"Clearly," Wickham said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Most journalists covering this beat play it safe. You're different."
"You barely know me."
"I know you chose to hide in a towel cart rather than brazen out being in the wrong place," he said. "Shows good instincts. And you haven't tweeted about it yet for clicks. Shows integrity."
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers around her coffee cup. "Plus, anyone who can survive being wheeled around in a towel cart with their dignity intact has my respect."
"Easy there, Casanova," Libby said, pulling her hand back with a pointed look. "We just met, and I'm still covered in towel lint."
Wickham laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. Post-game adrenaline makes me forget boundaries. Occupational hazard of being repeatedly slammed into plexiglass." He settled back in his chair with a self-deprecating grin. "I promise to keep my hands to myself. Scout's honor."
"Were you actually a boy scout?"
"God, no. Too many rules." His smile turned rueful. "Which might explain a few things about my career trajectory."
Libby found herself smiling despite her better judgment. "Speaking of your career—you mentioned you played for Boston?"
The warmth in his expression dimmed slightly. "Ancient history. Didn't work out."
"Professional differences?"
Wickham hesitated, tracing the rim of his cup. "You could say that." He glanced around, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Look, you seem honest, which is rare in this business. Can I tell you something off the record? Just for context?"
The journalistic alarm bells were deafening, but curiosity won out. "Of course."
"Liam D'Arcy and I came up through the system together," Wickham said, his voice carrying no bitterness, just what seemed like honest regret. "We were actually friends, if you canbelieve it. But when his father took full control of the team after his grandfather's death, things changed. Liam started having more say in roster decisions than a player should."
"That happens when the owner is your father," Libby observed.
"It's more than that," Wickham continued. "Liam cultivates this image of the dedicated, serious player, but behind closed doors…" He shook his head. "Let's just say if you don't worship at the altar of D'Arcy, your days are numbered. Three teammates who questioned his leadership were traded within a month. Another guy who dated a woman Liam was interested in found himself demoted to the minors."
Libby's journalistic skepticism fought with the apparent sincerity in Wickham's expression. "That seems..."
"Extreme?" Wickham raised his hands. "I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't lived through it." He met her eyes directly. "But Liam has this way of making problems disappear when you have family money and connections."
Libby thought of Liam's tense shoulders during the interview, his obvious discomfort with personal questions. "He doesn't seem to enjoy the media attention."
"Because he can't control it completely," Wickham said. "That's what bothers him—anything outside his narrative." He touched her hand again, warm concern in his brown eyes. "Just be careful. The D'Arcy family has long memories and longer reaches. One critical article and suddenly editors stop returning your calls."
"I can take care of myself."
"I don't doubt it." His smile returned, warmer and definitely flirtatious. "In fact, I'm betting on you, Libby Bennet-Cross." He pulled out his phone. "Give me your number. For professional insights, of course."
"Of course," Libby echoed, knowing they both recognized the pretense.
After they exchanged numbers, Wickham stood, offering his hand to help her up—another unnecessary touch she pretended not to notice.
"Let me show you that shortcut to the media center," he said. "And Libby? Next time you're covering a game in Portland, dinner's on me. Somewhere without towel carts, I promise."
The invitation was unmistakably personal. "I'll consider it."
"Do," he said, guiding her through the facility with a hand at the small of her back. "I give exclusive interviews to my favorite journalists."
As promised, his directions to the media center were perfect. Before leaving, he caught her elbow gently.
"Whatever D'Arcy's media game is tomorrow, don't let him intimidate you. You're too talented for their usual tricks." He winked. "Trust me, you've got something most reporters covering this beat don't—actual spine."
As she navigated the final corridor toward the exit, her mind buzzing with Wickham’s revelations, she nearly collided with a solid wall of muscle coming around the corner.
