Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
"You look like you're waiting for a firing squad," Jane whispered, sliding into the chair beside her. "It's a PR strategy meeting, not an execution."
"Easy for you to say," Libby muttered. "Your career isn't about to become a punchline."
After a night of fitful sleep punctuated by anxiety dreams involving casino chips multiplying exponentially and her dress falling off during a press conference, Libby had arrived early, determined to approach this disaster with whatever professional dignity she could salvage.
Reid had been surprisingly understanding during their late-night call—too understanding, actually, his barely suppressed amusement suggesting he saw the viral situation as a circulation boost rather than an ethical quandary.
"You're getting unprecedented access to the organization during playoffs," he'd said. "Just maintain your journalistic standards and disclose the arrangement in your coverage. This could be career-making."
Or career-ending, Libby thought darkly as the conference room door opened.
Liam entered, his appearance so immaculate it was frankly offensive for this early hour.
His charcoal suit fit perfectly, his tie precisely knotted, his expression neutral despite what had to be an equally sleepless night.
The only evidence of last night's chaos was a slight tension in his jaw when their eyes met briefly.
He gave her a slight nod, as if they were merely colleagues at a routine meeting rather than co-conspirators in an absurd charade that had started with her hundred-thousand-dollar mistake.
"Good morning, everyone," Mariska said, taking control of the room with practiced ease. "Let's get right to it. The photo situation has evolved significantly overnight."
She tapped her tablet, and the wall screen displayed Kate's leaked photo.
"The image has been shared over 50,000 times," Mariska continued. "We're trending across all platforms. Major sports outlets are running with the story, and—" she swiped to a new screen "—Good Morning America has requested an interview."
"Absolutely not," Liam and Libby said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprised alignment.
"That's... actually helpful," Mariska said, making a note. "United front. We can work with that."
Chase, who had slipped in behind Liam, couldn't quite suppress his grin. "The team group chat has been particularly entertaining this morning."
"Wonderful," Liam said dryly.
Mariska proceeded to lay out the situation with brutal efficiency, backed by PowerPoint slides that might have been prepared for a corporate merger rather than a fake relationship strategy. There were actual pie charts analyzing public sentiment and bar graphs showing media coverage spikes.
"Our implementation strategy is ready," she concluded. "We've drafted the statement confirming your relationship, emphasizing that you kept it private while navigating professional boundaries. The photo release forced your hand, making discretion impossible."
She clicked to the next slide, which featured a timeline of planned appearances and social media strategy.
"The key is minimal but strategic visibility. We transform last night's potential scandal into a controlled narrative—you're professionals who fell for each other despite the complications. We request privacy during playoffs while giving just enough content to satisfy public curiosity."
Libby couldn't help noticing how Liam had fixed his gaze on the presentation with the same intensity she'd seen him study game footage. Even though they'd agreed to this last night, seeing it laid out so clinically made it feel more real—and more daunting.
"Before we proceed," Liam said, his voice measured, "I want to be clear that Ms. Bennet-Cross's professional standing is the priority here. If this arrangement would damage her journalistic credibility, we need a different approach."
The statement caught Libby by surprise. She'd assumed his primary concern would be team disruption or his own privacy, especially given his notorious wariness of journalists.
"I've spoken with my editor," she said, finding her voice. "With proper disclosure and maintained editorial independence, the Herald is... surprisingly comfortable with the situation."
"More than comfortable," added the organization's communications director, consulting his phone. "Reid called this morning. Their online traffic is up 40% since last night. The combination of the charitable donation story and the romance angle is gold."
"Glad my ethical crisis is good for business," Libby muttered.
"If we're proceeding," Liam said, ignoring the comment, "we need clear parameters. Timeline, expectations, public appearances, media engagement. Everything documented and agreed upon."
Mariska nodded approvingly. "Exactly what we've prepared." She distributed tablets with what appeared to be actual contracts. "Our suggested arrangement in detail. Please review while we give you some privacy to discuss."
As the PR team filed out, an uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Jane squeezed Libby's hand before following Chase out, leaving her alone with Liam.
For a moment, neither spoke, both pretending to study the documents before them. Libby finally broke first.
"This is officially the strangest day of my life," she said. "And that's including the time I accidentally bet a hundred thousand dollars I don't have."
A hint of amusement flickered across Liam's face. "It's certainly been... memorable."
"I'm never drinking champagne again," Libby replied.
"I want to apologize," Liam said, shifting the conversation. "This situation puts your professional reputation at risk. That was never my intention."
"Unless you secretly control charity casino odds and dress straps, I don't think either of us planned this," Libby said. She hesitated, then added, "Though I'm surprised you're willing to participate in this... charade. It doesn't seem aligned with your usual approach to media management."
"You didn't ask to be dragged into Kate's schemes," Liam replied. "This arrangement at least gives us some control over the narrative instead of letting her orchestrate the chaos."
"Very logical," Libby observed.
Something shifted in his expression. "Is there another way to approach problems?"
"Sometimes people just react emotionally without calculating all possible outcomes," she said. "It's a whole alternative decision-making system. Chaotic but authentic."
"Sounds inefficient."
"Oh, incredibly," Libby agreed, finding herself almost smiling. "But occasionally it leads to surprising results."
Liam studied her for a moment. "Like accidentally gambling away an entire years' salary?"
Libby snorted. “Try three years. That was pure anxiety manifesting as false confidence," she admitted quietly.
"Everyone there belonged—the diamonds, the designer gowns, people throwing around money like it was nothing.
And I was wearing my sister's dress, pretending I understood the rules, trying not to look like the small-town reporter who had no business being there.
" She paused, surprised by her own honesty.
"The champagne just made it easier to pretend I belonged. "
Liam was quiet for a moment. "You think belonging with that crowd is something to aspire to?
" His voice was unexpectedly gentle. "Most of them were there to be seen, not to help.
You were there doing your job, asking real questions, caring about the actual cause.
You don't need to pretend to be like them. "
Before she could analyze it further, Mariska returned with the full PR team.
"Have you had a chance to review the agreement?" she asked.
"Yes," Liam said smoothly. "We have a few adjustments."
"We do?" Libby asked.
"No one reviews her coverage before publication," Liam continued as if she hadn't spoken. "No previews, no suggested edits, no attempts to influence her analysis."
Mariska frowned. "That's not standard protocol for—"
"It's non-negotiable," Liam interrupted. "Her professional integrity is paramount to this arrangement."
Libby stared at him, genuinely surprised. He was advocating for her journalistic independence more forcefully than she had been prepared to.
"Additionally," he continued, "we'll need clear boundaries on public appearances. Two team events maximum, one game where we're seen together. Everything else is off-limits."
"That's... quite minimal," Mariska said cautiously.
"It's what works for our schedules," Liam replied. "Ms. Bennet-Cross has a job to do covering the team, and I have a playoff series to focus on."
"And social media?" Mariska pressed.
"Two posts per week, subject to mutual approval," Liam said. "No candid photos, no surprise content."
Libby finally found her voice. "I'd also like to add that any joint interviews must focus on hockey, not personal details. And we retain veto power over questions."
Mariska looked between them, clearly recalculating her strategy. "These are... unusually specific boundaries for a couple presenting themselves as genuinely dating."
"We're private people," Liam said simply.
"Very private," Libby agreed, fighting the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
After another thirty minutes of negotiations that felt more like a collective bargaining agreement than a dating arrangement, they finally reached terms everyone could accept.
Mariska departed to draft the official statement, leaving Libby and Liam to prepare for their first "official" appearance together—a photo opportunity before Liam's afternoon practice.
"That was... surprisingly collaborative," Libby said when they were alone again.
"Teamwork," Liam replied with a hint of dry humor. "Essential in both hockey and fake relationships."
"Well, thank you for advocating for my editorial independence. I wouldn't have expected that."
"Why not?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.