Chapter 14 #2
What did any of it mean?
"Well, well." The voice was cold enough to frost glass. "This is quite a performance."
Libby looked up to find Kate Davenport emerging from the adjacent suite, silver hair pulled into a severe chignon, diamonds the size of marbles at her ears and throat.
"Mrs. Davenport."
"Wearing his jersey?" Kate's smile could cut diamonds. "How pathetic. He's just using you for—"
"Mom." A bored, elegant voice cut through Kate's monologue. "God, you're doing the thing again."
Anne Davenport appeared behind her mother in thousand-dollar cashmere and Converse high-tops so worn the rubber was peeling from the canvas. Her blonde hair fell in professionally maintained waves, and she clutched a vape pen in the same hand that bore an oversized men's Cartier watch.
She took a long drag, blew the vapor toward the ceiling, and looked at Libby with something like solidarity.
"Liam is like my weird, broody step-brother," Anne said flatly. "And not like in those books you pretend not to read either."
Kate spluttered. "Anne, that's hardly—"
"We dated for like five minutes in prep school because you wouldn't shut up about mergers and bloodlines and producing perfect hockey-playing grandchildren." Anne scrolled through her phone with her free hand. "It was exhausting. He was exhausted. We were both relieved when I moved to Paris."
"You and Liam were perfect together—"
"We were perfectly boring together. Also?
He's not even into blondes." Anne looked at Libby, really looked, taking in the oversized jersey and the obvious emotional chaos.
"Good. You look like you actually have a personality.
And I have Etienne in Paris, who's, you know, actually hot and French and definitely not my step-brother.
" She pulled out her phone, already scrolling.
"So maybe redirect your controlling energy toward literally anything else. "
“Etienne is a pasty, degenerate nobody and I will not have him—”
“Mother, get a life. You can’t have mine.” She nodded at Libby's jersey. "That looks better on you than it ever would have on me."
Then she walked away, trailing vape smoke and European indifference, leaving Kate frozen in the hallway, mouth open, face turning an alarming shade of red.
Libby pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
"You—" Kate started.
"I need to get back," Libby said, already moving. "Game's about to start."
She slipped past Kate and back into the D'Arcy box. The opening faceoff was seconds away. She slid into her seat beside Georgia, heart hammering.
"You look pleased with yourself," Georgia observed.
"Anne Davenport just called Liam her weird, broody step-brother and told Kate to redirect her controlling energy."
Georgia's eyes went wide. "No."
"And complimented my jersey."
"I've never seen Anne actually stand up to Kate before," Georgia said quietly. "Paris has been good for her."
The puck dropped.
He won the draw, cycled the puck, created space, set up Morrison for a shot that pinged off the post. The entire building groaned, and Libby's fingernails dug into her palms.
This was going to be a long game.
By the end of the first period, Boston led 2-0 and Libby had stopped pretending she was watching objectively.
She'd screamed herself hoarse when Liam threaded a pass through three defenders that Mattingley buried top shelf.
She'd grabbed Georgia's arm when Jensen went on a breakaway—Liam's perfectly timed stretch pass hitting him in stride—and nearly left permanent nail marks when the goalie got a piece of it before it trickled over the line.
"He's playing angry," Charles observed during the intermission. "Or inspired. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
"Inspired," Helen said firmly, glancing at Libby with unmistakable warmth.
Georgia caught Libby's eye and winked.
The second period was brutal. Montreal came out desperate—heavy hits, crowding the crease, the kind of physical intimidation that made Libby want to climb down to ice level and personally fight their entire defensive line.
They scored once. Libby grabbed Georgia's hand.
They scored again. 2-2 with eight minutes left in the period. Libby stopped breathing.
Liam blocked a shot that sent him sliding into the boards. He got up slow—too slow—and Libby was already half out of her seat before she saw him shake it off and skate back to the bench. He tested his leg. Hopped back over the boards.
"He's fine," Georgia said, reading her expression. "I've seen him play through three cracked ribs and a separated shoulder."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"It's not supposed to. It's just true."
The third period stretched into eternity. Every shift felt like torture. Every time Liam touched the puck, Libby's heart tried to escape her chest through her throat. Boston scored on the power play—Morrison from Liam, again—and took a 3-2 lead.
Two minutes left. Montreal pulled their goalie. Six attackers against five defenders and Libby couldn't feel her hands.
Charles was leaning forward in his seat, knuckles white on the armrests. Helen had stopped watching, eyes closed like she was praying. Georgia was doing a running commentary under her breath: "Clear it clear it clear it—”
The buzzer sounded.
Boston won, 3-2. Series over. They were going to the Stanley Cup Final.
The Garden exploded into chaos. Confetti cannons fired, the goal horn blared on repeat, and suddenly there were people everywhere—security trying to maintain order, fans storming toward the glass, the entire building shaking with noise.
Libby stood, looking for Liam on the ice, but couldn't find him in the mass of blue and silver jerseys mobbing each other. Players were throwing helmets, gloves, sticks raised to the crowd. Somewhere in that chaos was Liam, but she couldn't see him.
She needed to see him.
"Go," Georgia said, understanding immediately.
Libby pushed toward the exit, some invisible string pulling her toward the ice.
The concourse was pandemonium—celebrating fans, Steel staff running toward the ice, Montreal fans filing out in grim silence.
She made it down two levels before the crowd became impenetrable.
Security had locked down access to ice level.
She pressed forward anyway, wedging through gaps, apologizing to people she definitely elbowed. By the time she reached the glass, they were already presenting the Prince of Wales trophy—Liam and his teammates in matching championship ball caps, the trophy gleaming under arena lights.
The team passed it around, each player hoisting it with exhausted grins. Liam lifted it last, as captain, and the roar from the crowd somehow got louder.
Then the press swarmed in—cameras, boom mics, reporters shouting questions—and Libby lost sight of him again.
She moved along the glass, trying to find an angle, and then—
There. Through a gap in the media scrum.
Liam, championship hat backwards, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for something specific.
Looking for her.
Their eyes met across the ice. His expression shifted—relief, recognition, something that made her breath catch.
He mouthed something. Wait for me.
Then a camera operator stepped between them, blocking her view entirely, and Liam disappeared behind lights and lenses and the organized chaos of championship media coverage.
Libby pulled back from the glass, heart hammering. Wait for him where? The ice was locked down. The locker room would be closed to everyone but team and credentialed media. The press conference—
The press conference. That's where he meant.
She turned and fought her way back through the crowd, heading for the media room. Her phone started buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out while navigating around a group of celebrating fans.
News alerts. Twitter notifications. Text from Clara:
Clara
HOLY SHIT TURN ON ESPN RIGHT NOW
Libby opened Twitter. The first video that loaded made her stop walking.
Liam, in sunglasses and a suit with no tie, stepping off a private plane. Behind him, two security guards flanking a man in handcuffs who looked significantly less comfortable than he had in St. Kitts.
Gray Wickham.
The news report was posted an hour ago, but the timestamp on the actual security footage was clear: MONDAY 4:15 p.m., LOGAN AIRPORT.
Monday.
He did this yesterday. While she was spiraling, convinced he'd abandoned her.
While Jane was getting reinstated. While she was staring at her phone, feeling hollow.
He wasn't silent because he was pulling away.
He was silent because he was in St. Kitts, retrieving the man who had torn her family apart.
She scrolled frantically. More videos. Photos.
A statement from the FBI thanking the government of St. Kitts and Nevis and the D'Arcy family for their assistance, and looking forward to Mr. Wickham's cooperation as they pursue charges.
A quote from the D'Arcy organization's legal team about bringing a fugitive to justice.
Liam had gone to St. Kitts. Alone. Had brought Wickham back to face federal charges.
For Georgia. For Lydia. For her.
Relief hit first—he hadn't disappeared, hadn't retreated back into careful distance. Then irritation, sharp and immediate, because he'd gone alone to confront a criminal in a foreign country and she was going to have words about that particular brand of protective stupidity.
And underneath both, buoyant and unbidden: love.
The stupid, weightless kind that made her chest feel too small. That string that had been pulling her toward the ice had gone vertical, her heart floating up and away like a balloon cut loose from its tether.
Oh God.
She was in love with him.
Not the careful, maybe-this-could-be-something feeling she'd been telling herself was reasonable. Not the this-makes-sense-on-paper logic she'd used to justify putting on his jersey.
The full, terrifying, no-going-back kind.