Chapter 7 #2
Libby hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable with her previous assumptions about him. "I... had the impression you preferred controlled narratives in media coverage."
"I prefer accurate coverage," Liam corrected. "Whether it's favorable is secondary to whether it's true." He paused. "Your analysis has been critical but factually sound. I respect that."
Before Libby could process this unexpected assessment, Chase poked his head in.
"Sorry to interrupt what I'm sure is a fascinating get-to-know-your-fake-boyfriend conversation," he said cheerfully, "but Liam, Varlenko's doing an impromptu interview with Sports Center about last night's charity event and they're asking about you two."
Liam's jaw tightened. "Tell them no comment until after our official statement."
"I tried. He's... very excited about being right about you two 'making the love connection.'" Chase grimaced. "His words."
"I'll handle Varlenko," Liam said, then turned to Libby. "The photo session is at noon. I'll see you there."
"Try not to let him declare his undying love for our romance on live television," Libby said.
"No promises," Liam replied, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
As he left with Chase, Libby remained seated, trying to reconcile this Liam—the one with unexpected dry humor and principled boundaries—with the cold, privileged heir she'd constructed in her mind. The contradiction was... professionally interesting, she told herself firmly. Nothing more.
"Tilt your head slightly toward him," instructed the photographer, a professional the PR team had hired for official couple photos. "Liam, put your hand at her waist—no, lower. Like you've done it a thousand times."
Libby fought to keep her expression relaxed as Liam's hand settled lightly at the small of her back.
They stood outside the practice facility entrance, positioned for what Mariska had described as "casual arrival photos" but was in fact an elaborately staged production with lighting equipment and multiple camera angles.
"Now look at each other like you can't believe how lucky you are," the photographer continued.
"Is there a less... rom-com version of this we could try?" Libby asked through her fixed smile.
"You're a hockey player and a journalist who fell in love despite your opposing roles," the photographer said, as if explaining to children. "It's literally a rom-com."
Liam, surprisingly, came to her rescue. "We prefer a more subtle approach," he said in that tone that somehow managed to be perfectly polite yet definitively final. "Perhaps something that focuses on our mutual respect rather than... whatever this is."
The photographer looked between them, clearly frustrated but unwilling to argue with the team's star player. "Fine. Stand together reviewing these game stats. Professional with a hint of personal connection."
This pose felt infinitely more natural. Libby accepted the tablet with publicly available team statistics, and Liam leaned in slightly, his attention on the screen as if they were discussing strategy. The proximity was still intimate, but contextualized in a way that felt less performative.
"That's actually good," the photographer admitted, snapping rapidly. "The professional connection reads as authentic."
Because it is, Libby realized. Whatever else was fabricated in this bizarre situation, their mutual respect for hockey analysis was genuine.
When Liam pointed to a particular stat on the screen and made a quiet comment about defensive zone coverage that was actually insightful, she found herself responding naturally, forgetting momentarily that they were posing.
"Perfect," the photographer said. "That's the money shot right there."
Mariska approached, looking pleased. "These will accompany the statement we're releasing at noon.
The narrative is simple—you connected over hockey analysis, kept things private while you navigated the professional boundaries, and decided to acknowledge the relationship after last night's photo made discretion impossible. "
"Sounds plausible," Libby said, stepping slightly away from Liam now that the photos were complete.
"It should," Mariska replied with a satisfied nod. "We'll have these ready for the noon release."
Liam checked his watch. "I have practice after this, then need to review tape before the team meal. Portland's made adjustments to their forecheck."
"Go," Mariska said. "We have what we need here."
As Liam headed inside, Mariska turned to Libby. "You'll need to be at the team dinner tonight. It's the first event where you'll appear as a couple."
"Right," Libby said, the reality of the situation hitting her again. "What time?"
"Liam will text you the details," Mariska said with a handwave. "Couples usually coordinate these things directly."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of notifications and reactions as the statement was released.
Libby's phone nearly exploded with messages from friends, family, and journalists.
Her mother called seven times in the span of ten minutes until Libby finally answered, holding the phone at arm's length to protect her eardrums.
"My daughter is dating Liam D'ARCY!" Linda Bennet-Cross's voice carried so clearly that several passing staff members turned to stare. "I knew something was happening! The way you wrote about him was too passionate to be purely professional!"
"Mom," Libby hissed, ducking into an empty office. "It's not what you think. It's a... complicated situation."
"Of course it is, sweetheart! You're a journalist covering his team! So romantic! So forbidden! And after that incredible donation last night—a hundred thousand dollars! Your father nearly fainted!"
"That was—Mom, please don't tell people about the donation amount," Libby pleaded, mortified.
"You can't blame a mother for being proud!
" Linda continued. "And here I thought you were completely hopeless with men!
All those years of you hiding behind hockey statistics instead of dating, and now you land Liam D'Arcy!
Your father said I shouldn't have given up hope after that disaster with that man from college—what was his name?
The one who said you cared more about sports than him? "
"I have to go, Mom. Press conference. Love you. Bye." Libby hung up, dropping her head into her hands.
"Family approval acquired?"
She looked up to find Jane in the doorway, amusement dancing in her eyes.
"Mom is already planning the wedding. I'm surprised she hasn't called Vera Wang yet."
Jane sat beside her. "Well, at least someone's excited about your new relationship."
"It's not a relationship," Libby insisted. "It's a PR strategy with an expiration date."
"Mmm," Jane hummed noncommittally. "And how are you feeling about your non-relationship partner?"
"Professionally reassessing," Libby admitted. "He's... not exactly what I expected."
"You mean he's not the entitled, manipulative heir using family connections to control the team?" Jane asked with uncharacteristic directness.
Libby winced. "You read my articles."
"And I know where those impressions came from," Jane added. "Gray Wickham isn't the most reliable source, Lib."
"I'm beginning to realize that," Libby said quietly. "But Liam did use his position to block that trade his uncle wanted."
"According to Chase," Jane said, lowering her voice, "that trade would have sacrificed team chemistry for financial reasons.
Uncle Robert apparently wanted to move two promising young players for an aging veteran with a favorable contract structure.
Chase says Liam fought it because it hurt the team's competitive future, not because of any personal power play. "
"And you trust Chase's take on this?" Libby asked.
Jane nodded. "He's been with the organization long enough to know the dynamics. Plus, he was in some of those meetings."
Libby digested this information, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with how quickly she'd accepted Wickham's narrative. Before she could respond, her phone chimed with a text.
Liam
Film room at 4:30 if you want to arrive at dinner together. I'll be reviewing Portland tape—you're welcome to join if interested.
Jane read the message over her shoulder and laughed. "His texts are so formal. It's like getting a business memo."
"At least he's consistent," Libby said, oddly charmed by the formality. She typed back:
Libby
I'll be there. Hope you don't mind if I watch—I promise not to distract you from playoff prep.
The response came quickly:
Liam
Your analysis is never a distraction.
"Oh my god," Jane said, still reading over her shoulder. "Did Liam D'Arcy just flirt via text?"
"It's not flirting, it's professional respect," Libby protested, ignoring the warmth spreading through her chest.
"Of course," Jane said with a smile that suggested she didn't believe that for a second.
The film room was darker than Libby expected, lit primarily by the massive screen displaying frozen game footage.
Liam sat alone at the control station, surrounded by tablets, notebooks, and what appeared to be hand-drawn play diagrams. He was still in his practice gear—Steel-branded athletic shorts and a t-shirt—his hair damp from a post-practice shower.
Libby paused in the doorway, struck by how different he looked in athletic wear. She'd only ever seen him in suits or game-day attire. Like this, muttering under his breath while aggressively jabbing at the replay button, he seemed younger, less intimidating—almost normal.
"You can come in," he said without turning around. "Unless you prefer observing from the hallway."
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, entering the room.
"You're the only person I told security to let in," he replied, still focused on the screen.
She tried to ignore the warm flutter his words caused—that he'd specifically arranged for her access. She settled into the chair beside him, noting the legal pad covered in his surprisingly messy handwriting.