Do not sneeze. Do not sneeze. Do not?—
"You heading to the media scrum?" the trainer asked, drawing Liam's attention back.
"Unfortunately," Liam replied, reaching for a Steel t-shirt draped over a nearby chair. "Same questions, same non-answers."
"You could try being friendlier," the trainer suggested with a grin. "Heard there's a new reporter from the Herald. Pretty one, too."
Liam pulled the shirt over his head, the movement showcasing the kind of athletic physique that Libby had definitely not been noticing. "I don't perform for reporters, pretty or otherwise."
"Maybe that's your problem," the trainer said, finishing with the knee wrap. "A little charm goes a long way."
"Charm is Bingley's department," Liam said, and for a moment his stern expression cracked, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. A dimple appeared briefly in his left cheek—something Libby had never seen in any of his media appearances. "I just play hockey."
The trainer snorted. "Right. That's why you memorized my kid's entire college schedule and keep asking about his applications."
Liam's almost-smile widened fractionally. "That's different, Rick."
"Sure it is, tough guy," Rick said fondly.
Liam shook his head, grabbing his suit from a hook as he headed back toward the main locker room. He paused at the door. "Tell the media I'll be there in five minutes. And Rick? Grab a few of those Forza packs before you head out. That back's not getting any younger."
"Much obliged, Cap."
After he left, the trainer gathered the medical supplies and exited as well. Libby was about to emerge when a staff member in Boston Steel gear entered.
"Portland needs fresh towels," he called toward the doorway. "Taking a cart over."
Before Libby could react, she was in motion, being wheeled out of the room and down another corridor. Through her towel gap, she watched the facility pass by in a surreal mobile tour. They passed through what seemed to be a shared corridor between the two team areas, and suddenly she could hear Liam's voice again—he was already at the media scrum, having somehow changed into his suit in record time.
The staff member parked her cart against a wall to answer his phone, speaking quietly about schedule changes, inadvertently positioning her with a perfect view of the impromptu press gathering.
"We have time for a few questions for Liam D'Arcy," announced a Boston Steel PR representative.
From this angle, Libby could see what those facing him couldn't—the way Liam's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly as the reporters crowded closer, how his fingers found his watch and twisted it in what must be a nervous tell.
"Liam, Portland adjusted their defensive pairing against your line in the third period. How do you assess their strategy?" asked a reporter from the Boston Globe.
"Predictable adjustment," Liam replied, his voice controlled and even. "We prepared for it."
"Can you elaborate on how you counter that specific defensive scheme?"
Liam's expression remained neutral, but Libby noticed the slight clench of his jaw—the same tell from when his kneewas being examined. "Team strategy isn't something I discuss publicly. We adapt as needed."
"Your father was in attendance tonight. Does his presence add pressure given the family ownership?"
His watch-twisting intensified. "My performance standards remain consistent regardless of attendance."
"You've been criticized for not showing more emotion after goals. Any response to fans who say you lack passion?"
This time, the flash in Liam's eyes was unmistakable, though his voice remained level. "I focus on the next shift, not celebrations."
From her hiding spot, Libby found herself oddly fascinated by the dynamics. His responses were terse to the point of rudeness, each answer clipped and minimal. Every question seemed designed to needle him, to push for the reaction he clearly worked hard not to give. Whether that control was arrogance or something else, she couldn't tell—but it certainly fit the image of someone who thought himself above media obligations.
"Same old robot routine," muttered a male voice near her cart.
"That's what happens when Daddy owns the team," another voice replied quietly. "Guy's never had to earn anything."
"Shut it, both of you," growled a passing veteran in a Portland jacket, his beard showing streaks of gray. "D'Arcy's put up more points against us than anyone in the conference. He's earned everything he's got. Save the trash talk for someone who doesn't make you look stupid on the ice."
