Chapter 8 #2
"Absolutely not," Libby said, her voice rising with genuine alarm. "You're the captain. You have Game 4 tomorrow. In the playoffs."
"You're clearly exhausted—"
"Liam D'Arcy, you are not sleeping on a sofa the night before a playoff game. I will physically fight you." She moved between him and the sofa like a tiny bodyguard. "The city of Boston would never forgive me. I would never forgive me. You need proper rest for tomorrow."
"Libby—"
"No. This isn't negotiable. You're playing Portland tomorrow.
You need your back properly supported, your legs elevated correctly, actual REM sleep—" She was in full journalist-analyzing-athlete-performance mode now.
"Do you have any idea what the headlines would be if you played badly because you slept on a couch?
'D'Arcy Tanks Game 4 After Girlfriend Steals Bed. ' I'd be run out of Boston."
"That's ridiculous—"
"I will sleep in the bathtub before I let you take that sofa," she declared. "I'll sleep in the hallway. I'll call Varlenko and sleep on his floor. But you are taking that bed, Liam D'Arcy, or so help me, I will tell Coach Taylor you're deliberately sabotaging your pre-game rest."
Liam stared at her, looking genuinely taken aback by her vehemence. "You'd rat me out to Coach?"
"In a heartbeat. For the good of the team." She crossed her arms. "This is bigger than us. This is about playoff hockey."
They stood facing each other, both trying not to smile, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting them.
"We're being ridiculous," Libby admitted.
"Completely ridiculous," Liam agreed.
"We could... share?" she suggested, then immediately backtracked. "I mean, it's huge. We could build a pillow wall. Like we're twelve."
"A pillow wall," Liam repeated slowly.
"A substantial pillow wall. A pillow fortress."
They looked at each other for a moment, then Liam's mouth twitched. Libby bit her lip. And then they were both laughing—real, genuine laughter that broke through all the day's accumulated tension.
"This is insane," Libby gasped between giggles.
"Completely insane," Liam agreed, actually grinning now.
"Or," Libby said, catching her breath, "I could just sneak out when everyone's asleep and bunk with Jane. We've been sharing beds since we were kids."
"You two seem close," Liam observed, his tone genuinely curious rather than politely interested.
"Five sisters, three bedrooms," Libby explained.
"Jane and I are the oldest, so we shared the longest. Kitty and Lydia had their room—absolute chaos, clothes everywhere.
Mary got her own because she threatened to run away to a convent if she didn't get 'space for contemplation.
'" She smiled at the memory. "Though mostly she just used it to practice violin at ungodly hours. "
"Five daughters," Liam said, looking slightly awed. "Your parents must be..."
"Exhausted? Insane? Permanently broke from prom dresses and dance tuition, and a shared bathroom that always looked like Sephora exploded?" Libby grinned. "All of the above. Dad used to hide in his study just to read the newspaper in peace. Mom thrived on the chaos though. Still does."
"And you all get along?"
"We get along like sisters," Libby said with a wry smile.
"Which means the only urge stronger than the one to kill each other is the urge to kill anyone who hurts one of us.
Jane's the peacemaker. Mary's the intellectual—she'd rather read philosophy than talk to people.
Kitty gets swept up in whatever Lydia's doing—she's not wild herself, just easily influenced.
And Lydia..." she paused, choosing her words carefully.
"Lydia thinks consequences are something that happens to other people. "
"Where do you fall in the lineup?"
"Second oldest, first to argue," Libby said with a self-deprecating smile. "Jane got all the grace and patience. I got the opinions and stubbornness."
"I've noticed," Liam said dryly, but his expression was warm. He checked his watch. "Speaking of your sisters—team curfew is at eleven. It's nine-thirty now."
"Wait, curfew applies to me too?"
"If you're sneaking through hotel hallways after eleven, you'll run into half the team doing their own sneaking," Liam said with a knowing look.
"Road games are... active. Jensen's probably already got someone coming by.
Varlenko claims he's 'getting ice' at midnight but everyone knows he's visiting that bartender from last year. "
"Oh God," Libby groaned. "So I'd be doing the walk of shame past actual walks of shame?"
"More like the walk of 'I'm escaping to my sister's room' past the walks of 'I'm definitely not supposed to be on this floor,'" Liam said dryly. "Coach pretends not to know as long as everyone shows up to practice functional."
"Well, what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Libby asked, glancing around the suite. "Just... sit here awkwardly until it's late enough for me to escape?"
"We could order room service," Liam said, already reaching for the menu. "And I have cards in my bag."
"Cards?" Libby perked up. "What kind of cards?"
"Regular deck. For gin rummy, usually."
"Oh, you're going down, D'Arcy. I destroy at cards."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot of confidence for someone who just drooled on me."
"That was exhaustion. This is strategy. Prepare to be humiliated."
Three hours later, they were sprawled on the floor beside the coffee table, room service trays pushed aside, engaged in the most competitive game of gin rummy in hotel history.
"You're counting cards," Liam accused, watching her lay down another winning hand.
"I'm using strategy. There's a difference."
"The difference being?"
"I'm better at it than you."
Liam laughed—an unguarded sound that transformed his entire face. "You know what's worse than a poor loser, Bennet? A smug winner."
"That's exactly what a loser would say," Libby suggested sweetly, shuffling the deck with unnecessary flourish.
"I let you win the first three hands."
"You let me—" Libby threw a pillow at him. "You absolutely did not!"
He caught the pillow easily, his reflexes still sharp despite the late hour and the glass of wine they'd shared. "Prove it."
"Deal again. Right now. Loser admits the other is superior at cards."
"Stakes?" Liam asked, his competitive nature fully engaged.
"Loser picks their side of the bed?" she suggested, trying to sound casual.
"You can have whatever side you want," Liam said immediately.
"I thought the gentleman was supposed to sleep between the lady and the door?" Libby said innocently. "For protection?"
Liam paused, clearly realizing he'd been outmaneuvered. "That would be the left side, then."
"Which happens to be the side with the better view of the TV," she added with a small smile.
"You planned this."
"I'm strategic. There's a difference."
"Deal," he said, shaking his head with amusement.
Twenty minutes later, Liam stared at his losing hand in genuine bewilderment. "You hustled me."
"I strategized effectively," Libby corrected primly.
"You knew exactly what cards I had."
"You have tells."
"I do not have tells."
"You tap your thumb when you need one specific card. You reorganize your hand when you're about to go out. You—"
"I do not reorganize my—" Liam paused, realizing he was literally reorganizing his cards as he spoke.
Libby grinned triumphantly.
"You've been watching me," he said softly, something shifting in his expression.
The awareness hit them simultaneously—they were sitting very close on the floor, the city lights creating intimate shadows, and somewhere during the evening, they'd stopped being quite so careful about maintaining professional distance.
"I should..." Libby gestured vaguely toward the door. "I don't want Jane to have to wait up for me."
"Of course," Liam said, though something flickered across his face that might have been disappointment.
Libby gathered her things quickly, hyperaware of his presence, of the bed they wouldn't be sharing, of the way his hair was slightly messed from running his hands through it during their game.
"Thank you," she said at the door. "For earlier. With Peterson. For everything."
"Libby," he called as she reached for the handle.
She turned back.
"Same time tomorrow morning? For the team meeting?"
"Wouldn't miss it," she promised, and escaped before she could do something stupid like suggest they forget about the pillow wall entirely.
Morning came too quickly. Libby had barely slept, even with Jane's calming presence beside her. Instead, she'd spent hours staring at the ceiling, her mind racing through the increasingly complicated situation she'd created.
This was supposed to be simple. A fake relationship to control media narratives. Clear boundaries. Professional distance.
Instead, she'd spent an evening playing cards on the floor with Liam D'Arcy, telling him about her chaotic family, watching him laugh with genuine delight when she destroyed him at gin rummy.
She'd seen the way his eyes crinkled when he really smiled.
She knew he tapped his thumb when he was thinking.
She'd memorized the exact tone of his voice when he'd said "You've been watching me. "
"You're overthinking again," Jane had murmured around 3 a.m., not even opening her eyes.
"I'm not overthinking."
"You're literally vibrating with overthinking. The bed is shaking."
"Sorry."
"Look, I know he's not your type," Jane said gently, rolling over to face her. "Too rigid, too controlled, too... emotionally unavailable. But it's just for the playoffs, right? A few more weeks and you can go back to normal."
"Right," Libby agreed, her voice hollow. "Back to normal."