Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SIX MONTHS LATER…
The post-game press room smelled the same as it always did—industrial cleaner, nervous sweat, and the particular staleness of recycled air. Libby adjusted her ESPN credentials and waited for the scrum to settle.
Liam took his seat at the media table, still flushed from the game. His championship ring caught the light as he reached for the water bottle in front of him—a small flash of gold and diamonds that still made her stomach flip every time she noticed it.
"Liam, two assists tonight. Walk us through that second-period setup."
"When Keller’s shooting like that, it makes my job easy. I just feed him."
The rookie Liam had been mentoring had finally found his stride this season, with the whole team cheering him on.
Libby raised her hand.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross." His voice was perfectly professional, but his eyes held hers with glittering warmth.
"Your defensive zone coverage looked different tonight—more aggressive on the forecheck. Is that a systems change, or are you just trying to impress someone?"
Laughter rippled through the room. Varlenko, lingering by the door, called out: "She's got your number, Cap!"
"Systems change," Liam said, deadpan. "Coach wanted us jumping the passing lanes earlier."
"And the two assists? Just happened to find Keller both times?"
"Keller was in the right spot." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I have excellent vision. As certain people can attest."
Someone in the back made a noise that sounded like a choked laugh. The PR director shifted uncomfortably.
"On that note," Liam said, standing, “No more questions. Thank you for your time. See you all next week.”
He was out the door before anyone could object, leaving Coach Taylor to field the remaining questions with practiced ease.
Libby typed a few notes—enough for the morning segment—then slipped out the side entrance. Liam was waiting in what had become their usual spot in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his tie already loosened.
"'Excellent vision'?" she said. "Really?"
"You started it."
"I asked a legitimate statistical question."
"You implied I was showing off for you."
"Weren't you?"
He pulled her in, kissed her quickly, then stepped back before anyone could round the corner. “Always. Ready for tonight?"
“My mother called me three times about the catering. I’m ready for it to be over."
"She means well. Hosting was the least we could do after…”
Libby sighed. “I know. I tell myself the same thing every time she sends me a new Pinterest post on napkin folds. Poor Jane.”
Liam’s apartment had been transformed.
Libby barely recognized the penthouse she’d been living in for four months.
Kerrigan Bingley had descended with caterers, florists, and an army of people whose job titles Libby still didn’t fully understand.
The result was elegant without being ostentatious—warm lighting, winter flowers, a bar setup by the windows overlooking the harbor.
Jane and Chase’s engagement party. Finally happening after three postponements due to road trips, scheduling conflicts, and one memorable incident involving a burst pipe at the original venue.
“Libby!” Her mother’s voice cut through the pre-party bustle. Linda Bennet-Cross appeared in emerald green, champagne already in hand. "There you are! Have you seen the ice sculpture? It’s a swan! With working fountains!"
"I saw it, Mom."
“Kerrigan insisted. She said swans are traditional. I said, ‘Kerri, you wonderful woman, you have vision!' Imagine what we could’ve done with yours—I had a whole arctic theme planned, with penguins—"
"Mom."
"What? A mother can dream!" Linda squeezed her arm. "Oh, there’s Jane. JANE! SWEETHEART! Your hair looks GORGEOUS!"
She swept away, leaving Libby momentarily alone in the growing crowd.
Guests were filtering in—teammates and their wives, Jane’s colleagues from the Steel medical staff, the rest of Chase’s family in from Chicago.
The championship banner from June was visible through the window, hanging in the arena across the harbor.
Sometimes, on quiet nights, she and Liam would sit on the balcony and look at it, not talking, just existing in the impossible reality of everything that had happened.
They’d won. Game 7 overtime, Liam with the assist on the Cup-winning goal.
She’d been in the family box with Helen and Charles and Georgia, her fingernails carving crescents into her palms as the clock wound down.
When the puck had crossed the line, Georgia had screamed so loud Libby’s ears rang for an hour.
Charles had stood perfectly still, tears streaming down his face without acknowledgment.
Helen had grabbed Libby’s hand and held it like a lifeline.
And Liam had looked up at the box, found her in the chaos, and smiled.
That was the image that had gone viral. Not the goal, not the celebration—just Liam D’Arcy, Stanley Cup champion, looking at a woman in his family’s box like she was the only thing that mattered.
ESPN had called the next morning. Stewart Phillips himself, offering her the Boston bureau. She’d accepted before he finished the pitch.
"You’re doing that thing again." Georgia appeared beside her, champagne in hand. "The staring-into-middle-distance thing. Liam does it too. It’s very dramatic and also very annoying when people are trying to talk to you."
"Sorry. Just thinking."
"About?"
Libby’s hand drifted unconsciously to her collarbone, where the ring hung on its chain beneath her dress.
White gold, simple, elegant. She’d been wearing it there for three weeks now—ever since City Hall—not because anyone didn’t know, but because tonight was about Jane and Chase.
The ring could live on her finger tomorrow.
"Just how much things have changed," she said. "A year ago I was writing freelance pieces about playoff beards and hoping someone would take me seriously."
"And now you’re ESPN’s Boston bureau lead, married to the Stanley Cup champion." Georgia grinned. "Quite the upgrade."
"He’s alright, I guess."
"I’ll tell him you said that."
"Please don’t. His ego is already unmanageable."
"Mom’s still recovering, you know." Georgia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "From the City Hall revelation. She’s been channeling her grief into helping Mrs. Bingley with Jane’s wedding planning. I heard her say the words 'ice sculpture cascade' yesterday."
Libby laughed. “Good thing Chase’s trust fund can handle it."
"Chase’s trust fund is going to need therapy." Georgia clinked her champagne glass against Libby’s. "I’m glad you’re here. Not just tonight—I mean, in general. In our lives. Liam is different with you. Better. Happier."
Libby’s throat tightened. "He makes me happy too."
"Good. Because if you hurt him, I know people." Georgia’s expression was serene. "Skating people. They’re vicious."
Libby laughed again and linked her arm with Georgia’s. “Noted."
The party was in full swing by the time Libby found her father.
Robert Bennet-Cross stood by the windows, nursing a whiskey and watching the crowd with the analytical eye he’d once reserved for hockey tape. He looked comfortable in his suit, more relaxed than she’d seen him in years.
"Quite the event," he said as she joined him.
“The Bingleys don’t do anything halfway, apparently. And here I thought the D’Arcy’s were bad.”
"Neither does your mother." He nodded toward the center of the room, where Linda was holding court with Helen D’Arcy and Kerrigan Bingley, the three of them bent over what appeared to be wedding planning materials.
"They’ve been at it for an hour. I give it twenty minutes before they start arguing about venue capacity. "
"Should we intervene?"
"Absolutely not. I’m enjoying the peace."
They stood in companionable silence, watching the party swirl around them.
Jane and Chase were by the fireplace, radiating the particular glow of people who’d finally gotten their timing right.
Chase’s hand rested on Jane’s lower back with easy familiarity.
She leaned into him like she’d been doing it forever.
"The foundation work is going well," Robert said eventually. "Liam’s people sent over the quarterly reports. Forty-seven kids in the program now. A few of the older kids have legitimate college prospects."
"He mentioned. Said you’re the best thing that ever happened to their development program."
Her father’s mouth twitched. "He’s biased by marriage.”
“Liam D’Arcy, biased? Not even a little bit.”
Robert chuckled and took a sip of his whiskey. "He’s a good man, Libs."
Libby looked across the room, where Liam was standing with Chase, likely entering into a mutual-aid pact in relation to their in-laws. "Yeah. He is."
"Your grandfather would have liked him. Would have given him hell about that backhand, but he’d have liked him."
Her throat tightened. Robert Bennet-Cross did not talk about her grandfather often—the man who’d taught him to coach, who’d died before Libby finished college. "You think so?"
"He always said you could tell a man’s character by how he treated people who couldn’t do anything for him.
" Robert’s eyes followed Liam across the room.
"The kids at the rink—he’s patient with them.
Remembers their names, asks about their schools.
Doesn’t act like he’s doing them a favor. " He shrugged. "That’s character."
Libby hugged him, sudden and fierce. He returned it with the same quiet steadiness he’d brought to everything—her childhood hockey games, her college graduation, the long years when neither of them talked about what had been lost.
"I’m happy for you," he said into her hair. "Both of you."
As the evening wore on, Libby found herself observing her youngest sister. Lydia had cornered one of Chase’s cousins and was explaining the D'Arcy Foundation’s Youth Outreach Program with an earnestness that would have been unthinkable a year ago.