The Boston Steel's facility, however, was a labyrinth of identical-looking corridors designed by someone who clearly hated journalists.
"Coach Taylor's press conference concluded five minutes ago," she muttered, checking her watch as she hurried down yetanother gleaming hallway. "Player interviews should be starting soon."
She'd missed the formal coaching staff press conference entirely—a rookie mistake she'd never live down if the Herald decided to keep her on—thanks to a phone call from her editor requesting additional player profiles. Now she was scrambling to salvage her coverage by catching the player interviews in the locker room area.
A set of double doors looked promising. Libby pushed through, finding herself in what appeared to be a service corridor. Less polished than the main hallways, with concrete floors instead of marble, it had to lead somewhere useful. She quickened her pace, hearing distant voices that suggested she was headed in the right direction.
At the end of the corridor stood another set of doors with a sign that read "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." Technically, her press credentials authorized her for player interviews, so she pushed through, relieved to find what appeared to be a treatment room adjacent to a larger space.
She took two steps inside before freezing. The Boston Steel logo was prominently displayed on equipment cases. A trainer's table had medical supplies laid out with meticulous precision. Through the partially open doorway to her left, she could hear showers running and the deep voices of the Boston players, clearly in various stages of their post-game routines.
The home team's locker room complex. She'd found it—just at exactly the wrong moment.
This wasn't the controlled media access period. This was the players' private time, when they were showering, changing, definitely not dressed for interviews. Libby turned to leave, but the heavy door had already swung shut behind her with an ominous click.
She pushed against it. Locked.
"You've got to be kidding me," she groaned, jiggling the handle uselessly. A quick check of her phone confirmed what she already suspected—no service in this concrete bunker.
Footsteps approached from the main locker room area, accompanied by male voices getting closer. Panic flared as Libby realized her predicament: trapped in the home team's treatment room as players moved about in various states of undress. There was no scenario where being discovered wouldn't destroy her credibility on day one of actual game coverage.
"Think, think, think," she whispered, scanning the room for options.
Two large laundry carts sat side by side against the wall, both filled with clean towels. Without allowing herself to consider the dignity implications, Libby dove into the nearest cart, burrowing beneath the towels just as the door from the main locker room swung open.
"Anyone seen my shoulder wrap?" a deep voice called out—one she recognized from interviews as belonging to defenseman Antoine Belanger.
"Check with medical," another player responded. "D'Arcy's in there getting his knee looked at."
Libby's breath caught. Liam D'Arcy was about to enter the treatment room where she was hiding like some kind of deranged stalker. Through a small gap in her towel fortress, she watched the door open wider.
Liam D'Arcy walked in, and Libby's brain temporarily short-circuited.
She'd expected him to be dressed, or at least partially dressed. Instead, he wore only black athletic shorts that sat low on his hips, leaving his entire torso bare. His hair was damp from the shower, darker than its usual shade, and water droplets still clung to his skin. The overhead lights caught the moisture,making him look like something out of a sports equipment advertisement—all defined muscle and casual power.
From her hiding spot mere feet away, she could see details the cameras never captured: a thin scar along his ribs, probably from a skate blade. The way his shoulder muscles shifted as he reached for an ice pack from the medical freezer. The surprising grace in his movements for someone so tall and broad.
He was less than three feet from her cart, close enough that she could hear his steady breathing. The overwhelming scent of industrial detergent from her towel fortress was making her eyes water, but she didn't dare move to find a position with better air circulation.
"Bergström caught you pretty good with that check," the team trainer said, entering behind him.
"It's fine," Liam replied, his voice lower and rougher than in his media appearances. The sound seemed to vibrate through her hiding spot, sending an unwanted shiver down her spine.
"Let me at least look at that knee."
Liam sat on the treatment table directly in her line of sight, extending his left leg. The trainer manipulated the joint while Liam remained stoic, though Libby caught the slight tightening of his jaw that suggested it hurt more than he was letting on.
"You need to ice this tonight," the trainer instructed. "Twenty minutes every hour."
"I know the protocol," Liam said, not unkindly but with an edge of impatience.
"You know it, but you never follow it," the trainer countered. "That's why that knee keeps?—"
"It's playoff season," Liam interrupted. "I'll rest when we're done."
The trainer sighed. "At least let me wrap it properly."
As the trainer worked, Liam's gaze drifted around the room, and for one heart-stopping moment, his eyes seemed to focus onher cart. Libby held her breath, pressing herself deeper into the towels. A piece of lint tickled her nose dangerously.
