Liam D'Arcy's morning routine never varied, regardless of game schedules or travel demands. Five-thirty alarm. Protein shake. Forty-five minutes of focused conditioning. Shower. Breakfast—always the same carefully measured portions of eggs, oatmeal, and fruit. News review. By seven-fifteen, he was at the training facility, typically the first player to arrive.
This morning, however, he added one element to his routine: reading the Herald's newest reporter's first article.
He'd noticed her at practice yesterday—hard not to. Where the regular hockey reporters blended into a familiar, predictable mass, she stood out. Something about the way she observed, the intensity of her focus. When he'd glanced up at the media viewing area, she hadn't immediately looked away like most new reporters did when caught watching. She'd held his gaze with a directness that was… unexpected.
Liam scrolled through the article on his phone, his expression remaining neutral even as he noted the subtle implications in her coverage. The repeated mentions of his family connection, the questioning of team chemistry, and the faint suggestion that his performance was somehow less earned than his teammates'.
It wasn't overt criticism—that would have been easier to dismiss. This was skillfully crafted doubt, wrapped in technically accurate reporting.
His jaw tightened. He'd faced media skepticism his entire career, weathered the whispers about nepotism and privilege since his first day in the league. He'd answered with performance—with points, with championships, with a work ethic no one could question. Yet here was another voice suggesting he hadn't earned his position, that his success came from his last name rather than his dedication.
The phone chimed with a text from Varlenko:
Andre Varlenko
Pretty new reporter has claws. She single?
Liam
Focus on your own game and you’ll be fine
Andre Varlenko
Touchy. Maybe if you smiled once she'd write nicer things. Or is smiling extra charge for D'Arcy?
Liam didn't bother responding. Varlenko's needling was as predictable as his slap shot—hard, direct, and usually effective at getting under people's skin.
He set the phone down and finished his breakfast methodically, compartmentalizing his reaction to the article. The playoffs demanded complete concentration; media distractions were simply another obstacle to manage, like an opposing defense or a hostile crowd.
Still, as he drove to the facility, Liam found himself wondering about Libby Bennet-Cross. Her analysis of their power play structure had been surprisingly insightful forsomeone new to their coverage. If she hadn't included those subtle digs about his position, he might actually have respected her hockey knowledge.
He pulled into his reserved parking space, noting that he was still the first player to arrive despite his detour into media analysis. The facility was quiet at this hour, just maintenance staff and early-arriving trainers.
"Morning, Mr. D'Arcy," called Ed, the maintenance supervisor, currently checking the ice equipment.
"Morning, Ed," Liam replied, remembering to ask, "How's Michael's college applications going?"
Ed's face brightened. "Got into his first choice! That recommendation from the foundation really helped. We can't thank you enough."
Liam nodded, uncomfortable as always with gratitude for what he considered basic decency. The D'Arcy Foundation's scholarship program was the least they could do for loyal employees.
"He earned it," he said simply. "Congratulations to him."
In the locker room, Liam changed into his training gear quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. The early-morning ice was his sanctuary—no coaches, no teammates, no media. Just the clean surface and the meditative rhythm of drills.
As he laced his skates, he thought again of the article. Someone had been talking to her—probably multiple someones, given the specific angle she'd chosen. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who one of those sources might be.
Gray Wickham had been in the building yesterday for the game. And Wickham never missed an opportunity to spin his version of history to sympathetic ears.
Liam pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Georgia's security team, got an immediate confirmation. His sister didn'tneed any surprise encounters, not after everything she'd been through.
With that handled, Liam pushed the thought aside as he stepped onto the ice. Whatever narrative Ms. Bennet-Cross was constructing, he'd answer it the only way he knew how—with performance, with victory, with the quiet excellence he'd spent his career perfecting.
The ice was perfect at this hour, unmarked and pristine. Liam began his routine—edges, crossovers, acceleration drills—losing himself in the familiar rhythm. This was where everything made sense, where effort translated directly to results, where he didn't have to explain or defend his presence.
He didn't need the media's approval or understanding. He needed to win games, lead his team, honor the legacy his family had built.
If Libby Bennet-Cross wanted to see him as just another entitled heir coasting on family connections, that was her prerogative. He'd faced worse misconceptions and survived.
