"Mr. Reid," Libby said, shaking his offered hand. "Thank you for the opportunity."
"Thank you for being available on short notice," he replied. "Jackson's still basically living in his bathroom, so we're grateful you could step in. I've been reviewing your recent coverage—sharp analysis."
"I've been following the Steel all season," Libby said. “Lifelong fan. I’m ready to jump right in."
"Excellent. Press conference starts in about an hour. Coach Taylor first, then a few players. Should give you a good feel for the routine." Reid checked his watch. "I'll leave you to observe practice. Any questions, find me."
As Reid departed, Libby became aware of voices behind her—the same group of reporters who'd been discussing her earlier.
"—needed her sister to get her through security, apparently."
"The nepotism is even worse than I thought. Family connections at every level."
"Wonder if she'll ask D'Arcy about his skincare routine. That beard tweet was basically a beauty blog post."
"Ten bucks says she brings up 'toxic masculinity' in the press conference."
"Twenty says she doesn't last the week once playoff intensity really kicks in."
This time, Libby didn't suppress her reaction. She turned to face the group, her expression carefully neutral but her voice carrying the authority she'd spent years cultivating.
"Excuse me," she said pleasantly, causing all three men to look at her with varying degrees of discomfort. "I couldn't help but overhear your analysis of my hiring. I'm curious—do you think the Herald's circulation has suffered from their apparent commitment to diversity over qualification?"
The oldest of the three, a man whose expensive suit couldn't quite hide his expanding waistline, looked uncomfortable. "We were just?—"
"Because based on their recent coverage," Libby continued smoothly, "their readership has actually increased by twelve percent since Reid took over. Which suggests that maybe, just maybe, they're making hiring decisions based on competence rather than demographics. But what do I know? I'm just a small-market blogger who somehow managed to get hired by one of New England's most respected sports publications."
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Jane's barely suppressed laughter.
"I'm Libby Bennet-Cross," she said, extending her hand to the nearest reporter. "Looking forward to working with you all."
The handshakes that followed were reluctant but offered, and Libby could practically see the recalculation happening behind their eyes. She wasn't going to be the easy target they'd expected.
As the group dispersed, presumably to find new targets for their commentary, Jane grinned at her sister.
"That was impressive. Diplomatic but firm."
"Had to be. If they smell weakness, they'll never let me live it down." Libby shrugged. "Besides, I've been dealing with condescending sports bros since college. These ones just have better health insurance."
"Good strategy. Though you might want to save some of that fire for the actual press conference."
Libby nodded, her gaze returning to the ice where practice was winding down. Liam D'Arcy led his teammates through a final drill, his movements still crisp despite the workout's intensity. As the players began skating toward the exit, he glanced up at the media area once more.
This time, Libby didn't look away. Whatever game they were about to play—professional adversaries in the theater of sports journalism—she was ready for it. She'd spent too manyyears proving herself to be intimidated by expensive facilities or dismissive colleagues.
The Boston Steel might be out of her league in terms of budget and prestige, but hockey was hockey. Questions were questions. And despite what those reporters assumed, she knew the difference between a blue line and a goal line—along with about a thousand other things that might surprise them.
As the players disappeared into the locker room and the media began preparing for the press conference, Libby opened her notebook to a fresh page. Time to show Boston what real hockey analysis looked like.
She had questions to ask, and she suspected Liam D'Arcy was going to hate every single one of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two days after her arrival in Boston, Libby was still riding the adrenaline high of her first official game coverage. The Steel's playoff victory over the Portland Mariners had been exhilarating—a 3-1 win that showcased exactly why Boston was favored to advance to the conference finals. Her pre-game coverage had gone smoothly enough, even earning a grudging nod from Reid when she'd spotted a defensive pairing change before the other reporters.
But now, navigating the post-game media maze, Libby felt lost again.
She had always prided herself on her sense of direction. In Springfield's modest arena, she could navigate from press box to locker room with her eyes closed, a skill developed over countless late nights filing stories while the cleaning crew mopped around her.
