"Earlier, probably. But Portland's when I knew I was in serious trouble."
"You were such an asshole after Portland," she murmured, tracing the line of his jaw.
"I panicked." His hand found hers, laced their fingers together. “I thought you were going to hate me when the truth came out, and my brilliant solution was to create distance before I could hurt you more. That worked brilliantly, as you noticed."
Libby kissed him—cut off whatever self-recrimination he was building toward. "You brought Wickham back," she said when they broke apart. "You pointed your stick at me on the jumbotron in front of twenty thousand people. You walked out of your own press conference. I think you've been pretty clear."
"I could be clearer." He met her eyes. "I love you. Not fake, not for show. Actually, terrifyingly in love with you."
Her throat went tight. "I love you too. Even though you're an idiot who confronts criminals in foreign countries without backup."
"We're going to fight about that."
"Extensively."
"Good." He pulled her closer. "I'm looking forward to it."
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.
Boston had beaten Toronto 4-2, a solid December win that kept them at the top of the division. Behind her, the other reporters jostled for position, phones out, recorders ready. She caught a few sideways glances—there were always sideways glances—but six months into this job, she’d learned to ignore them.
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."
