Liam D’Arcy.
He was in his suit now, looking every inch the corporate heir Wickham had described. His eyes flicked to the coffee cup in her hand—the one Wickham had bought her—and his expression tightened imperceptibly.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross."
“Mr. D’Arcy.” She adjusted her bag, feeling strangely defensive.
"I saw you with Wickham." His voice was low, lacking the usual indifference he showed the press. "Be careful with him. He has a way of spinning history to suit his current needs."
Libby bristled. It felt exactly like the controlling behavior Wickham had warned her about. "He seems to think everyone deserves a second chance. That doesn't seem like such a terrible philosophy."
Liam went very still. The air between them cooled instantly, the temperature dropping ten degrees.
"Mistakes deserve second chances, Libby. Betrayal doesn't." His green eyes were hard, unflinching. "Once my trust is broken, it doesn't grow back. It's gone."
He stepped around her without another word, leaving her standing in the hallway with a chill that had nothing to do with the rink's air conditioning.
Back at her hotel, Libby opened her laptop to write her article. The blank page stared back at her, cursor blinking accusingly.
She had material—the game, the team dynamics she'd observed, even some color from her unintended behind-the-scenes tour. But now every observation was filtered through multiple lenses: Wickham's warnings, Liam's uncomfortable media presence, her own visceral reaction to seeing him in that treatment room.
That last part she pushed firmly from her mind. It was simply surprise at the unexpected situation. Nothing more.
Steel center Liam D'Arcy, heir to the franchise his family has owned for three generations, continues to demonstrate the technical precision that has defined his career. His on-ice performance remains statistically impressive, though questions persist about his leadership approach and team dynamics as the Steel advance through increasingly challenging playoff rounds.
She paused, rereading the paragraph. It wasn't overtly critical, but the wording emphasized his inherited position and hinted at underlying tensions. Was that fair journalism or was she letting Wickham's account color her coverage?
Then she remembered those Portland players' comments, the dismissive "robot routine" remarks, his own admission that he didn't "perform" for reporters. If multiple sources suggested the same narrative, didn't that indicate credibility?
She filed the story just before midnight, exhausted but oddly energized. Tomorrow she'd approach Liam D'Arcy directly, ask the questions others apparently didn't dare raise. If he was the controlling heir Wickham described, she'd find evidence. If not, she'd report that too.
Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown
Hope you recovered from your towel adventure. Looking forward to that dinner - GW
Despite herself, Libby smiled. Then another text arrived, this one from Jane.
Jane
Saw your article. Interesting angle…
Libby
Not here to make friends
Jane
Clearly lol
Libby set the phone aside. Tomorrow would bring more questions, more observations, more attempts to understand the puzzle that was Liam D'Arcy. Tonight, she needed sleep.
But as she drifted off, her traitorous mind kept returning to those few moments in the treatment room—water droplets on skin, the controlled power in his movements, that rough-edged voice that seemed to resonate somewhere deep in her chest.
Pure professional observation, she told herself firmly.
Nothing more.
