Chapter 9 #4
He studied her for a long moment, then skated to the boards near the players' bench where a gym bag sat waiting.
He pulled out a pair of skates and a long-sleeved practice jersey—D'ARCY emblazoned across the back in bold letters.
He hesitated for a moment, holding the jersey, then held it out to her.
"So you don't get cold," he said quietly.
"Put these on."
"I haven't skated in years—"
"I know." His voice was soft, serious. "Trust me?"
The way he said it made her heart skip. She took the skates.
She pulled the jersey on over her sweater. When she looked up, Liam was watching her with an expression she couldn't read.
"That looks good on you," he said quietly, and somehow she knew he meant more than just the jersey. There was something proprietary in his gaze, something that said mine even though he had no right to think it.
The skates were another matter. She sat on the bench, lacing them up with muscle memory from youth hockey days, though it had been years since she'd been on ice.
"Too tight?" His hands hovered near hers, ready to help, but she had this.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the concern written across his face.
"Okay," he said, standing and offering her his hands. "Let's see what you got, Bennet."
Getting onto the ice was like riding a bike—if you hadn't ridden in a decade. Her muscle memory was there, but her ankles were weak, her balance off. The first few strides were wobbly, uncertain.
"I've got you," he said, hands steady on her waist, and the words were loaded with meaning neither of them acknowledged.
"I'm fine, just rusty," she managed, finding her edges slowly. "Haven't done this since bantam level."
"You played?" His voice was surprised, pleased.
"Until I was fourteen. My dad coached youth hockey."
Every adjustment of her stance brought his hands to new places on her waist, her arms, guiding her back into proper form.
When she caught an edge wrong and stumbled, he pulled her against him, steadying her.
They stayed pressed together longer than necessary, both breathing a little too hard for the minimal physical exertion.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked when he finally set her back at arm's length, her skating steadier now but still uncertain.
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer.
"In Portland," he said slowly, "those hours in your room, playing cards, just... being. I've been telling myself the distance since then was for the best. That if we kept going down that path, things might get complicated." His voice turned grim. "I realized that we were becoming friends."
"And you think that would be a mistake."
"I thought it would be." His eyes met hers. "I was wrong."
He kept her moving slowly, his hands steady on her waist.
"My sister Georgia was fifteen when she made the Olympic development team for figure skating," he said quietly. "One of the youngest that year. The media loved her—'America's Ice Princess,' they called her. She was on every magazine cover, every talk show. The perfect D'Arcy daughter."
Libby had never heard him talk about his sister beyond polite mentions at family events.
"The pressure was insane. Every jump she missed was national news. Every pound she gained was photographed, analyzed, criticized. Social media made it worse—people felt entitled to comment on her body, her diet, her everything."
His voice grew rougher. "She started skipping meals. Then she started purging. She'd exercise for hours after practice, until she collapsed. I didn't know."
"Liam..."
"By the time we realized how bad it was, she'd already done permanent damage to her body. Her heart, her bones, her metabolism—all of it compromised. She was still a child and her body was shutting down."
His voice broke slightly. Libby instinctively reached for his hand, turning it palm up, interlacing their fingers. He gripped her hand like a lifeline.
"She's better now," he continued, thumb stroking over her knuckles absently.
"In recovery. Has been for four years. But she'll never skate competitively again.
The media destroyed her for the story—'Ice Princess Melts Down,' 'The Fall of Georgia D'Arcy.
' They picked apart every aspect of her collapse, published photos of her at her sickest, speculated about whether it was drugs or boys or rebellion. "
His jaw tightened. "The worst part? They got her medical information. Details about her weight, her treatment, things that should have been private. We couldn't figure out how until later—someone with access to our family sold it. Someone we trusted."
Libby's mind raced. Someone with access to the family. Someone they trusted. Liam's violent reaction when he'd heard about her lunch with Wickham. The way his whole body had tensed when she'd mentioned—
"Someone who needed money," she said slowly, pieces falling into place. "Someone close enough to have access but desperate enough to betray that trust."
Liam went very still.
"Wickham," she breathed.
"Yes." The single word was sharp as broken glass. "He'd known her since she was twelve. Called her his little sister. And he sold her worst moments to the tabloids for cash."
His eyes never left Libby's face. "And I... I was so focused on my own career, my own pressure, that I didn't protect her. I saw the signs and explained them away. I was her big brother and I failed her."
"Liam, you were a kid yourself—"
"I was twenty-two. Old enough to see what was happening. Old enough to step in." His jaw clenched. "That's why I've held back. But you... God, Libby, you're nothing like them."
"How do you know?"
"Because you see people, not stories. Because when you write about the team, you capture who we are, not just what we do. Because you're extraordinary."
The last part slipped out before he could stop it. She saw him try to pull it back, but it was too late.
"You can't say things like that," she whispered.
His hand tightened on hers. "My turn to understand something. It wasn't just Wickham whispering poison in your ear that made you dislike me at first."
She'd never told anyone in Boston this story. It was something her family tried very hard to forget ever happened. But standing here on the ice, held steady by his hands, she found herself talking.
"My father coached prep school hockey in Springfield for twenty years. He was good. Great, actually. His team made state championships seven times, sent a dozen kids to college on scholarships. He loved it—loved the kids, loved the game, loved building something that mattered."
His hand was steady and sure in hers, anchoring her.
"But then the Whitman family moved to town.
Old Boston money, new to Springfield. Their son was a mediocre player at best, but they wanted him to be captain.
My dad wouldn't do it—the kid hadn't earned it.
So they started making donations. New rink.
New equipment. Suddenly they're on the school board, the athletic committee.
" Her voice turned bitter. "Within a year, my dad was out.
They said it was budget cuts, but the next week they hired their hand-picked replacement at twice the salary. "
"Libby..."
"Howell Whitman got his captaincy. The team hasn't made states since.
But that doesn't matter when you can buy what you want, does it?
" She finally looked up at him. "So yeah, when I met you—Liam D'Arcy, hockey royalty, old Boston money, throwing around the weight of your name—I had some assumptions. "
Liam turned to face her fully, still holding her hand, giving her his complete attention.
And she realized with a start that he always did this—gave her his full focus whenever she spoke.
As a female journalist who was constantly talked over, dismissed, or simply ignored by the men around her, Liam never did that.
Not once. When she talked, he listened like nothing else in the world existed.
She took a shuddering breath at his touch, at the realization of how wrong she'd been.
"I was wrong," she said softly. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too." He squeezed her hands gently. "I need to tell you something else. When you suggested ending this last night... I should have agreed. I should have let you walk away."
"Why didn't you?"
His voice went rough, almost angry at himself. "Because I'm selfish when it comes to you."
He shifted closer, their bodies almost touching now.
"I know the position I've put you in. Team captain, your access depends on my cooperation, the fake relationship you couldn't really refuse without damaging your career.
I lie awake at night thinking about it—whether you felt obligated to play cards with me in Portland.
Whether you stayed because you had to, not because you wanted to.
Whether every comfortable moment between us has been tainted by the fact that I have power over your career. "
He broke off, jaw clenched.
"I've become everything I never wanted to be.
Selfish. Compromised. Unfocused. These past weeks, having you next to me at events, watching you handle Kate's hostility with grace, the way you understood without my explaining why I needed to win so badly.
.. I should let you go. Hold a press conference absolving you of any wrong.
If the Herald fired you, I'd make sure you had the best legal team in Boston.
And after, I'd buy the paper and give you Sully Reid's job. "
"Liam..." she breathed, but he wasn't done.
"Tell me you feel obligated. Tell me this is just professional for you. Tell me that you're only here because you have to be, and I'll end it right now. We'll stage the breakup, go back to professional distance, and I'll never bother you again. But if there's even a chance that you..."