"And I know where those impressions came from," Jane added. "Gray Wickham isn't the most reliable source, Lib."
"I'm beginning to realize that," Libby said quietly. "But Liam did use his position to block that trade his uncle wanted."
"According to Chase," Jane said, lowering her voice, "that trade would have sacrificed team chemistry for financial reasons. Uncle Robert apparently wanted to move two promising young players for an aging veteran with a favorable contract structure. Chase says Liam fought it because it hurt the team's competitive future, not because of any personal power play."
"And you trust Chase's take on this?" Libby asked.
Jane nodded. "He's been with the organization long enough to know the dynamics. Plus, he was in some of those meetings."
Libby digested this information, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with how quickly she'd accepted Wickham's narrative. Before she could respond, her phone chimed with a text.
Liam
Film room at 4:30 if you want to arrive at dinner together. I'll be reviewing Portland tape—you're welcome to join if interested.
Jane read the message over her shoulder and laughed. "His texts are so formal. It's like getting a business memo."
"At least he's consistent," Libby said, oddly charmed by the formality. She typed back:
Libby
I'll be there. Hope you don't mind if I watch—I promise not to distract you from playoff prep.
The response came quickly:
Liam
Your analysis is never a distraction.
"Oh my god," Jane said, still reading over her shoulder. "Did Liam D'Arcy just flirt via text?"
"It's not flirting, it's professional respect," Libby protested, ignoring the warmth spreading through her chest.
"Of course," Jane said with a smile that suggested she didn't believe that for a second.
The film room was darker than Libby expected, lit primarily by the massive screen displaying frozen game footage. Liam sat alone at the control station, surrounded by tablets, notebooks, and what appeared to be hand-drawn play diagrams. He was still in his practice gear—Steel-branded athletic shorts and a t-shirt—his hair damp from a post-practice shower.
Libby paused in the doorway, struck by how different he looked in athletic wear. She'd only ever seen him in suits or game-day attire. Like this, muttering under his breath while aggressively jabbing at the replay button, he seemed younger, less intimidating—almost normal.
"You can come in," he said without turning around. "Unless you prefer observing from the hallway."
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, entering the room.
"You're the only person I told security to let in," he replied, still focused on the screen.
She tried to ignore the warm flutter his words caused—that he'd specifically arranged for her access. She settled into the chair beside him, noting the legal pad covered in his surprisingly messy handwriting.
"Portland's changed their entry pattern," Liam explained without preamble, rewinding the sequence. "They're using a delay on the weak side that opens up cross-ice passing lanes."
Libby leaned forward, studying the screen. "But only when your second defensive pairing is out. With your top pair, they revert to the standard setup."
Liam turned to look at her, something like surprise flickering across his features. "You noticed that?"
"I've been covering playoffs intensively," she reminded him. "I pay attention to more than just who's dating whom or which player has the best social media presence."
"I'm aware," Liam said, turning back to the screen. "Your article about our penalty kill efficiency was particularly insightful. Though you missed the adjustment we made to the diamond formation in February."
"I didn't miss it," Libby countered. "I just thought it was less significant than the change in gap control."
