Chapter 9 #3
Libby had wedged herself into a corner near the back room, nursing warm champagne someone had thrust into her hand. Even through the crowd and chaos, she could track Liam—the way people kept pulling him in for shots, for photos, for shouted conversations over the pounding music.
They'd managed exactly two words when she'd arrived: her "congratulations" yelled over the music, his "thanks" before someone dragged him away for another round.
Forty-three minutes. That's how long she lasted in the crushing noise and press of bodies, the bass making her bones ache, watching him be the conquering hero for everyone but her.
She pushed through the crowd toward the back, finding a narrow hallway that led past the bathrooms to the back exit.
The sounds of celebration became muffled thunder through the walls.
Emergency exit lights cast everything in red shadows.
She leaned against the wall, the sudden relative quiet making her ears ring.
What was she doing? What had she been thinking?
The fake dating had seemed manageable at that charity gala—all champagne bubbles and ball gowns and PR strategy.
The quiet closeness they'd shared in Portland had made everything seem possible.
Okay, not just possible—real. But now, forty-three minutes of watching Liam be everyone else's hero while she stood in the corner like she hadn't spent hours learning the difference between his real smile and his media smile, like she didn't know the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at her terrible jokes.
.. This was torture. Self-inflicted, stupid torture.
"Running away?"
Her eyes snapped open. Liam stood at the entrance to the hallway, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the chaos beyond. The red exit sign cast shadows across his face, but she could still see something dangerous in his eyes.
"Taking a break," she said, hating how her voice caught.
He moved into the hallway, and suddenly the space felt impossibly small.
He took up so much room—six-two of solid muscle filling the narrow corridor, making her acutely aware of how trapped she was between him and the wall.
The noise from the bar became muffled, distant, like they'd entered their own separate world.
He was close enough now that she could smell that clean soap he used, somehow still cutting through the bar's haze of beer and sweat.
"You can't do that," she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "You can't look at me like that after scoring the biggest goal of your playoffs—on the jumbotron, Liam, in front of everyone—then treat me like a stranger at your own celebration."
He moved closer, and she stepped back instinctively until her shoulders hit the wall. "I'm trying to protect your professional integrity—"
"That's MY choice to make, not yours." The words came out sharp, angry. "You don't get to decide what risks I take with my career. You don't get to make unilateral decisions about what's best for me."
In the darkness, she could hear his breathing change.
"You had lunch with Gray Wickham today." His voice was controlled, but she could hear the edge underneath—sharp, possessive.
"How did you—" She stopped. Of course. "You're having me followed?"
"Security briefings. During playoffs, anyone connected to the team—" He didn't apologize, didn't try to soften it. "What did you give him?"
"I would never." The words came out fierce, offended. "He tried, but I didn't..."
"What did he try?" One wide palm flattened against the wall behind her, and she was suddenly very aware of how close he was, how he'd effectively caged her in. She clenched her fists at her sides to keep from putting her hands on his chest, from arching into his warmth.
"He wanted to know about your knee. If you were favoring it." She kept her voice steady despite his proximity. "He made it very clear what he thought I'd know from our... arrangement."
"Fuck." The curse was sharp, vicious. Liam dropped his forehead to hers for a moment, his breathing harsh. "I'm going to kill him."
"It's what we've sold them," she said quietly. "Who can blame him for thinking..."
When he pulled back slightly, his eyes were wild. "I can blame him. I do blame him." His jaw clenched. "Half the media thinks the same thing—that you're sleeping your way to access—"
"I know what they think." She cut him off. "I thought... it would be easier. I thought I could do this but... I'm not sure if things wouldn't have been better if we'd just let the photo do its damage and moved on."
A long pause. The bass from the bar thrummed through the walls.
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." She took a breath, steadying herself. "Montreal has one more game in their series. We'd have almost a week before the Conference Finals. If we're going to stage a breakup, now's the time."
He went completely still. Then he pushed off the wall, putting sudden distance between them. The loss of his warmth echoed the icy edge in his voice.
"Is that what you want?" He paused, something shifting in his expression. "You'd risk your career? The damage to your reputation when everyone assumes I dumped you? That you really were just another puck bunny who got in over her head?"
Each word hit her like a little flung stone, sharp and precise. She raised her chin. "Maybe I'm not cut out for covering the NHL anyway."
"Don't." The word came out fierce, furious.
He was suddenly back in her space, pressing her back against the wall.
"Don't you dare. I've never met anyone more meant to be at the top of their field in my entire life.
Your analysis, your writing, the way you see the game—you're brilliant. And you know it."
She couldn't see his face clearly in the darkness, which somehow made it easier to be honest. "That doesn't mean this was the right choice. For either of us."
"What is that supposed to mean?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"You clearly want distance. Wickham told me all about Anne Davenport today, your history, how everyone expects you to end up together, and we're both miserable playing this game—"
"He seemed pretty convinced. Said the families expect you two to end up together, that it's inevitable—"
"So this has bigger consequences than just you and me. This could affect your relationship." She scrubbed her hands over her face. "It already has."
"What relationship?" His voice was fierce, almost angry. "I'm single. Anne and I dated, yes. Past tense. Whatever hopes or expectations she or her mother still harbor has nothing to do with me."
The space between them was charged, electric.
She shook her head, unable to form words, overwhelmed by his proximity and everything he wasn't saying.
"What are you so afraid of?" His voice dropped low, intimate, just for her.
God, what wasn't she afraid of? Having him. Losing him. And never being the same afterward. She shook her head again, the movement small, helpless.
"Meet me at the rink."
The words were desperate, urgent.
"What? Liam—"
"Tomorrow morning. Six a.m.” His thumb was stroking over her pulse point now, and he had to feel how fast her heart was racing. "Before you end this. Before we stage some breakup and go back to being strangers. Please."
"Why?"
"Because I can't think straight right now. Because we've always been best when it's just us. We'll discuss this, and we'll figure it out. And if you decide that ending it is best, we'll do it together, in a way that doesn't hurt you. Promise me, Libby."
She should say no. She should pull away. But in the darkness, with his body so close to hers, with the desperation in his voice...
"Six a.m,” she whispered.
He released her slowly, like it physically pained him to let go. As she slipped past him toward the door, he caught her fingers briefly.
"That look," he said quietly. "After the goal. You were the first person I wanted to share it with."
She fled back to the party before he could see her eyes filling with tears, before she could do something stupid like pull him down for the kiss they'd been avoiding for days.
The practice facility was empty, silent except for the low hum of the ventilation system and the occasional tick of the building settling around them. Early morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the pristine surface.
Libby stood in the shadows of the tunnel, hands wrapped around a coffee she'd grabbed on the way over, watching Liam.
The rink was empty but for him, the scrape of his blades echoing like a heartbeat in the hollow space.
She was used to seeing him armored—helmet, pads, gloves, a gladiator at war.
Now he cut across the ice in nothing more than a t-shirt and jeans, and somehow he looked even more dangerous.
There was no roar of the crowd, no clash of sticks, only the raw intensity he carried in his body.
His stride was sharp, punishing, as if every push of his skate could grind down the thoughts riding him.
Power radiated from him, masculine and controlled, but threaded through with something frayed—an aggression that spoke of weight carried too long, wounds left untended.
He was beautiful. She couldn't look away.
His Harvard Hockey t-shirt had seen better days. His hair was still mussed from sleep, no product, no careful styling. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. Real.
When he finally noticed her, everything stopped. His whole face changed—the tension, the aggression, whatever thoughts weighed him down simply vanished. For a moment, he just stood there on the ice, looking at her like he wasn't sure she'd show up, and he wasn't sure what to think now that she had.
But she'd seen it. That split second of pure relief just because she was there.
He glided over to where she stood, stopping in a spray of ice that dusted her boots.
"You came."
"You asked me to." She wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive gesture she couldn't help.