Chapter 9 #5
"You think I stayed up playing cards with you because I had to?" Her voice was shaking now. "You think I'm here at 6 a.m. because I'm worried about my career?"
"I don't know," he said desperately. "I can't tell anymore. I'm an idiot. I'm good at hockey and not much else. But I know I don't want to walk away from this."
She raised her free hand to his chest. She could feel his heart racing under her palm, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.
She looked up at him, really looked at him, and something shifted in the air between them.
Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
Or was she reading into things, seeing what she wanted to see?
God, she couldn't tell anymore. Every look, every touch felt loaded with meaning, but maybe that was just her—projecting her own feelings onto him, turning professional courtesy into something more.
Maybe he treated all his fake girlfriends this way.
Maybe she was just another in a line of—
"Stop thinking so loud," he murmured, and his voice was rough in a way that made her stomach flip.
She realized he'd been slowly backing her up, each adjustment of their position bringing them closer to the boards. She was so focused on his face, on trying to read his expression, that she hadn't noticed until—
He started to lower his head toward hers, and she wobbled, her ankles betraying her.
"Easy," he said softly, a smile ghosting across his lips as he gently pressed her back against the boards, steadying her with his body. His hands bracketed her waist, holding her secure.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough.
She couldn't. Wouldn't. Her hand fisted in his shirt instead, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
They were close enough now that she could feel his breath on her skin, could count all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone.
"Libby..."
Her name was a prayer, a question, a surrender.
She tilted her face up toward his, saw his eyes darken as he closed the distance between them—
The sudden roar of the Zamboni shattered the moment like a hammer through glass.
They sprang apart, both breathing hard, both looking absolutely wrecked. Liam's hand was still extended toward her, like he couldn't quite process the interruption.
"Morning folks!" Tom the Zamboni driver called cheerfully, completely oblivious to what he'd interrupted. "Didn't expect anyone here this early! You two getting in some extra practice?"
Liam's public persona slammed back into place like a wall, though his eyes remained wild. "Just helping Libby with her skating, Tom."
"Oh, that's nice! You know, my wife always wanted to learn to skate. Never could get the hang of it though. Kept falling on her—well, anyway, good for you for trying, Miss Libby!"
Tom proceeded to give them a detailed rundown of his grandkid's latest Little League game, complete with play-by-play of every at-bat, while Liam and Libby stood there, carefully feet apart now, vibrating with interrupted desire and unfinished confessions.
When Tom finally started his slow circuit of the ice, Libby's phone chimed.
And chimed again. And then again, twice more.
Liam gave her a questioning look.
"My mother," she said without even checking the screen. "She's demanding I bring you to Sunday dinner. She's threatened to come to Boston and cook in Jane’s apartment if I keep refusing. Says she needs to meet the man who's 'stolen her daughter's heart.'" She winced at the phrasing.
"Oh, it's fine. She's just..." Libby trailed off with a laugh. "Let's just say she's extremely invested in our 'relationship.' Now she's demanding I bring you to Sunday dinner to meet the family." The words left her mouth before she'd fully considered the implications.
An awkward silence fell between them as Libby scrambled to recover. "Which obviously isn't happening. I'll make up an excuse. Training schedule, playoff preparation, something believable."
"Why not?" Liam asked, surprising her.
"Why not... what?"
"Why not dinner?" he clarified. "I'd like to meet your family. You've met my parents. It's only fair."
Libby stared at him, trying to determine if he was serious. "You want to subject yourself to dinner with my extremely dramatic mother, my sarcastic father, and whatever sisters happen to be home? Voluntarily?"
The corner of Liam's mouth lifted in what might have been amusement. "I've faced worse opposition."
"I doubt it, but I love your confidence." She hesitated, then had to ask, even though the answer might kill her. "For the narrative?"
A pause that stretched like taffy, filled with the echo of everything they'd almost said, almost done.
"No." His voice was frayed at the edges, and something in her chest tightened at the sound. "Not only for that."
"My family is... a lot," she warned.
"So is mine."
"My sister will probably try to live-tweet the whole dinner."
"I'll bring my phone charger."
"My mother will have already planned our wedding. Probably hired a skywriter to announce the save-the-date."
"Okay," he said simply.
"Okay?"
"Sunday dinner it is."
His phone buzzed. "Eight o'clock strategy meeting," he said, checking the screen.
"You should probably get back," she said, though her voice betrayed how much she didn't want him to leave. "And I need to file my story."
He helped her off the ice, hand on her lower back, the touch burning through the jersey like a brand. They both knew this conversation wasn't over. The almost-kiss hung between them, a promise and a threat and an inevitability all at once.
As she left the rink, she could feel his eyes on her, could feel the weight of everything unsaid, everything undone.