Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
"So," Peterson from the Globe said, settling into the seat beside her with practiced casualness, "dating the subject of your coverage. That's... a choice."
The words hit like a slap. "The Herald has full disclosure protocols in place," she replied, her voice tighter than she intended.
"Disclosure protocols," Peterson repeated with a laugh that made her skin crawl. "Right. Must make the post-game interviews interesting though. Hard to ask tough questions when you're sharing a bed with the captain."
The words hung in the air like a slap. Every reporter within earshot suddenly became very interested in their laptops.
"That's—" Libby started, her face burning.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross?" Chase Bingley's voice interrupted from the aisle, his timing suspiciously perfect. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's an issue with your Portland media credential. Security needs you to sort it out before we land or you won't have rink access."
"Of course," Libby said, grateful for any excuse to escape. As she gathered her laptop, Peterson called after her.
"Some of us earn our access the traditional way," he said, just loud enough for nearby colleagues to hear.
Libby's cheeks burned, but she kept walking. Chase led her to the team section where Liam sat reviewing tablet footage, his jaw noticeably tight.
"There's no credential issue, is there?" Libby asked quietly as she sat down.
"No," Liam said, immediately setting his tablet aside to study her face. "But I could hear Peterson from here. Chase has excellent timing."
Chase grinned from his seat across the aisle. "I live to serve."
"What exactly did he say to you?" Liam asked, his voice deceptively calm.
"Just establishing professional boundaries," Libby replied with false lightness, not wanting to repeat Peterson's crude implications.
"Is that what he calls it?" Liam's thumb tapped against his thigh—the tell she'd noticed when he played cards. He was furious. "Peterson might find his own credential has some technical difficulties tomorrow. Strange how these glitches happen."
"For what it's worth," Liam said quietly, "Coach Taylor mentioned yesterday that your published power play analysis was the most insightful he'd read all season. That's not something you can fake."
The unexpected validation made her throat tight. "Thank you."
"Also," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "Peterson was suspended by the Globe two years ago for fabricating sources. They brought him back quietly, but the league knows. He's fishing for anything that could be twisted into scandal to rebuild his reputation."
"I didn't know that," Libby said, suddenly understanding Peterson's desperation for controversy.
"Most people don't. But it explains why he's so eager to imply impropriety where there isn't any." Liam's jaw tightened. "Don't let him make you doubt your work."
The team bus from the airport should have been a simple twenty-minute ride. Should have been.
But Libby had been up since 4 AM for the early flight, had dealt with Peterson's passive-aggressive commentary, three different media availability sessions, and the constant strain of maintaining her fake girlfriend performance.
She'd barely stepped onto the team bus when Varlenko appeared, blocking the aisle with a conspiratorial grin.
"Libby! Perfect timing!" He gestured dramatically to the empty seat beside Liam. "I must move. Jensen needs me to discuss very important... hockey... things. You sit here."
"I can sit in the back—" Libby started.
"No, no, is bad luck to separate couple before game," Varlenko insisted, practically herding her into the seat. "Also, bus driver turns heat up very high. You will need strong shoulder to sleep on. For team morale."
Liam looked up from his tablet. "Varlenko, what are you—"
"Shhh, Captain must review tape. Libby must rest. Is natural order of things." Varlenko winked and disappeared toward the back of the bus where Jensen was clearly trying not to laugh.
The bus's heating system was indeed enthusiastically effective, and Liam's shoulder was right there.
After an anxiety-filled flight where her brain had spiraled imagining what the media section was saying about her—"sleeping her way to access," "PR relationship," "compromising journalistic integrity"—her body simply decided it had endured enough consciousness for one day.
She didn't mean to fall asleep on him.
One moment she was listening to Liam explain Portland's defensive adjustments, his voice a low rumble beside her. The next moment, the bus was pulling up to the hotel and his warm hand was on her shoulder.
"Libby," he said quietly. "We're here."
She jolted awake to find herself pressed against Liam's arm, her hand somehow curled around his bicep, and—oh God—a small but undeniable wet spot on his suit jacket.
Libby's brain slowly processed several horrifying facts:
1. She had fallen asleep on Liam D'Arcy
2. Her face was imprinted with the texture of his suit jacket
3. There was a small but undeniable wet spot on his shoulder
4. The entire team was watching with varying degrees of amusement
"Oh God," she muttered, jerking upright. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Sleeping Beauty awakens!" Varlenko declared from across the aisle. "Jensen, you owe me fifty dollars. I said she sleeps whole ride, you said she wake up at toll booth."
"You took bets on me sleeping?" Libby asked, mortified.
"Da! Was very profitable. Thompson thought you wake up when team start singing.
Chase bet you wake up when his mother call.
Mattingley bet on when we hit traffic. But I know exhausted woman when I see one.
" Varlenko grinned. "Also, Captain gave very scary look when anyone make noise.
Was like Siberian winter. Chase even decline mother's three calls without answering. "
Libby looked up at Liam, who was studiously examining something fascinating outside the window. His ears were pink.
"Is beautiful!" Varlenko announced, wiping an imaginary tear. "Like nature documentary where baby penguin finds parent."
"Please stop talking," Libby begged, her face burning as several players laughed.
"You needed the rest," Liam said quietly, giving her a small, understanding smile.
"Your shoulder..." Libby gestured helplessly at the damp spot.
"I've had worse," Liam said, his attempt at lightness somewhat undermined by the way he kept adjusting his collar.
"For Instagram!" Varlenko announced, holding up his phone showing a photo of Libby passed out against Liam, mouth slightly open. "Don't worry, I make nice caption. 'Team mom needs nap before destroying Portland with sick burns.'"
"Delete that immediately," Libby demanded.
"Too late. Already has forty-seven likes," Varlenko grinned. "Forty-eight. Forty-nine. I am very popular.”
The hotel lobby gleamed with the kind of aggressive luxury that made Libby deeply aware of her travel-wrinkled blazer and the fact that her face still bore the imprint of Liam's suit jacket.
"Ah, Mr. D'Arcy, Ms. Bennet-Cross," the manager greeted them with a bright, knowing smile. "I have wonderful news about your accommodations."
"Wonderful news?" Liam's tone suggested skepticism.
"When we saw you were both booked on separate floors, we took the liberty of upgrading you to our honeymoon suite!
" The manager beamed like he'd personally solved world hunger.
"Such a high-profile couple shouldn't be separated.
It's our finest room—panoramic views, champagne on ice, and our most romantic amenities. "
Libby felt her stomach drop. "That's so... thoughtful," she managed.
"But unnecessary," Liam added quickly. "Our original rooms were—"
"Already reassigned," the manager interrupted cheerfully. "The conference expansion was quite demanding, but this works out perfectly! The bellhop will bring your luggage to the suite. Seventeenth floor. Enjoy your evening!"
He bustled away before they could protest, leaving them standing in the lobby with matching expressions of panic.
"Well," Libby said quietly, "that's..."
"Complicated," Liam finished.
They rode the elevator in tense silence. Varlenko and Jensen were already inside when they entered, both grinning knowingly.
"Honeymoon suite, da?" Varlenko waggled his eyebrows. "Is very romantic. Perfect for young couple in love."
"It was the only room available," Liam said flatly.
"Of course," Jensen agreed with mock seriousness. "Nothing wrong with taking advantage of a road game to have a little... personal time." He drew out the word 'personal' with obvious implication.
The teammates mercifully exited on the tenth floor, though Varlenko called out "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" as the doors closed.
Finally alone, they continued up to the seventeenth floor in silence.
The suite was, admittedly, gorgeous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Portland's skyline, the sitting area was larger than Libby's entire apartment, and the bed—
The bed was enormous. California king, with approximately seventeen pillows and a duvet that looked like a cloud had been recruited for luxury bedding purposes. Rose petals were scattered across it in a heart shape.
They stood in the doorway staring at it like it might suddenly spring to life and attack them.
"It's actually offensive how comfortable that looks," Libby said.
"The sofa's perfectly adequate," Liam countered, though he was eyeing the bed with similar longing.
"For someone under six feet, maybe."
"I've slept in worse places."
"Name one."
"Team plane to Detroit last month. Middle seat between Varlenko snoring and Thompson downing energy drinks."
Libby bit her lip to keep from laughing. "That does sound terrible."
"You have no idea. Varlenko sounds like a broken chainsaw." But his eyes were amused now, the tension from earlier softening.
The bellhop finally left after Liam tipped him, and the door clicked shut with devastating finality.
"I'll take the sofa," they both said simultaneously.