Georgia
Minor miracle. Like your backcheck on Magnus in the second. Chat tomorrow?
Liam
After practice. Sleep well, G.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and straightened his tie. The walk from the locker room to the players' exit was lined with premium ticket holders and sponsors—another gauntlet to navigate. Liam had perfected the art of moving efficiently through these crowds: firm handshake, brief eye contact, polite nod, keep walking.
"Liam! Stellar performance tonight!" called out Kate Davenport, his godmother and owner of the rival Montreal franchise. "Though I still say you chose the wrong team."
"Kate," he acknowledged with a nod. "Enjoying Boston hospitality?"
"Tolerable, as always," she sniffed, her perfectly styled silver hair gleaming under the hallway lights. "Anne sends her regards. She's still in Paris for the gallery opening, but she'll be at the next series—if Boston wins out, of course."
"Please give her my best," he said diplomatically. "If you'll excuse me—early morning tomorrow."
Outside, his Range Rover waited in the players' lot. Liam slid behind the wheel, finally alone with his thoughts. The solitude was welcome after the sensory overload of the game, the media, the fans. He sat for a moment, eyes closed, compartmentalizing the night's events, filing away observations about the opposing team's penalty kill, noting adjustments for the next game.
His phone buzzed again.
Charles D’Arcy
Good game. Shot percentage still low. Talk tomorrow.
A man of few words, his father. No praise, just analysis—just the way Liam liked it. There was always something to improve, always a weakness to address. Such was life as the heir to the Boston Steel dynasty.
He started the car and pulled out into the Boston night, already mentally preparing for tomorrow's practice.
"Elizabeth Marie Bennet-Cross! Get down here this instant!"
Libby groaned into her pillow. Her mother only used her full name in cases of extreme excitement or extreme disappointment, the two states she lived in full-time. At 7:08 a.m., either option was unwelcome. She shuffled downstairs in mismatched socks, one blue with penguins and one green with tacos, to find her mother vibrating with energy in the kitchen of her childhood home.
"Did someone die?" Libby asked, making a beeline for the coffee pot.
"You've gone viral!" Linda Bennet-Cross thrust her iPad into Libby's face before she could take a single sip from her mug. "Your tweet about that hockey player's beard! It has over ten thousand likes! That's practically a million in internet money!"
"What?" Libby blinked, taking the tablet. Sure enough, her throwaway comment about Trevor Shea's facial wilderness had exploded overnight. NHL players, sports reporters, and even the official Falcons account had retweeted it. Trevor Shea himself had replied with three crying-laughing emojis and "Fair assessment tbh." The Athletic had quoted it in their morning roundup. ESPN had included it in a graphic about playoff eliminations.
"Oh my god," she murmured, scrolling through the notifications that had apparently been flooding her phone while she slept. "It's just a dumb joke about a beard."
"It's your big break!" her mother declared, already in full theatrical mode. "I've already texted the entire book club! Mrs. Henderson says her nephew works at ESPN—well, near ESPN, he parks cars at the studio, but still!"
"Mom, it's one viral tweet. It doesn't mean?—"
"Robert!" Linda called toward the living room where Libby's father was undoubtedly trying to enjoy his coffee in peace. "Come see Libby's big break!"
Robert Bennet-Cross appeared in the doorway, his history teacher sweater vest already on despite it being Saturday. "I'm guessing from your mother's decibel level that something monumental has occurred?"
"Apparently," Libby said, sliding the iPad toward him. "Though I'm not sure how this translates to career advancement."
Her father scanned the screen, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Full Hagrid hosting an ecosystem? Not bad, Libs." He handed back the tablet. "Though I'm sure the Pulitzer committee is known for their beard commentary category."
"Your father, always the comedian," Linda rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to him, sweetheart. This is your chance! The sports media world is finally noticing you!"
"For making fun of a guy's beard, not for my actual hockey analysis," Libby pointed out, finally managing a sip of her life-sustaining coffee.
In the background, Lydia had emerged from her room and was dramatically reading Libby's tweet to her phone camera for her Instagram story, complete with theatrical gasps between each game progression.
