Liam pulled up another sequence. "Look at this play from March third. The diamond adjustment creates?—"
"A better angle for Jensen's stick positioning, I know," Libby interrupted, pointing at the screen. "But that only works if Portland's shooter is left-handed. Against right-handed shots, the gap control is more important."
They were both leaning toward the screen now, Libby unconsciously matching Liam's intensity as they debated defensive positioning. She pointed at a specific player movement. "Can you rewind to that sequence?"
Liam rewound to exactly where she meant, somehow knowing which play she wanted to see. "There—see how Mitchell shifts his weight? He's telegraphing the pass before he makes it. Your defensemen could anticipate if they?—"
"Watched his hips instead of the puck," Liam finished. "You're right."
The admission hung between them. Libby realized they were sitting closer than necessary, drawn together by their shared focus on the tactical discussion. She could smell his cologne—something expensive and understated—and see the faint stubble along his jaw that his morning shave had missed.
"We should probably discuss strategy for tonight," she said, leaning back to create some distance. "The team dinner."
"Right." Liam saved his notes and turned to face her properly. "It's fairly straightforward. We arrive together, sit together, engage in appropriate couple behavior without being ostentatious."
"Appropriate couple behavior?" Libby repeated. "Is there a manual for that?"
"Casual physical contact, engaged conversation, shared attention," Liam listed, as if reading from an internal playbook. "Nothing excessive, just... natural interaction."
"Natural," Libby echoed skeptically. "Right. Because fake couples always debate defensive zone coverage for fun."
"No," Liam agreed. "But we seem capable of natural interaction when discussing hockey."
"So we just talk about hockey all night?"
"It's what we do well together," Liam pointed out pragmatically.
Before Libby could respond, Varlenko burst through the door. "Liamik! You are still here with tape? Is playoffs, not film school!" He spotted Libby and his grin widened. "Ah, but you have better company than usual. Much prettier than Jensen."
"Andre," Liam said with clear warning.
"What? Is compliment! I like journalist girlfriend. She makes you less boring." Varlenko winked at Libby. "At dinner, you sit with fun people. Not Liam and his statistics."
"I like statistics," Libby said, surprising herself by defending Liam.
"Of course you do!" Varlenko laughed. "That is why you are perfect match. Both very serious about hockey numbers." He made a heart shape with his giant hands that was so ridiculous Libby couldn't help but laugh.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Liam asked pointedly.
"Yes, dinner! Which you will be late for if you keep watching tape." Varlenko headed for the door, calling back: “Five minutes,Captain Serious, or I tell everyone you are making out in film room!"
The door slammed behind him, leaving a mortified silence.
"I apologize for Andre," Liam said stiffly. "He has no boundaries."
"It's fine," Libby said, though her cheeks were warm. "We should probably go anyway. Being late would draw more attention."
Liam nodded, closing his laptop and gathering his notes with practiced efficiency. As they walked to the parking garage, he maintained a careful distance, though Libby noticed his hand hovering near her back when they navigated doorways—protective but not quite touching.
"You really did notice the defensive adjustments," he said as they reached his car—a predictably pristine black SUV.
"Is that so surprising?"
"Most journalists focus on narratives over tactics."
"Most players assume journalists don't understand the game," Libby countered.
"Fair point," Liam conceded, opening her door for her. The gesture was automatic, she realized, not performed for any audience.
