Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Your boy cleans up well for someone who just spent three hours getting crosschecked," Clara observed, appearing at Libby's elbow with two glasses of champagne.
"He's not my boy," Libby replied automatically.
"Right. Just your fake boyfriend who spent Sunday dinner with your family. Who's watching you right now, by the way."
Libby's gaze snapped up to find Liam indeed looking in her direction.
They hadn't spoken privately since that disaster of a family dinner five days ago—Lydia announcing her partnership with Wickham, Liam's abrupt departure.
It had shattered whatever fragile intimacy they'd built on the ice that morning, leaving them in an impossible space where they maintained public appearances while carrying the weight of an almost-kiss, of vulnerabilities shared but never acknowledged.
"It's complicated," Libby sighed.
"So you've said. Repeatedly. For weeks." Clara clinked her glass against Libby's. "Congratulations on the series coverage, by the way. That piece on Montreal's neutral zone trap was brilliant."
"Thanks," Libby smiled, grateful for the shift to professional territory. "Reid actually let me write the analysis without inserting random quotes about 'heart' and 'determination.'"
"Progress," Clara nodded. "And ESPN on Wednesday? You ready?"
"As I'll ever be," Libby replied, surprising herself with her lack of enthusiasm. Six weeks ago, the ESPN interview would have been the professional culmination of everything she'd worked for. Now, it felt strangely... complicated.
"By the way," Clara said, scrolling through her phone while they stood near the bar, "did you see Portland waived Wickham today?"
Libby turned from watching Liam across the room. "What?"
"Yeah, cleared waivers. Nobody wanted him." Clara showed her the screen. "He's done. AHL if he's lucky."
Relief flooded through Libby. "Thank god. Maybe Lydia will finally stop with the TikToks about her 'NHL boyfriend.'"
"We can only hope." Clara pocketed her phone. "Though knowing your sister, she'll probably spin this into content about 'supporting your man through career transitions' or some nonsense."
Libby laughed, feeling lighter. At least that particular problem was solved. Wickham out of the NHL meant Wickham out of their lives.
Before Libby could dig any further, Varlenko appeared before them, his Russian accent thickened by celebratory vodka shots.
"Libby! Our lucky charm!" he announced, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "You must interview me now. I have many insights!" He tapped his temple with an index finger the size of a breakfast sausage, winking dramatically.
"I'm off duty, Andre," Libby laughed, extracting herself from his enthusiastic embrace. "Save your insights for tomorrow's media availability."
"No, no," Varlenko insisted, brandishing his phone. "Not for newspaper. For Instagram! My followers want to meet famous girlfriend of Captain Serious."
"I don't think—" Libby began.
"Varlenko," Liam's voice interrupted smoothly as he materialized beside them. "Coach is looking for you. Something about your defensive zone coverage in the third period."
Varlenko's expression shifted to theatrical horror.
"But we won! Why always so mean?" He glanced around like a hunted animal, despite being six-foot-five and built like an industrial refrigerator.
"I go hide now." He drained his vodka in one swift motion and lumbered away, his massive frame visible to everyone as he slipped behind a decorative fern that barely reached his waist.
"There is no coach critique, is there?" Libby asked when Varlenko was out of earshot.
"Not until film review tomorrow," Liam confirmed, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "But his followers will survive without your Instagram debut."
"My hero," Libby said dryly, with only the slightest flutter of her traitorous pulse.
Liam accepted a glass of water from a passing server, declining the champagne option. At Libby's raised eyebrow, he gave a small, almost self-deprecating shrug. "Morning skate comes early."
Libby felt a sudden pang, remembering their last post-win morning session on the empty practice ice—his invitation, their shared confidences, the strange intimacy of gliding across the surface together. No such invitation had come this time.
"Always the captain," she observed.
"Someone has to remember we're playing Montreal in four days."
Clara, who had been watching their interaction with undisguised interest, cleared her throat. "I should mingle. Potential sources everywhere." She gave Libby a pointed look that promised detailed questioning later. "Congratulations on the win, Mr. D'Arcy."
Left alone in their small bubble amid the celebration, Libby found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
"The win was impressive," she finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
"Thank you," he replied, his public mask softening slightly. "Your coverage was excellent, as always."
"High praise from someone who normally considers media a necessary evil."
"I'm evolving," Liam said, a hint of genuine humor warming his voice. "Though some media remains more necessary than others."
The moment felt unexpectedly comfortable—a return to the easy professional banter they'd developed amid all the PR complications.
Before Libby could respond, however, she caught sight of Jane across the room.
Her sister's usual composed expression seemed strained, her smile not reaching her eyes as she nodded along to whatever a team executive was saying.
"Jane doesn't look like herself," Libby said, concern immediately overtaking other thoughts. "Have you seen Chase tonight? They usually orbit each other at these events."
Something flickered in Liam's expression. "Coach Taylor needed him to review some special teams footage," he replied smoothly. "Playoff preparation never stops, even during celebrations."
Before Libby could respond, Charles D'Arcy approached, his measured stride cutting through the crowd with practiced ease.
"Liam," he said, his tone carrying that particular mix of authority and distance that seemed to characterize all their interactions.
"The commissioner's on the phone. Wants to congratulate you on taking the 2-0 lead.
" He nodded politely to Libby. "Ms. Bennet-Cross.
Excellent coverage of tonight's game. Your analysis was particularly astute. "
"Thank you, Mr. D'Arcy," Libby replied. There was something in his gaze—a shrewd evaluation that made her wonder if he saw through their carefully constructed narrative.
Unlike Kate's open hostility, Charles D'Arcy's polite interest felt somehow more unnerving, as if he were cataloging her value to the family brand.
Libby glanced toward Jane again, her sister's unusually pale face strengthening her resolve. "If you'll excuse me, I should check on my sister."
As she turned to leave, Liam caught her wrist, his fingers encircling it completely.
The warmth of his grip sent an unexpected current up her arm before he abruptly released her, almost as if the contact had shocked him.
His expression flickered with something raw and unguarded.
"Libby, I—" He stopped himself. "I'll find you later," he added, his tone suggesting it wasn't merely a polite dismissal.
His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between them before he followed his father toward a quieter corner.
Libby made her way through the crowd toward her sister, the ghost of his touch still burning on her wrist. She could feel his eyes following her across the room, a physical weight between her shoulder blades that made her hyper-aware of how she moved through the space.
Jane looked up as Libby approached, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "There you are. I was thinking of heading home early."
"Everything okay?" Libby asked, instantly alert to the subtle strain in her sister's voice.
"Just tired," Jane replied unconvincingly. "Long day of treatments before the game."
"What's really going on?" Libby asked. "And don't say 'nothing' because your professional calm face has cracks showing."
Jane hesitated, glancing around to ensure privacy. "Not here," she said quietly. "Let's step outside for a minute."
The night air was cool against Libby's skin as they slipped onto the sports bar's small side patio, currently deserted as most patrons preferred the warmth inside. Jane leaned against the stone railing, her usual perfect posture momentarily abandoned.
"Chase ended things between us," she said, her voice quiet but steady.
Libby stared at her. "Ended things? But I thought you two were finally moving forward."
Jane sighed softly. "After he canceled our dinner date with a last-minute 'film session' excuse two nights ago, I thought it was just playoff scheduling.
But yesterday morning, he pulled me aside and said we need to 'maintain appropriate boundaries.
' That pursuing anything personal during playoffs would be inadvisable. "
"That makes zero sense," Libby said, anger rising on her sister's behalf. "He's been practically radiating hearts and flowers around you for weeks. Did he say why?"
Jane looked down at her hands. "He just kept talking about professionalism and team dynamics," she said miserably. "Something about how it wouldn't be appropriate given our positions—assistant coach and medical staff."
Libby's mind instantly flashed to Liam's evasive response about Chase's absence tonight.
The familiar language—boundaries, professionalism, team dynamics.
She'd heard the same before, from every press conference she'd attended since covering the Steel.
The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.
"Liam," she said under her breath, not a question but a realization. Something cold settled in her stomach.
"What?" Jane looked up, genuinely confused.