Chapter 9 #2
He leaned forward again, voice gentle. "Anne understands his world in a way that... well, in a way most people couldn't. The expectations, the pressure, the way every decision affects not just you but your family's reputation, their business interests, their social standing."
In a way you never could. The unspoken words hung between them.
"You think they'll get back together."
"I think Anne's betting on it. And the D'Arcys.
.. well, they've never been subtle about preferring her to anyone else Liam has dated.
" He paused. "Not that there have been many.
Liam doesn't do casual, and he doesn't do different.
He needs someone who won't challenge his perfectly ordered world. Someone safe."
Safe. The word echoed in her head, bringing with it the memory of Liam this morning, the careful distance he'd maintained, the way he'd immediately shut down whatever was between them after Portland.
"I always thought they'd end up together," Wickham added with a wry smile.
"Perfect breeding stock, those two. Can you imagine the wedding?
Harvard Chapel, string quartet, Anne in her grandmother's Cartier diamonds, Liam looking like he's doing his duty to the bloodline.
" He laughed, not kindly. "They probably scheduled their breakups around tax seasons.
With Anne, he's exactly what his parents ordered—stable, suitable, safe.
Boring as watching paint dry, but hey, some people like that. "
The fact that Wickham wasn't surprised—that he'd expected this—somehow made it worse. Everyone could see it but her, the silly reporter who'd let herself believe that comfortable night in Portland meant something more.
"I should go," Libby said, reaching for her bag. "Need to prep for tonight's game."
Wickham's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make her freeze.
"Not so fast." His charming smile had an edge now. "I thought we had an understanding."
"Excuse me?"
"Information for information." He didn't release her wrist. "I just gave you quite a bit about Liam's romantic future. Seems only fair you share something useful in return."
Libby carefully extracted her wrist from his grip. "I already told you—he's playing tonight with no known injuries."
"Come on, Libby. We both know you know more than that." His smile turned predatory. "I got a good shot at his knee in Game 2. All I want to know is if he's preferring you on top lately?" His eyes traveled over her deliberately. "I mean, who wouldn't, right?"
"Thanks for the coffee," she said coolly, standing despite his attempt to keep her there. "Good luck tonight. You'll need it."
"The D'Arcys always protect their own," Wickham called after her, his voice carrying a warning. "Just remember that when you're wondering why you're suddenly getting shut out."
As she left the café, she tried to shake off both his parting words and the feel of his fingers on her wrist.
The arena was electric from the moment the doors opened. Game 5, series tied 2-2, everything on the line. Libby sat in her usual spot in the press box, surrounded by other journalists who were frantically typing pre-game storylines, but she couldn't focus on her own notes.
Wickham's words from lunch kept echoing: Safe. Traditional. Inevitable.
"Bennet-Cross, you planning to write something or just stare into space?" Rodriguez from the Globe dropped into the seat beside her.
"Just organizing my thoughts," she managed.
"Better organize fast. This one's going to be a war." Rodriguez was already typing. "Did you see their energy in warm-ups?”
Libby frowned. “What are you doing here? Isn’t this Peterson’s beat?”
Rodriguez gave her a speaking look. “I assumed you knew, considering that your boyfriend is behind it.”
“Behind what?”
Rodriguez shrugged. “Peterson’s out. Persona non grata in this place. He’s under internal review for ethics violations.”
Libby gaped at him.
Rodriguez held up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. Actually, we’re good, right Bennet-Cross? No bad feelings, yeah?”
“Um, yeah,” Libby mumbled. “Right.” She turned to the ice, unseeing.
Liam. Liam had gotten Peterson fired. Worse—investigated. He’d never work at a reputable paper again.
A heady cocktail of emotion swirled beneath her skin.
Anger at his power games. Satisfaction that Peterson was getting his due.
And a blurry, confusing warmth. She didn’t need anyone to protect her, had not asked him to intervene, and yet, the fact that she hadn’t had to ask, that he’d taken steps to protect her on his own…
No, it was an overstep. Every feminist bone in her body should be wailing right now.
Her eyes focused on the rink, and the war for territory that was in full swing below.
Liam was playing with an intensity that bordered on reckless. Every shift was maximum effort, every hit delivered with extra force, every shot taken with violent precision. He wasn't just trying to win; he was trying to obliterate.
Portland pushed back hard. They'd come to play, and they weren't intimidated by Boston's home ice advantage. The game was brutal, both teams trading hits and chances, the refs letting them play through everything but the most egregious penalties.
Liam took a massive hit in the second period, sandwiched between two Portland defenders, and Libby found herself half-rising from her seat before she caught herself. He got up slowly, shaking his head, and she could see Coach yelling at him as he headed to the bench.
But he didn't slow down. If anything, he pushed harder.
He's going to hurt himself, she thought, watching him throw himself into another punishing forecheck.
Third period, five minutes left, game still tied. The tension in the arena was suffocating. Every rush brought eighteen thousand people to their feet. Every save drew collective groans or cheers.
Then, with forty-seven seconds left, Portland scored.
The silence was deafening. Libby watched Liam on the bench, saw his hands clench on his stick, saw Mattingley lean over to say something that made Liam's jaw tighten further.
Coach called timeout. Whatever he said, it worked. When they returned to the ice, there was something different in Liam's posture. Controlled fury rather than reckless anger.
They pulled the goalie. Six attackers, desperate for the tying goal.
Twenty seconds. Liam won the face-off, cycled it back to the point.
Fifteen seconds. A shot from Keller, blocked, scramble for the rebound.
Ten seconds. Varlenko found it, passed it across to Liam.
Five seconds. Liam wound up—
SCORE.
The arena exploded. Overtime.
Libby realized she was standing, her heart pounding, press neutrality completely forgotten. Around her, even the veteran journalists were caught up in the moment.
"Christ," Rodriguez breathed. "Your boyfriend's got ice in his veins."
Not my boyfriend, she didn't say. Her heart would be beating just as fast even if she didn't know what he smelled like, or how heavy-lidded his eyes got after two glasses of wine.
Right.
Overtime in playoff hockey was sudden death. Next goal wins. The tension was almost unbearable.
Three minutes in, Portland had a breakaway. Somehow, Boston's goalie made a miraculous save.
Seven minutes in, Boston hit the post. The sound of puck on iron echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
Twelve minutes in, it happened.
Liam stole the puck at center ice, catching Portland on a bad line change. He had a step on the nearest defender, then two steps, then he was gone. His speed was breathtaking, that explosive acceleration that made him special.
The Portland goalie came out to challenge. Liam deked left—the goalie bit. Liam went right, and in one smooth motion, lifted the puck top shelf, bar down.
The red light. The horn. Series over. Boston wins.
But in that moment—that split second after the puck hit the back of the net, before his teammates mobbed him—Liam looked up. His eyes searched the crowd with singular focus until they found what they were looking for.
Her.
The joy on his face was completely unguarded. Raw. Real. Intimate. It was the look of a man who'd just accomplished something magnificent and needed one specific person to see it.
The ESPN photographer at ice level caught it.
Within seconds, the image was up on the jumbotron—Liam's face in that unguarded moment, eyes locked on the press box with raw, unmistakable joy.
The crowd erupted as eighteen thousand people witnessed what looked like a love story playing out in real time.
The image would be everywhere within minutes.
Except she wasn't his girlfriend.
And the way they'd been avoiding each other for three days made that painfully clear.
But for that one moment, that single heartbeat of time, the truth was written all over his face. And hers too, probably, because she couldn't help but smile back, couldn't help but feel her heart soar with his victory.
Then his teammates reached him, and the moment shattered.
The Black Rose was exactly the kind of dive where Boston teams celebrated victories—sticky floors, scarred wooden bar, bass so heavy it vibrated in your chest. The Steel had taken over the entire place, players and staff sprawling across multiple rooms, the music turned up loud enough to make conversation impossible unless you were shouting directly into someone's ear.
The main bar was chaos—bodies pressed three deep, everything reeking of beer from the celebration spraying earlier.
Someone had started a "WE WANT THE CUP" chant that kept rising and falling like waves.
The air was thick with sweat and cheap beer and expensive cologne, strobing lights turning everyone into snapshots of movement.