"Not sharks," Jane said diplomatically, though her eyes flicked toward the group of reporters who'd been discussing Libby. "Just… territorial. Playoffs make everyone a little tense."
Jane looked perfectly at home in her Steel-branded polo and khakis, her physical therapist credentials clearly marking her as team staff. Her presence immediately elevated Libby's status in the room—sister of an insider, not just another outsider trying to break in.
"How was the drive?" Jane asked, guiding Libby toward the observation windows overlooking the practice rink.
"Fine. Though I think my Civic lowered the property values in your parking lot."
Jane laughed. "You should see some of the rookies' cars. They're worse than yours." She lowered her voice. "Don't let thefancy facility intimidate you. At the end of the day, it's still just hockey."
"Just hockey," Libby repeated, though her gaze was drawn to the pristine ice surface below where players were beginning to take the ice for warm-ups. "Right."
"They're good guys, mostly," Jane continued. "The team, I mean. Some egos, obviously, but that comes with the territory. Liam D'Arcy gets most of the media attention, but he's actually?—"
Jane's words faded as Libby's attention was captured by the scene below. The players moved with the fluid efficiency of elite athletes, their warm-up drills choreographed with military precision. But even among this collection of professional hockey players, one figure commanded attention.
The moment Liam D'Arcy stepped onto the ice, Libby's body recognized him before her brain caught up. It was like the air pressure in the room changed, her lungs suddenly working harder to draw breath. On television, he'd been contained, reduced to pixels and commentary. In person, he was something else entirely—taller, broader, more physically present than any camera could capture.
Her pulse jumped, and she found herself gripping her pen tighter, fingernails pressing into her palm. This was ridiculous. She'd interviewed professional athletes before—basketball players, football stars, even a few Olympians. Men who could bench press her body weight with one arm, who had Stanford MBAs to go with their championship rings, whose signing bonuses had more zeros than she'd see in a lifetime. None of them had made her feel like she'd suddenly forgotten how to regulate her own breathing.
The sound of his blades cutting ice carried differently here, sharp and authoritative. He moved with an economy of motion that was mesmerizing to watch, but it was more than that. Therewas a contained violence in his grace, power held in perfect check. Where other players attacked the ice with aggressive energy, he commanded it, each stride purposeful and controlled. The space around him seemed to bend to his presence, other players instinctively adjusting their paths to accommodate his.
Professional observation, she told herself firmly.You're noting details for your coverage.
As if sensing her gaze, he looked up toward the media viewing area. For a brief moment, their eyes met through the glass, and Libby felt checked, pinned against the glass by nothing more than his attention. His eyes were darker than she'd expected, intense in a way that made her stomach flip. He held her gaze for perhaps two seconds before returning his attention to the drill, but those two seconds left Libby oddly unsettled and uncomfortably warm.
She forced herself to look away, to focus on her notebook, to write something—anything—that looked professional. Her handwriting came out shaky:
D'Arcy anchors first line with obvious authority.
Obvious authority. That was one way to describe whatever had just happened to her nervous system.
"—really quite thoughtful once you get past the media training," Jane was saying.
"Sorry, what?" Libby forced her attention back to her sister.
"Liam," Jane repeated with an amused smile. "I was saying he's more thoughtful than his interviews suggest. The whole stoic thing is mostly protection."
"Protection from what?"
Jane's expression grew serious. "His sister went through some difficult times with the media during her Olympic training.Figure skating. Liam tends to be… cautious about reporters now."
"Cautious meaning hostile?"
"Cautious meaning he doesn't trust easily," Jane clarified. "But he's fair. He won't give you anything extra, but he won't shut you out either if you do your job professionally."
Below them, practice had shifted into full gear. Coach Taylor barked instructions while his assistants—including Chase Bingley, whom Libby recognized from Jane's occasional mentions—worked with specific position groups. The pace was intense, playoff-focused, with none of the relaxed atmosphere she'd observed in Springfield.
Liam anchored the first line, his passes finding teammates with surgical precision. He called plays with subtle hand signals and stick taps, a private language that his linemates read instantly. This wasn't nepotism or inherited position—this was earned leadership.
"He's really quite good," she said, more to herself than to Jane.
"He works hard," Jane said simply. "First one in for training, last to leave. Always polite to staff, remembers people's names. Some of the guys can be…" she paused diplomatically, "demanding. Liam never is."
"Sounds like you like him," Libby observed, watching as Liam set up what looked like a perfect scoring chance.
Jane's cheeks pinked slightly. "Chase speaks very highly of him. They're close friends, and Chase says Liam is nothing like his media image suggests."
"Ladies," a voice interrupted, drawing their attention to a well-dressed man in his fifties approaching with a professional smile. "Ms. Bennet-Cross, I presume? Sully Reid, sports editor."
