Chapter 13 #2
Libby didn't hesitate. "Gray, I know your type.
You trade on charm, exploit trust, and leave wreckage behind while you stay invisible.
What you did to Georgia D'Arcy. You thought my sister would be just another easy mark, another disposable front.
You told me once I had integrity, that I was different.
You should have believed it. You underestimated her.
And you severely underestimated me. This isn't just a scandal anymore; this is evidence.
It's federal. Every reporter, every prosecutor, every team owner now knows your name isn't just linked to hockey--it's linked to cowardice and serial fraud. You like attention, Gray? Enjoy this."
She paused, her voice softening. "And to my sister Lydia, wherever you are—please call. Come home. We're not angry. We just want you safe."
"Elizabeth Bennet-Cross, thank you for your time."
"Thank you, Stewart."
The red light went dark.
Libby sat frozen for a moment, adrenaline still coursing through her veins, before a production assistant unclipped her mic. Phillips extended his hand.
"That was exceptional journalism," he said. "We'll be following this story closely. The Bristol position is still on hold until this resolves, but Libby—you just made your case better than any interview could have."
Libby was in an Uber back to Jane's apartment when her phone exploded with notifications. Twitter was on fire. The interview had gone viral—sports reporters, legal analysts, even former players weighing in.
Then Georgia called.
"Mark tracked him," Georgia said without preamble. "Wickham took a private flight to St. Barts this afternoon. No extradition treaty."
"So he just... gets away with it?"
"Not if he ever wants to come back to the US. And your interview just made sure everyone knows his face." Georgia's voice was grim. "He's trapped there, Libby. That's not freedom—that's exile."
"What about Lydia?"
"We're working on it. Mark has people checking hotels, rental cars, anything connected to Wickham's known aliases." Georgia paused. "Libby, wherever she is, your interview just changed everything. If Wickham's panicking, he's going to make mistakes."
Libby got back to the apartment in the early evening. The game was starting. She turned on the TV, found the broadcast, and curled up on the couch with her phone.
The opening faceoff. Liam won it, cycled the puck, created an immediate scoring chance that Montreal's goalie barely stopped. The energy was different tonight—Boston came out aggressive, relentless.
Montreal pushed back hard. Heavy hits, desperate forechecking. Liam blocked a shot that left him limping for two strides before he shook it off and won another faceoff.
Ten minutes into the first period, Morrison scored on a power play. Liam with the assist. 1-0 Boston.
The period ended and Libby was reaching for her water when her phone rang. Jane.
"Lydia just called me," Jane said, her voice shaking. "She's at the Providence Grand Hotel, Room 412. Wickham left hours ago. She's stranded—he has her passport and credit cards. She finally realized he's not coming back."
"Is she hurt?"
"No. Scared and humiliated, but not hurt." Jane's voice cracked. "Your interview went viral. Her Instagram and TikTok exploded with comments—people feeling sorry for her, calling her a victim. That's what finally made her understand what he is."
"I'm calling Mark," Libby said, already pulling up the number. "Tell her not to leave the room. Help is coming."
She hung up and immediately called Mark. He answered on the first ring.
"Providence Grand Hotel, room 412," Libby said.
"Good. We'll have someone there in twenty minutes." Mark's voice was grim. "But Libby, you need to understand—there's an active federal gambling investigation. The FBI is going to want to question her. She's a key witness."
"She's a victim—"
"We don't know that until we can prove it. But she's also the only person who can testify about Wickham's operation from the inside. The lawyers will handle it, but she's going to be taken into custody for questioning."
"One conversation with her and I guarantee there will be no question that there are likely houseplants with more knowledge of this scheme than her."
Mark's brief laugh was humorless. "Let's hope the FBI agrees with you."
Libby's stomach dropped. "How long will they keep her?"
"Depends on how cooperative she is and how fast the lawyers can work. At least through tomorrow, possibly into Tuesday." Mark's voice gentled. "The D'Arcy legal team is already coordinating with the federal prosecutor's office. We'll take care of her. I promise."
After he hung up, Libby sat alone in the apartment, her hands shaking. Lydia was safe from Wickham but about to face federal agents. And there was nothing she could do except wait.
On screen, the game continued. Boston dominated. By the third period, it was 4-1, and Liam was everywhere—winning crucial faceoffs, blocking shots, playing with a focus that bordered on fury.
Montreal pulled their goalie with two minutes left in desperation. Liam intercepted a pass and scored into the empty net from center ice.
5-1. Boston had won. Series 3-1. One game away from the Stanley Cup Final.
The broadcast cut to the locker room celebration, then to the press conference. Liam sat composed in his suit, answering questions about the dominant performance, the series lead.
Someone from NBC Sports asked about the personal allegations.
Liam looked directly at the camera. "I suggest you watch Elizabeth Bennet-Cross's statement from earlier today. She said everything that needs to be said. Next question."
Libby's phone buzzed.
Liam
You were magnificent.
Libby woke on Jane's couch the next morning, still in yesterday's clothes, her phone almost dead.
She'd fallen asleep watching ESPN's post-game coverage, waiting for updates that never came.
The apartment was still empty—Jane had texted around midnight that she was staying in Springfield one more night.
She checked her phone. Nothing from Liam.
There were texts from Georgia (legal updates about Lydia's processing), from Reid (excited about her ESPN performance going viral), and her mother had somehow gotten her phone back and sent approximately seventeen messages that were equal parts panic about federal agents and pride about Libby being on national television. But nothing from Liam.
The team had flown back to Boston overnight. He was probably sleeping. Or dealing with team obligations. Or any number of completely reasonable things.
Her chest felt strangely hollow anyway.
Libby showered, changed into clean clothes, and was making coffee when Georgia called.
"Lydia's still with federal agents," Georgia said.
"They're being thorough. The lawyers think she'll be released to your parents' custody tomorrow—they're positioning her as a cooperative witness, showing them everything about Wickham's operation.
It's going to take time, but she's cooperating fully. "
"Is she okay?"
"Scared. Exhausted. But okay." Georgia paused. "I'm actually heading to the federal building now. To talk to her. I thought... I've been where she is. Maybe it'll help if she hears it from someone who knows what it's like."
Libby's throat tightened. "Georgia, how are you? This whole thing—"
"I was worried," Georgia admitted. "I barely slept.
I thought I was going to be sick when you went on air.
But this?" Her voice shifted, stronger. "This feels amazing.
Watching him run. Watching his face on every screen.
Knowing everyone finally sees what he is.
" She paused. "Thank you for using my name yesterday.
For letting other women know they're not alone. "
"Of course," Libby said quietly.
Mid-morning, Jane burst into the apartment, her face glowing in a way Libby hadn't seen in weeks.
"He came to Springfield," Jane said, dropping her overnight bag. "Last night. Chase drove down after the game and showed up at Mom and Dad's at midnight."
Libby sat up straighter. "What happened?"
"He apologized. For everything. For pulling away, for not fighting harder when Liam warned him about the optics.
" Jane sank onto the couch beside her. "He said Liam was being a protective idiot—his words—but that he should have pushed back harder.
That he let Liam's concerns override what we both felt.
And he's standing with me." She rolled her eyes but couldn't keep the grin off her face.
"He filed an official complaint with the GM to reinstate me, and scheduled a meeting with HR on Monday to let them know we're together. "
"Jane, that's amazing." Libby pulled her sister into a hug, genuinely happy for her.
Jane held on tight, then pulled back with a slightly sheepish expression. "Is it stupid to be thinking about nothing but a guy when my whole world could still fall apart?"
"Not just any guy," Libby said.
Jane smiled, real and warm. "No. Not just any guy."
Libby felt the happiness for her sister war with something else—a tightness in her chest she couldn't quite name.
If Chase was back from Montreal, Liam probably was too.
He'd already shown up at her door once, but was she an idiot for expecting a text or a phone call now that he was back in town?
If the Steel won Game 5 on Tuesday night, they'd take the series and move on to the Cup.
The team was undoubtedly working non-stop to prepare, and yet, Chase had found the time to seek out Jane.
But Chase and Jane were together now. She and Liam were what? Fake daters who were now wrapped up in a legal scandal?
"Have you heard from Liam?" Jane asked, clearly reading something in Libby's expression.
"Not since last night after the game."
"He's probably dealing with team stuff," Jane said carefully. "Or coordinating with Mark and the lawyers about Lydia."
But noon came and went with no word. Libby tried to distract herself with work—answering emails from colleagues, drafting follow-up pieces on the Wickham investigation. Reid called to tell her the Herald was running her ESPN interview as a major story, front page of the sports section.
"You did good, kid," Reid said. "Real journalism. I'm proud of you."
It should have felt like a victory. Instead, she just felt hollow.
That afternoon, Georgia called with an update: Lydia would be released by early evening. She'd be officially designated as a cooperating witness. No charges filed.
"Where's Liam?" Libby asked before she could stop herself.
Georgia was quiet for a moment. "Handling something. He'll explain."
"Handling what?"
"I can't—he should tell you himself."
After Georgia hung up, Libby stared at her phone. Handling something. What could he be handling that kept him from sending a single text?
The answer, her traitorous brain supplied, was obvious: he was done. Everything was handled. His people had taken care of it. Lydia would be released, Jane's job was secure, the scandal was turning in their favor. His duty was fulfilled.
And now he was pulling back. Putting distance between them. Going back to his carefully controlled life where messy working-class reporters with disastrous families didn't fit.
Anne was probably back in town for Game 5. Beautiful, poised, scandal-free Anne Davenport who'd never bring federal investigations and gambling rings into the D'Arcy family orbit.
Libby grabbed her laptop and opened a new document, typing out a professional, detached thank-you:
Liam—
Thank you for coordinating your legal team and security resources to help my family. Georgia and your lawyers have been exceptional. We're grateful for everything the D'Arcy organization has done.
She stared at it. Too formal. Too distant. Too much like what it was—a goodbye.
She deleted it.
Later that afternoon, there was a knock at the door.
Libby opened it to find a delivery driver holding a large box.
"Elizabeth Bennet-Cross?" he confirmed, consulting his tablet.
She signed, confused, and brought the box inside. The return address was just a Boston zip code. No note on the outside.
She cut the tape carefully.
Inside was a jersey.
A Boston Steel jersey, home blue with silver numbers. Number 17. D'ARCY across the shoulders.
His jersey.
Beneath it was an envelope. Libby's hands shook as she opened it.
The handwriting was angular, precise—undeniably Liam's.
Libby—
Please come.
x, Liam
Two passes fell out of the envelope. Family Box A, Section 102.
Libby held the jersey up, feeling the weight of it, the reality of it. He was offering his name. His family. His world. Publicly.
She pulled the jersey over her head, let it fall nearly to her knees, and looked at herself in Jane's bathroom mirror.
She looked ridiculous and hopeful and terrified.
Her phone sat silent on the counter. No texts. No calls. Just the jersey and two passes to his family box and a note that said Please come.
She didn't know what any of it meant.
But she knew she'd be there Tuesday night.