Libby
Wouldn’t miss it
Libby stretched, feeling the knots in her shoulders from hunching over her laptop. The article wasn't coming together. Nobody wanted to read another technical breakdown of a losing team's failures. She needed something fresh, something that would make people feel something about this forgettable game.
Her eyes landed on her notes about Falcons defenseman Trevor Shea, whose playoff beard had evolved into something truly spectacular—and spectacularly awful. What had started as simple superstition had morphed into what looked like a small woodland creature clinging desperately to his face.
She opened Twitter and, without overthinking it, typed:
Trevor Shea's playoff beard journey: Game 1: Respectable stubble. Game 2: Lumberjack chic. Game 3: Viking warrior. Game 4: Full Hagrid hosting an ecosystem. If the Falcons had grown their offensive game as aggressively as Shea grew that facial forest, they might still be playing. #FalconsEliminated #PlayoffBeardWatch
She hit send, closed her laptop, and headed for the parking lot.
"—and he scores! Liam D'Arcy with the game winner for Boston! Steel lead the series three games to one!"
The TD Garden erupted as twenty thousand fans leapt to their feet. Liam raised his stick once, acknowledging the moment before his teammates crashed into him against theboards. He allowed himself exactly five seconds to feel the rush before his mind was already processing the next game, the next series.
In the visitor's locker room an hour later, Liam sat patiently as reporters crowded around him, their microphones and recorders forming a semicircle of intrusion he'd never quite gotten used to.
"Liam, talk about that game-winning goal," demanded a reporter from the Boston Herald.
"Right place, right time," he replied, keeping his face neutral. "Varlenko made a great pass."
"Some are calling it the goal of the playoffs so far," pressed another reporter.
Liam adjusted the Rolex on his wrist—a nervous habit he couldn't seem to break. "It was just one goal. We need sixteen wins for the Cup."
"You're now the leading scorer in the playoffs. Does that?—"
"Team stat," he interrupted. "Doesn't matter who scores as long as we advance."
He could see their frustration building. They wanted emotion, sound bites, personality. He gave them statistics and clichés. His media training, intensified after what happened with Georgia, had become second nature.
"With your father in attendance tonight, was there extra pressure to?—"
"I think that's enough for tonight," interrupted the Steel's PR director, stepping in smoothly. "Early flight tomorrow. Coach Taylor will take questions now."
Liam nodded his thanks and retreated to his stall, away from the cameras. His teammates were used to his post-game demeanor, to the way he transformed from the vocal on-ice leader to the reserved, almost cold figure in media scrums.
"Dude, your robot routine isn't getting any better," said Varlenko, dropping onto the bench beside him. "The memes are evolving faster than your press conferences."
"They can make all the memes they want about me. You know why I don't give them anything personal," Liam replied quietly, so only his linemate could hear.
Varlenko's smile faded. "Fair point."
Liam changed quickly, meticulous as always. His post-game routine never varied: shower, protein shake, stretching, ice bath. By the time he emerged from the training room, the locker room had mostly cleared out. Just as he preferred it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from his sister:
Georgia
Beautiful goal. Dad actually smiled.
He allowed himself a small grin.
Liam
Didn't think his face could still do that.
