accepting the cup with a matching smile that made Libby feel suddenly intrusive.
"I should head to the press area," Libby said, gathering her things. "Team practice starts soon."
"Actually," Chase said, "if you're interested in something a bit different for your coverage, Liam is running a skills session with some of the rookies before main practice. It's not usually open to media, but..." he shrugged, "might give you a different perspective."
Libby's journalistic instincts immediately sharpened. Exclusive access to an area typically closed to reporters? That was gold, regardless of her opinion of Liam D'Arcy.
"Where?" she asked, already standing.
"Auxiliary rink," Chase replied. "Through the double doors at the end of the main corridor, then left."
"Thanks," Libby said, giving Jane a significant look that clearly communicated ‘we'll discuss your coffee date later.’ "I'll catch up with you after practice."
As she navigated the now-familiar corridors of the Steel facility, Libby mentally reviewed what she'd learned about Liam D'Arcy so far: cold with media, supposedly manipulative with management, yet respected by veterans and apparently advocating for medical staff.
The contradictions were mounting. Perhaps this behind-the-scenes glimpse would reveal which version was closer to reality.
The auxiliary rink was smaller than the main ice, designed for specialized training rather than full team practices. Libby slipped quietly through the doors, finding a spot in the shadows of the empty stands where she could observe without being immediately noticed.
On the ice, Liam D'Arcy was working with three younger players, his practice jersey lacking the name and number that would identify him to casual observers—not that anyone could mistake him.
He moved with that same controlled precision she'd observed during games, but there was something different about his demeanor here—more animated, less guarded.
"Morrison," he called to a young forward with a distinctive gold chain visible at his neck beneath his practice jersey, "you're telegraphing your shot. Watch your shoulder position." He demonstrated the correction, then passed the puck. "Try again."
The rookie adjusted his stance and fired, the puck finding the top corner of the net.
"Better," Liam nodded. "Much better. Now do it fifty more times until your body can't remember the wrong way."
Libby was struck by the absence of his usual terseness.
His instructions were clear and specific, his feedback immediate.
When another rookie struggled with the timing on a complex set play they were implementing for the playoffs, Liam spent five minutes breaking down the sequence, demonstrating the precise positioning and weight transfer needed to execute it against elite defensemen.
He walked through each step with patient repetition until the young player finally executed it correctly.