Libby stared at him, genuinely surprised. He was advocating for her journalistic independence more forcefully than she had been prepared to.
"Additionally," he continued, "we'll need clear boundaries on public appearances. Two team events maximum, one game where we're seen together. Everything else is off-limits."
"That's... quite minimal," Mariska said cautiously.
"It's what works for our schedules," Liam replied. "Ms. Bennet-Cross has a job to do covering the team, and I have a playoff series to focus on."
"And social media?" Mariska pressed.
"Two posts per week, subject to mutual approval," Liam said. "No candid photos, no surprise content."
Libby finally found her voice. "I'd also like to add that any joint interviews must focus on hockey, not personal details. And we retain veto power over questions."
Mariska looked between them, clearly recalculating her strategy. "These are... unusually specific boundaries for a couple presenting themselves as genuinely dating."
"We're private people," Liam said simply.
"Very private," Libby agreed, fighting the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
After another thirty minutes of negotiations that felt more like a collective bargaining agreement than a dating arrangement, they finally reached terms everyone could accept. Mariska departed to draft the official statement, leaving Libbyand Liam to prepare for their first "official" appearance together—a photo opportunity before Liam's afternoon practice.
"That was... surprisingly collaborative," Libby said when they were alone again.
"Teamwork," Liam replied with a hint of dry humor. "Essential in both hockey and fake relationships."
"Well, thank you for advocating for my editorial independence. I wouldn't have expected that."
"Why not?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
Libby hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable with her previous assumptions about him. "I... had the impression you preferred controlled narratives in media coverage."
"I prefer accurate coverage," Liam corrected. "Whether it's favorable is secondary to whether it's true." He paused. "Your analysis has been critical but factually sound. I respect that."
Before Libby could process this unexpected assessment, Chase poked his head in.
"Sorry to interrupt what I'm sure is a fascinating get-to-know-your-fake-boyfriend conversation," he said cheerfully, "but Liam, Varlenko's doing an impromptu interview with Sports Center about last night's charity event and they're asking about you two."
Liam's jaw tightened. "Tell them no comment until after our official statement."
"I tried. He's... very excited about being right about you two 'making the love connection.'" Chase grimaced. "His words."
"I'll handle Varlenko," Liam said, then turned to Libby. "The photo session is at noon. I'll see you there."
"Try not to let him declare his undying love for our romance on live television," Libby said.
"No promises," Liam replied, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
As he left with Chase, Libby remained seated, trying to reconcile this Liam—the one with unexpected dry humor and principled boundaries—with the cold, privileged heir she'd constructed in her mind. The contradiction was... professionally interesting, she told herself firmly. Nothing more.
"Tilt your head slightly toward him," instructed the photographer, a professional the PR team had hired for official couple photos. "Liam, put your hand at her waist—no, lower. Like you've done it a thousand times."
Libby fought to keep her expression relaxed as Liam's hand settled lightly at the small of her back. They stood outside the practice facility entrance, positioned for what Mariska had described as "casual arrival photos" but was in fact an elaborately staged production with lighting equipment and multiple camera angles.
"Now look at each other like you can't believe how lucky you are," the photographer continued.
"Is there a less... rom-com version of this we could try?" Libby asked through her fixed smile.
"You're a hockey player and a journalist who fell in love despite your opposing roles," the photographer said, as if explaining to children. "It's literally a rom-com."
