Liam nodded and turned back to Libby. "We need to go. Enjoy your exclusive access, Ms. Bennet-Cross." The words carried a hint of challenge as he skated away, effectively ending their conversation.
Libby watched him leave, more confused than ever about the enigma that was Liam D'Arcy. She gathered her notes and headed toward the main practice rink, trying to make sense of the contradictions she'd witnessed.
The Steel's afternoon press conference had drawn more media than usual, the team's advancing playoff position generating increased coverage. Libby found a spot near the front, determined to make the most of her questioning opportunity. After witnessing the skills session that morning, she had even more questions about the contrast between public and private Liam.
Coach Taylor handled the first fifteen minutes, discussing strategy adjustments and player health with his trademark brevity. When he finished, the PR director announced, "We'll now take questions for captain Liam D'Arcy and alternate captain Andre Varlenko."
The two players took their seats at the media table, Varlenko—a gregarious Russian with an easy smile—leaning forward eagerly while Liam maintained his usual perfect posture and neutral expression.
The questions began predictably: game preparation, defensive adjustments, special teams strategy. Liam answered each with his typical economy of words, deflecting personal praise to teammates and redirecting individual questions to team contexts. Watching him now, Libby found it hard to reconcile this controlled figure with the engaged mentor she'd observed that morning.
When the PR director pointed to her for a question, Libby reached for her recorder—and promptly fumbled it. The device clattered onto the floor, and in her attempt to grab it, she accidentally kicked it forward. It skittered several feet across the polished floor, coming to rest near the players' table.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she had to stand and retrieve it, every eye in the room following her movement. She could practically feel the other reporters' amusement—amateur small-market reporter can't even hold onto her equipment.
Returning to her seat with as much dignity as she could muster, Libby took a steadying breath. Then, with her recorder finally secure and her composure forcibly restored, she delivered her question with the sharp clarity of someone who'd done their homework:
"Liam, your advanced metrics show a significant improvement in defensive zone exits compared to last season, particularly under pressure. Is that a conscious adjustment to your game, or a product of the system changes Coach Taylor implemented after the trade deadline?"
A subtle shift rippled through the room. It wasn't the typical softball question about "giving 110%" or "taking it one game at a time." It was specific, technical, and demonstrated actual analysis of his performance data.
Liam's eyes met hers, a flicker of surprise quickly masked. "System changes created more options," he answered, his typical brevity holding. "But each player made individual adjustments to capitalize on those changes."
Not satisfied with the deflection, Libby pressed further. "Your controlled zone entry success rate against aggressive forechecking is up fifteen percent from last season, while your possession time in high-pressure situations has nearly doubled. That suggests more than just system adaptation. What specific elements of your approach changed?"
The room had grown noticeably quieter, other reporters watching the exchange with undisguised interest. Liam held her gaze, and for a moment Libby thought he might dismiss the question entirely.
"Video analysis showed opponents overcommitting on the forecheck against our standard breakout," he finally said, his response more detailed than usual. "I adjusted my first touch to invite pressure, then utilized the space that created for outlet passes."
It was actually a substantive answer—and from his slightly narrowed expression, Liam seemed as surprised to be giving it as the room was to be hearing it.
"Seems to be working," Libby acknowledged. "Though Portland has been targeting that exact strategy in the third period, particularly with their second forechecking unit."
Now Liam's expression showed definite surprise, quickly controlled. "You've noticed that."
It wasn't a question, but Libby answered anyway. "It's my job to notice."
The moment stretched between them, a silent acknowledgment that transcended their public roles. Then Varlenko leaned forward with a grin.
"She's much smarter than Jackson," he stage-whispered to Liam. "We might be in trouble."
The room laughed, breaking the tension, and the PR director called for the next question. But as the press conference continued, Libby caught Liam glancing at her several times, his expression unreadable but his attention unmistakable.
After the formal session ended, reporters clustered around various players for additional comments. Libby was reviewing her notes when she felt someone approach.
"Impressive question."
She looked up to find one of Boston's veteran sportswriters—Peterson from the Globe, who'd been covering hockey since before she was born.
"Just doing my job," she replied, surprised by the acknowledgment.
"Most new reporters stick to safe questions or try to make splash with controversial ones," Peterson observed. "Technical analysis of zone exits? That's different."
"Different good or different bad?"
"Different interesting," he said with a shrug. "D'Arcy actually gave you a real answer, which is practically a miracle. He usually treats press conferences like dental surgery—something to endure with minimal engagement."
"I noticed," Libby said dryly.
