Chapter 14 #3
"Excuse me—sorry—" She pushed past a group of reporters setting up cameras outside the media room. The press conference was about to start.
She slipped in just as Mariska was introducing Liam and Coach Taylor. The room erupted in applause. Liam sat down at the table, championship cap still on, exhaustion and satisfaction written across his face.
"Liam, congrats on the win. Talk about that game-winning assist."
"Morrison made a great shot. I just got him the puck."
"Your performance throughout this series has been exceptional. What's clicking for you right now?"
"Team effort. Everyone's elevated their game. Credit to coaching staff for the preparation."
Standard Liam answers. Deflecting praise, redirecting to teammates. But there was something different in his delivery—less robotic, more present.
A reporter from ESPN stood. "Liam, there's been significant news today about Gray Wickham's arrest in connection with the gambling investigation. Can you comment on your involvement?"
The room went quiet.
Liam leaned forward slightly. "Gray Wickham's criminal activities have nothing to do with the Boston Steel organization or this team's championship run.
That's a legal matter being handled by appropriate authorities.
Tonight is about this team, this fanbase, and the Stanley Cup Final we just earned. Next question."
"But you were photographed—"
"I said next question." Not aggressive. Just final.
Someone from the Boston Globe asked about defensive adjustments in the third period. Liam answered, but kept it brief.
"You've been notably more engaged with media throughout the playoffs," another reporter observed. "But tonight you seem almost eager to get this over with. Any reason?"
Liam's mouth quirked. "Well, my favorite reporter isn't the one asking questions."
The room laughed. A few people glanced around, trying to figure out who he meant.
Then Liam's eyes found hers in the back of the room.
Everything else disappeared.
"Speaking of," he said, standing up while Coach Taylor was mid-sentence about special teams, "I have better places to be. Coach can handle the rest."
Coach Taylor blinked, then grinned. "Get out of here, Cap."
Liam was already moving, striding through the media room with the same focused intensity he brought to the ice. Cameras swiveled, tracking him. Reporters started shouting questions he didn't acknowledge.
He reached Libby, took her hand—his grip warm and certain—and pulled her toward the exit.
"Liam, wait—" someone called.
He didn't wait.
They emerged into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them and muffling the chaos of shouted questions. The corridor was empty, everyone else still caught up in championship celebrations or media obligations.
Liam stopped walking. Turned to face her.
They stood there, his hand still wrapped around hers.
His eyes traced over her face like he was memorizing it—the oversized jersey falling past her wrists, her flushed cheeks, the way her hair had come loose from its ponytail during the chaos.
She looked at him the same way, taking in the exhaustion written across his features, the championship cap still backwards, a new bruise blooming along his jaw she hadn't noticed before.
"Hi," Libby said, because her brain had apparently abandoned all other words.
Liam smiled—that real, unguarded smile that made him look ten years younger. "Hi."
"You went to St. Kitts."
"I did."
"Alone."
"Yes."
"We're going to fight about that."
"I'm counting on it." His thumb brushed over her knuckles. "But not right now."
"What happens right now?"
Liam pulled her closer, his free hand coming up to cup her face. His eyes searched hers—not asking permission, just memorizing this moment.
"Right now," he said quietly, "I take you somewhere without cameras."
Then he kissed her.
One big hand came to her jaw, tilting her face up to him. The other slid to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. No hesitation this time, no careful testing of boundaries. His mouth was warm and sure on hers, tasting faintly of victory and champagne.
Libby melted into him, hands fisting in his suit jacket, meeting him with everything she had, relief and lightning coursing through her blood in equal measure.
She distantly registered that they were still in a public hallway where anyone could walk by.
She didn't care. Neither did he, apparently, because he backed her against the wall, dropped his hands to her hips, and lifted her up to meet the urgency of his mouth.
He kissed her like it was all he'd thought about since the last time they'd kissed.
Like any minute someone would come and pull them apart.
Like they had all night and every night after to do nothing but this.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder now, Liam pressed his forehead to hers.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Anywhere you want."
Libby looked at him—exhausted and honest and here—and felt that invisible string pull tight between them.
"Okay," she said.
The drive to Liam's apartment took twenty minutes through thinned Boston traffic. They talked about the game—easy, familiar hockey talk that felt like a lifeline, the same language that had started all of this months ago. But beneath the tactical breakdown, the air was thick with restraint.
He kept his right hand on the wheel, his left wrapped around hers on the center console. Every few blocks he'd glance over and shake his head slightly, like he couldn't quite believe she was real, that she'd actually come to the game wearing his jersey, that she was here now.
"What?" she asked the third time he did it.
"Nothing. Just—" He squeezed her hand. "You're here."
"I'm here."
"In my jersey." The gleam in his eyes made her face go warm.
"Seemed rude to take it off."
"On the contrary." His voice dropped. "I'd love to see it on my floor."
Heat pooled low in her stomach. "Only if it's next to yours."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "We need to drive faster."
"There are traffic laws, Captain."
"Suddenly very invested in breaking them."
Libby watched the city slide past. Her phone was still buzzing in her pocket—texts from Clara, probably, or her mother, or half of sports Twitter demanding to know what happened after Liam walked out of his own press conference. She ignored it. Whatever the internet thought about them could wait.
The parking garage was empty at this hour. Liam pulled into a spot marked RESERVED, killed the engine, and turned to look at her fully.
"Second thoughts?" Libby asked quietly.
"Just can't imagine this night getting any better than it already is."
"We need to work on that imagination of yours, D'Arcy."
His smile went wicked. "Lead the way."
The elevator ride to the top floor was silent again, but this time his hand was on her lower back, warm through the jersey fabric, and when she leaned slightly into the touch his fingers tightened.
The hallway was empty, expensive, the kind of building where neighbors didn't acknowledge each other's existence. Liam unlocked the door marked 17 and held it open.
"Welcome to—" He stopped. "I was going to say something about it not being much, but that's objectively false. It's a penthouse."
"Smooth."
"I'm very tired."
Her heart melted for him, her dashing hockey captain who’d spent the past three days being everything to everyone. She stepped inside and stopped.
She'd expected the penthouse. The harbor view, the hardwood floors, the kitchen appliances that cost more than her car.
What she hadn't expected was how much of him was here.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall—business biographies, yes, but also Yeats and Heaney, history books with cracked spines, an entire shelf of vintage hockey memoirs from the seventies.
Framed photos weren't just decoration: Georgia at eight with a gap-toothed grin, his parents laughing at something off-camera, the team dog-piled after last year's division win.
The leather couch was angled toward the windows, worn soft in the exact spot where someone sat to read.
A mug sat on the side table, coffee ring staining the wood underneath.
On the kitchen counter: a half-eaten protein bar, Sunday's crossword half-finished in pen, the Globe sports section folded to her article from last week.
"You read the Herald?” Her voice came out smaller than intended.
Liam closed the door behind them. "I read you."
She looked at the books, the photos, the evidence of actual life being lived here. She could see it suddenly—herself curled on that couch with a book while he cooked dinner. Her running shoes by the door. Two coffee mugs instead of one.
This wasn't just where he lived. It was where she could imagine living too.
"This isn't what I expected," she said, running her hand along the back of his couch. The leather was soft, worn in. "I thought it would be more... I don't know. Hotel-like."
"It was." He was watching her move through his space. "When I first bought it. Georgia said it looked like a realtor's staging photos. She's been slowly smuggling in things that make it look like a human lives here."
"The books?"
"Those are mine." He moved into the kitchen, pulled two glasses from a cabinet. "Water?"
"Yes. Please."
He filled both glasses from the filter in his fridge—one of those massive built-in models that probably had more technology than her entire kitchen. Brought them over to where she stood by the windows.
"I can see the Garden from here," Libby said, taking the glass. "If you know where to look."
"I know where to look."
They stood there, drinking water like civilized people having a normal conversation, both of them pretending the air wasn't crackling with everything they weren't saying.
Libby set her glass down on the coffee table. Turned to face him.
"So," she said.
"So," Liam agreed.
"You walked out of your press conference."
"I did."
"Very dramatic."