Chapter 10 #2
Before Libby could respond, Liam emerged from her father's study, looking slightly more relaxed and holding a glass with a finger of scotch. He smiled when he saw her.
"Your father's been showing me his old coaching rosters," he said. "Impressive."
"Oh God, not the coaching rosters," Libby groaned. "He'll keep you there for hours."
"I don't mind." He seemed to mean it. "Though he did suggest that you might be better company."
She gave him a wry smile. "Hardly."
They stood there for a moment, alone in the living room, that same charged awareness from yesterday morning filling the space between them.
"Is that you?" Liam asked, moving to examine the wall of photos. He stopped at one of seven-year-old Libby in full hockey gear, grinning toothlessly next to her father on what appeared to be the world's smallest backyard rink.
"First year of peewee," Libby confirmed, moving to stand beside him. Too close, probably, but he didn't step away. "Dad flooded the backyard even though it barely got cold enough. I think we got maybe six days of actual ice that whole winter."
"You were adorable," Liam said softly.
"Were?" She turned to face him, playful challenge in her voice.
"Are. I mean—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks.
He looked down at her, and for a moment she thought he might actually finish what they'd started yesterday. The space between them seemed to shrink without either moving.
"Libby—"
"Is that young Elizabeth in her hockey gear?"
They jumped apart as Calvin Middleton's pompous voice preceded him into the room. He stood in the doorway in what was clearly his best suit, holding a bottle of wine like a trophy.
"Calvin," Libby managed, attempting to paste a smile over her grimace. "What a... surprise."
"Your mother mentioned you were having a family dinner.
I thought I'd drop by with this excellent vintage.
I have it on good authority this label is favored by Kate Davenport herself.
" His eyes cut to Liam, then back to Libby.
He licked his lips. "The Montreal owner.
I'm quite familiar with her preferences. "
"Mr. D'Arcy," Middleton said, stepping forward with hand extended. "Calvin Middleton, host of 'Middleton's Middle Ice' and special correspondent for Springfield Sports Radio. We met briefly at the Winter Classic media event."
"Mr. Middleton," Liam replied, his handshake brief but polite. "Of course. The Winter Classic."
His tone was perfectly calibrated—warm enough to seem genuine, vague enough to mean nothing. Libby, who'd spent weeks analyzing his press conferences, couldn't tell if he actually remembered Calvin or if this was just world-class media training at work.
"Well, dinner should be ready soon," Libby said, resigned to the inevitable.
"Your mother was kind enough to include me.
" Calvin's eyes darted to Liam again. "I've been developing a new show concept.
Statistical analysis meets human interest stories.
I'm in talks with several networks." A pause.
"They're reviewing my proposal. I'm expecting responses any day now.
Perhaps you're familiar with the challenges of breaking into national broadcasting? "
"I wouldn't know," Liam said pleasantly. "I just play hockey."
"Dinner!" Linda called with convenient timing. "Everyone to the table!"
The dining room had been set with what Libby recognized as the "good china"—wedding gifts that emerged maybe twice a year. Linda had even lit candles, though one was already listing slightly.
"Liam, you sit here," Linda directed, placing him next to Libby with zero subtlety. "Calvin, you're across from them. Perfect for conversation!"
As they settled in, Mary appeared, carrying her tablet and wearing her usual expression of vague disapproval.
"Mary, no devices at the dinner table," Linda said automatically.
Mary ignored her, settling into her chair while still scrolling.
"This is my sister Mary," Libby said to Liam. "Mary, this is Liam."
Mary didn't look up.
Kitty slid into her chair with a bright smile. "Hello! I'm Kitty."
"Mary's working on her master's thesis," Robert explained. "Statistical modeling of social phenomena. Kitty's finishing up at Westfield State."
"Go Owls!" Kitty chirped.
"It's more complex than that," Mary muttered, still not looking up from her screen.
"Did you know," Mary continued, settling into her chair, "that the tomatoes in most commercial pasta sauces contain an average of fourteen different pesticide residues?
I researched it for my podcast, 'Statistically Speaking: When Numbers Ruin Your Day.
' The episode on food contamination in sports venues got thirty-seven downloads. That's nearly triple my average."
"Congratulations, Mary," Jane said warmly.
Under the table, Libby felt Liam's knee press against hers. Neither of them moved away. The contact was barely anything, completely deniable, and yet her entire focus narrowed to that point of connection.
"So Liam," Linda began the interrogation while aggressively serving lasagna, "tell us about your family. Your sister Georgia is a figure skater, isn't she? So accomplished!"
Libby felt Liam tense slightly beside her.
"She was," he said carefully. "She's taking a break from competition."
"Oh, that's a shame. Such a talented family! Your father must be so proud of both of you."
Liam made a noncommittal noise that could have meant anything.
"Speaking of expectations," Middleton interjected, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye, "I heard there was some controversy about the Matthews trade. Something about management interference?"
The temperature seemed to drop. Under the table, Libby shifted her knee more firmly against Liam's in silent support.
"Team decisions are complex," Liam said evenly. "Multiple factors go into any trade."
"Yes, but when family ownership gets involved—" Middleton pressed, leaning in further. "Come now, we're all friends here. Surely you can share what really happened?"
"More wine?" Robert interrupted smoothly, reaching for the bottle. "Calvin, you were telling us about your ESPN connections?"
"Oh yes!" Middleton launched into what was clearly a well-rehearsed speech about his importance in the broadcasting world. "Just yesterday, I was discussing with network executives—they're very impressed with my analysis—"
"Didn't Marcie Hartman from WCBN file a restraining order against you?" Mary asked, looking up from her tablet. "I have the court records in my database. Filed March 15th, granted March 22nd."
"That was a misunderstanding!" Middleton said quickly, his face reddening. "A clerical error!"
"Oh my god, wait," Kitty appeared, leaning over Mary's shoulder to read the screen. "It literally says 'persistent unwanted contact' and—no way—'delusional professional claims.'" She looked around the table with wide eyes and a delighted gasp, like she'd just discovered the juiciest gossip.
Jane kicked Kitty under the table, but the damage was done. Middleton had turned an alarming shade of purple.
"Perhaps we should discuss something else," Robert suggested, though Libby caught the amused glint in his eye. "Libby's recent analysis pieces have been getting quite a bit of attention."
Middleton's smile turned knowing. "Ah yes, those analytical pieces. Very... insightful." He glanced at Liam with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. "I suppose having certain connections provides unique access to inside information. Pillow talk can be quite valuable in journalism."
The table went silent. Libby felt her face burn with rage.
"My analysis is based on publicly available statistics and game footage," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "Not 'pillow talk.'"
"Of course, of course," Middleton said dismissively.
He leaned closer, placing his hand on hers with what she assumed he thought was reassuring warmth.
"I didn't mean to imply—you've always had so much promise as a journalist. In fact, I think you should consider a new direction.
When 'Middleton's Middle Ice' goes syndicate, I'll need a co-host. You'll need somewhere to go when this.
.." he looked between her and Liam, "arrangement fizzles out.
Together we could build something more.. . legitimate."
Libby noticed Liam watching the interaction, his eyes tracking Middleton's hand on hers with unmistakable intensity.
"I have an interview with ESPN next week," Libby said flatly, pulling her hand away. "Senior analyst position. In Bristol."
The table went silent.
"What?" Linda's voice reached a pitch that could shatter glass. "ESPN? My daughter? Robert, did you know about this?"
"It's just an interview," Libby said, but she was watching Liam's face—genuine surprise, then something that looked like pride, then an expression that disappeared too quickly to identify.
"That's incredible," Liam said quietly. "When did this happen?"
"Friday afternoon," Libby admitted. "Got a call from their Boston office."
"ESPN?" Calvin's voice cracked slightly. "The Bristol headquarters?"
"ESPN interviews don't typically convert to offers," Mary said, still scrolling on her tablet.
"Their hire rate for external candidates is under twelve percent.
" She paused. "Though women in sports journalism do better if they're established before thirty.
After that, pregnancy timing becomes a significant variable in career trajectory. "
"Mary!" Linda gasped. “She’s not pregnant!”
"What? It's just data. Though if she marries someone with Liam's financial profile, the pregnancy penalty really would be negligible.”
The front door slammed open with dramatic force.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Lydia appeared in a whirlwind of shopping bags and energy. "But the most AMAZING thing just happened with my new partnership!"
"You're forty minutes late," Jane pointed out.