Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Liam knocked twice on the hotel door—sharp, professional—and waited.
Seven hours of travel on two hours of sleep. His suit jacket was somewhere on the chartered plane. His shirt collar felt wrong. The hallway carpet was too thick, too silent, the kind of deliberate luxury that announced itself in textures rather than words.
"Door's open!" Wickham's voice, careless and assuming. "Put the tray on the table!"
Liam turned the handle.
The suite was all white—linens, curtains, the kind of calculated coastal aesthetic meant to signal luxury to people who'd never experienced actual disregard for price. Wickham stood by the window in a silk robe, coffee in hand, looking out at water so blue it seemed artificial.
He turned. Saw Liam. Froze.
The coffee cup didn't fall—Wickham had always had good hands—but his fingers went white around the rim.
"D'Arcy." Too light. Too easy. The same voice he'd used talking his way onto Portland's roster, into Lydia's DMs, past every red flag he'd ever waved. "Come to enjoy the view? I'm applying for citizenship—you can buy it here." A pause, then smoother: "Though I suppose you'd know all about that."
Liam closed the door. He'd watched Libby's ESPN interview three times on the plane.
Heard her say Gray Wickham with that particular precision she used dissecting his every move for the past month.
Seen her take apart an entire criminal operation with the same analytical brilliance she'd once turned on him.
He was exhausted. He was done.
"You're coming back to Boston."
Wickham laughed—high, brittle. "No extradition treaty. Your lawyers can't touch me."
Liam pulled out his phone, opened an email, turned the screen. "My lawyers don't need to."
Wickham's easy confidence cracked as he read. "What—"
"Every account. Every LLC you've been using. Every offshore account." Liam's voice stayed level. Almost conversational. "Frozen."
"You can't—"
"Already did. Eight AM Eastern." Liam put the phone away. "The D'Arcy organization has excellent banking relationships."
The color drained from Wickham's face. "You bastard."
"And to think, my parents used to be fond of you.
" Liam checked his watch—more theater than necessity, but Wickham had always responded to performance.
"But I'm the one offering you a choice. Stay here broke, unable to complete your citizenship purchase, waiting for federal cooperation.
Or get on my plane, turn yourself in with cooperation credit, and maybe avoid prison. "
"Why would I—"
"Because my sister wants to see you charged," Liam said quietly. "And the FBI has statements from three other women. Lydia's testimony. Financial records going back three years." He paused. "You're done. The only question is whether you face it now or later in handcuffs."
Wickham stared. The silk robe looked ridiculous suddenly, costume rather than confidence.
Liam checked his watch again. "Plane leaves in thirty minutes. Get dressed."
Six hours back. Wickham in the rear cabin with security between them, alternating between silence and self-pity Liam didn't acknowledge.
The delivery confirmation was still on his phone: Package delivered, signature confirmed, Elizabeth Bennet-Cross.
He'd debated the greater part of an hour about what to write before finally putting down the only two words that kept looping in his head: Please come.
No explanation while he was coordinating with federal agents. No excuses while Mark's security tracked Wickham's movements. No words while he was on a plane hunting down a criminal.
Actions first. Words after.
His father's philosophy, for better or worse.
He smiled despite his exhaustion, imagining the look on Libby's face when she found out he'd gone to St. Kitts alone.
She'd be furious—that beautiful particular fury she got when people tried to protect her from things she'd rather face head-on.
But he'd needed to do this. Make sure Wickham paid for what he'd done to the two most important women in his life.
Now it was done. Now he just wanted to see her.
Whether she'd come was up to her.
His phone buzzed.
Georgia
Mom wants to know if you're bringing a guest to the game tomorrow. I told her to mind her business but she's relentless.
Liam
Ask me after the game.
Georgia
Cryptic. I love it.
For what it's worth? I think she'll come.
He stared at the screen. Locked his phone. Closed his eyes against exhaustion and hope in equal measure.
The Garden locker room: sweat, rubber, equipment cleaner. The ritual unchanged since he was seven—left pad first, tape job precise, stick angled exactly right.
Tonight could see Boston into the Stanley Cup Final. Hockey was the furthest thing from his mind.
His phone sat dark in his locker. Superstition or cowardice, he didn't examine which. If she wasn't coming, he didn't want to know yet.
"You good?" Chase dropped beside him, already suited. "You look like you're walking into battle."
"We're closing out the conference finals."
"Which should make you happy, not look like you're contemplating mortality."
Liam finished taping. "Did Jane say anything?"
"About what?"
"Never mind."
"We're doing this." Chase leaned back. "Jane's being very tight-lipped about whatever you sent, and she's enjoying watching me suffer."
"Good."
"You're both infuriating." Chase stood, adjusted his tie. "Fix it. Jane's worried, which means I'm worried, which means you owe me."
Morrison dropped onto the bench across from him. "Ready to close this, Cap?"
"Ready."
His phone buzzed.
Georgia
She's here.
His hand tightened.
Georgia
She's wearing it.
Breath left his lungs.
She came. She was here. She was wearing his name, sitting in his family's box where everyone could see.
She'd said yes.
Liam stood abruptly. His legs needed movement, energy with nowhere to go yet. He paced to the far end of the locker room and back, stick in hand, channeling adrenaline into focus.
"Cap?" Varlenko was watching him, half-dressed in his gear. "You good?"
"Yeah." His voice came out rough. "Let's go to work."
Warmups. The ice felt wrong under his skates—too soft, too slow, or maybe that was just exhaustion making everything harder. Liam took his usual route: stretches, edge work, shots on goal. His body knew the pattern even if his mind was elsewhere.
Third level. Center ice. The D'Arcy box.
He couldn't see faces from here, but he knew the layout. Front row: his parents, Georgia. Behind them, whoever Charles deemed worthy of proximity to the family name.
She was up there. Wearing his jersey.
She'd put on his name and walked into his family's box in front of every camera in the building.
Liam circled back to center ice. Looked up.
There—blue and silver, number 17. His name across her shoulders.
His heart kicked.
He tapped his stick once against the ice. Placed his gloved hand over his heart—held it there, one beat, two—then raised his stick and pointed.
At her.
At the box.
At the choice she'd made.
The crowd noise shifted. Cameras found him. The jumbotron caught it: Liam D'Arcy pointing his stick at his family box, at a woman in his jersey.
"Holy shit," Varlenko said beside him. "Did you just—"
"Yep."
"On jumbotron?"
"Yep."
"You must win now. Can't make gesture like that and lose. Internet destroy you."
"Better win, then."
Varlenko grinned. "Is my captain."
Libby was going to pass out.
"Breathe," Georgia murmured beside her, sounding delighted. "In through the nose, out through the mouth."
"I can't feel my face."
"That's because nearly twenty thousand people just watched my brother point his stick at you on the jumbotron." Georgia leaned closer. "He's never done that before, by the way."
Charles D'Arcy turned halfway around, expression unreadable. "That was certainly... unambiguous."
"Charles," Helen murmured, warmth in her voice.
"I'm simply noting—"
"You're simply being impossible," Georgia interrupted. "He pointed his stick at her, Dad. That's a grand gesture. Be romantic for once in your life."
"I'm extremely romantic. I once bought your mother an entire jewelry store."
Libby couldn't breathe. The jersey felt enormous—his number, his name—falling nearly to her knees.
She'd walked past the press box to get here, past everyone who'd dismissed her as clickbait that first day.
They'd been setting up laptops, organizing notes, doing the work she'd been doing until everything imploded.
But tonight she wasn't Libby Bennet-Cross, byline.
She wasn't here to analyze plays for voracious hockey fans, to agonize over word placement, to claw and fight to make sure her insights would get the most clicks.
Tonight, she'd been given a gift—to be the face he saw when he looked up.
The private elevator had smelled like furniture polish and fresh flowers.
The hallway to the family boxes had carpet so thick it absorbed footsteps.
Framed photographs lined the walls—Liam mid-slapshot, every muscle engaged.
Other Steel players. Championship banners.
The D'Arcy name on a bronze plaque beside the door.
This was his world. The one she'd never imagined being close enough to cover, let alone stand inside wearing his name.
And he'd just pointed his stick at her. On the jumbotron. In front of everyone.
After vanishing for twenty-four hours. After the jersey and the note and the utter confusion about what any of it meant.
"I need air," Libby managed.
Georgia glanced at her, understanding immediately. "Go. We still have a few minutes before the puck drops."
Libby fled the box, weaving through the crowd in the private suite level concourse until she found a relatively quiet corner. She leaned against the wall, jersey sleeves falling past her wrists, and tried to remember how lungs worked.
He'd been silent for twenty-four hours. She'd put on the jersey anyway. He'd pointed his stick at her in front of the entire arena.