Chapter 5 #3
"Different interesting," he said with a shrug. "D'Arcy actually gave you a real answer, which is practically a miracle. He usually treats press conferences like dental surgery—something to endure with minimal engagement."
"I noticed," Libby said dryly.
"Been covering him since his rookie year," Peterson continued. "Smart player, probably overthinks everything. Not exactly media-friendly, but he's consistent—says little, plays well, stays out of trouble." He paused. "Your coverage has a particular angle on him."
It wasn't a question, but the implication was clear. Libby chose her words carefully.
"I'm still forming my impressions."
"Mmm," Peterson nodded. "Well, word of advice from someone who's been around this team a while—D'Arcy's not as simple as he seems. Neither better nor worse, just..
. complicated." He gestured toward the exit where Liam was speaking quietly with a facility staff member, his expression animated in a way it never was with media.
"Might be worth looking beyond the obvious narrative. "
Before Libby could respond, Peterson moved away, leaving her to consider his words. The "obvious narrative" was exactly what Wickham had provided—privileged heir using family influence to control the team. But what she'd observed that morning in the skills session suggested something different.
She gathered her things, heading toward the media room to retrieve her bag.
The main corridor was crowded with players heading out, their post-practice routines complete.
As she rounded the corner to the narrower hallway leading to the media facilities, she found her path blocked by a group of players still in their post-shower team gear, discussing dinner plans.
Liam stood at the center of the group, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
The fitted Steel training shirt clung in ways that his usual suits never did, outlining the athletic build that professional hockey demanded.
Her traitorous mind supplied the memory of that build without the shirt—the locker room glimpse that had been seared into her brain despite her best efforts to forget it.
Varlenko was saying something about a steakhouse, while two other players debated the merits of Italian instead.
"Excuse me," Libby said, trying to edge past.
The group shifted, but four professional hockey players took up considerable space even in the facility's wide corridor. She turned sideways to slip through the gap they'd created, which brought her face-to-face with Liam, barely six inches between them.
Time seemed to slow. She could smell his soap—something clean and expensive—mixed with a scent that was uniquely him.
A drop of water from his still-damp hair had traced a path down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
His eyes, this close, were intensely green with darker flecks she'd never noticed from a distance.
They widened slightly at her proximity, his pupils dilating in a way that had nothing to do with the hallway's lighting.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.
The conversation around them became white noise as they stood frozen, caught in a moment of pure physical awareness.
Libby's heart hammered against her ribs, every nerve ending suddenly, blazingly alive.
She saw his throat work as he swallowed, saw his gaze drop—just for an instant—to her mouth before snapping back to her eyes.
Then she forced herself to move, sliding past him with a murmured "Sorry," her body brushing against his for one electric second. She didn't look back, but she heard Varlenko say something in Russian that made the other players laugh—something that sounded distinctly teasing.
Her hands were shaking slightly as she retrieved her bag, her skin still tingling from that brief contact. Professional, she reminded herself firmly. You are a professional covering a professional sports team. Nothing more.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Reid:
Sully Reid
Good work on today's coverage. Your analysis piece is getting social media traction. Keep pushing.
Attached was a screenshot of the Herald's website showing her latest article as the most-read sports story, with a comments section full of engaged discussion.
Sully Reid
Editorial meeting tomorrow morning. Be ready to pitch playoff series coverage ideas.
Professional validation felt good, especially after the initial dismissal from her press colleagues. Libby pocketed her phone with a small smile of satisfaction. Whatever the truth about Liam D'Arcy, her coverage was hitting the mark with readers.
As the media room emptied, Libby found herself alone with her notebook, weighing conflicting impressions. Liam with rookies versus Liam with media. Wickham's damning account versus Jane's positive assessment. The cold public figure versus the glimpses of something more complex beneath.
"Still working?"
Libby looked up to find Jane in the doorway, changed from her clinical gear into casual clothes.
"Just organizing notes," Libby replied. "Your boyfriend gives good tips, by the way. That skills session was illuminating."
"He's not my—" Jane began, then sighed. "Chase thought you might appreciate seeing a different side of the team."
"I did," Libby admitted. "Though I'm still processing what I saw."
Jane settled into the chair beside her. "Which was?"
"D'Arcy being actually human with the rookies. Patient, engaged, even remembering personal details about their families." She shook her head. "Completely different from his media persona."
"Maybe that suggests something about why he's different with media," Jane said gently.
"Or maybe he was putting on a show because he knew I was watching," Libby countered.
"He didn't know you'd be there," Jane pointed out. "Chase's suggestion was spontaneous."
Libby had to concede that point. "It doesn't align with what I've heard about him."
"From whom?" Jane asked.
Libby hesitated, journalistic instinct warring with sibling openness. "Sources," she finally said, which wasn't technically a lie.
Jane's expression turned knowing. "Lib, I've worked with this team for three seasons. Whatever your 'sources' have told you about Liam, I can promise you there's more to the story."
"You always think the best of everyone," Libby pointed out.
"And you always look for the catch," Jane replied without heat. "Sometimes people are exactly who they seem to be."
"Nobody is exactly who they seem to be," Libby countered. "Especially not in professional sports with million-dollar images to maintain."
Before Jane could respond, her phone chimed with a text. Her expression softened as she read it.
"Chase?" Libby guessed.
Jane's blush confirmed it. "He's asking if we're going to the charity casino night on Friday."
"The what now?"
"The team's annual fundraiser," Jane explained. "Black tie, silent auction, fake gambling for children's hospital donations. All staff and media are invited." Her expression turned pleading. "Please say you'll come. These events are always so awkward alone, and with you there—"
"You'd have an excuse to avoid acknowledging the obvious chemistry between you and Coach Bingley?" Libby finished for her.
"I'd have my sister to keep me company," Jane corrected primly. "Though your psychological assessment isn't entirely wrong."
Libby groaned internally. A formal charity event meant finding something appropriate to wear, navigating high-society social dynamics, and probably enduring more of Liam D'Arcy's cold demeanor. But Jane's hopeful expression was impossible to deny.
"Fine," she sighed. "But you're helping me find something to wear that doesn't scream 'small-market sports reporter who buys suits at Target.'"
Jane's smile was worth the impending social discomfort. "Deal. And who knows? Maybe you'll learn something interesting for your coverage."
"At a fake gambling event full of hockey players in tuxedos? What could possibly go wrong?" Libby's tone was skeptical, but a small part of her was intrigued by the opportunity to observe the team in yet another context.
If nothing else, seeing Liam D'Arcy in formal wear would be... professionally informative. Purely from a journalistic perspective, of course.
Liam found Chase in the video room after most of the team had departed, game footage from their previous Portland matchup playing on the oversized screen.
"You sent the Herald reporter to my skills session," he said without preamble.
Chase looked up, not bothering to deny it. "I did."
"Why?"
"Thought it might balance her perspective." Chase leaned forward. "She knows hockey, Liam. Really knows it. Mariska in PR says her coverage is already the second-most read source on the Steel in Boston, and she's been here less than a week."
Liam dropped into the chair beside his friend, eyes fixed on the screen rather than Chase's face. "It's not your job to manage my media image."
"No, it's your job, and you're terrible at it," Chase said with the blunt honesty of long friendship. "All those non-answers and deflections make you seem..."
"Professional?" Liam suggested.
"Robotic," Chase corrected. "Or worse, arrogant."
"I'm focused on winning, not being liked by reporters."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Chase pointed out. "And this particular reporter is actually writing substantive analysis."
Liam couldn't argue with that assessment. Libby Bennet-Cross's questions had demonstrated an understanding of the game few reporters bothered to develop. If her articles hadn't contained those subtle digs about his position and privilege, he might actually respect her work.
"Her sister's pretty great, by the way," Chase continued, a hint of color touching his cheeks.
"Jane," Liam nodded. "Best PT we've had. Players actually follow her recovery protocols instead of rushing back."