He was already typing the email before he could examine why it mattered so much that she be there.
It was purely professional interest, he told himself. The fact that debating hockey with Libby Bennet-Cross was the most engaging conversation he'd had in years was irrelevant. The way she'd laughed at his dry humor, how she'd automatically leaned into him during dinner, the satisfied smile when she'd proved her point about the glove position—none of that mattered.
This was a business arrangement. Nothing more.
But as Liam saved her article to his personal folder—alongside every other piece she'd written—he wondered who he was trying to convince.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The charter plane's luxury was wasted on Libby, who spent the flight to Portland trying to write her Game 4 preview while her phone buzzed with increasingly absurd requests. The Steel's PR team wanted couple photos at the morning skate. Her editor Reid had sent three emails about maintaining "journalistic objectivity" while also asking for exclusive behind-the-scenes content. Jane had forwarded a TikTok where someone had edited hearts around her and Liam at the casino night with Celine Dion playing. She'd turned off her phone after that one.
"So," Peterson from the Globe said, settling into the seat beside her with practiced casualness, "dating the subject of your coverage. That's... a choice."
The words hit like a slap. "The Herald has full disclosure protocols in place," she replied, her voice tighter than she intended.
"Disclosure protocols," Peterson repeated with a laugh that made her skin crawl. "Right. Must make the post-game interviews interesting though. Hard to ask tough questions when you're sharing a bed with the captain."
The words hung in the air like a slap. Every reporter within earshot suddenly became very interested in their laptops.
"That's—" Libby started, her face burning.
"Ms. Bennet-Cross?" Chase Bingley's voice interrupted from the aisle, his timing suspiciously perfect. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's an issue with your Portland media credential. Security needs you to sort it out before we land or you won't have rink access."
"Of course," Libby said, grateful for any excuse to escape. As she gathered her laptop, Peterson called after her.
"Some of us earn our access the traditional way," he said, just loud enough for nearby colleagues to hear.
Libby's cheeks burned, but she kept walking. Chase led her to the team section where Liam sat reviewing tablet footage, his jaw noticeably tight.
"There's no credential issue, is there?" Libby asked quietly as she sat down.
"No," Liam said, immediately setting his tablet aside to study her face. "But I could hear Peterson from here. Chase has excellent timing."
Chase grinned from his seat across the aisle. "I live to serve."
"What exactly did he say to you?" Liam asked, his voice deceptively calm.
"Just establishing professional boundaries," Libby replied with false lightness, not wanting to repeat Peterson's crude implications.
"Is that what he calls it?" Liam's thumb tapped against his thigh—the tell she'd noticed when he played cards. He was furious. "Peterson might find his own credential has some technical difficulties tomorrow. Strange how these glitches happen."
"For what it's worth," Liam said quietly, "Coach Taylor mentioned yesterday that your published power play analysiswas the most insightful he'd read all season. That's not something you can fake."
The unexpected validation made her throat tight. "Thank you."
"Also," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "Peterson was suspended by the Globe two years ago for fabricating sources. They brought him back quietly, but the league knows. He's fishing for anything that could be twisted into scandal to rebuild his reputation."
"I didn't know that," Libby said, suddenly understanding Peterson's desperation for controversy.
"Most people don't. But it explains why he's so eager to imply impropriety where there isn't any." Liam's jaw tightened. "Don't let him make you doubt your work."
The team bus from the airport should have been a simple twenty-minute ride. Should have been.
But Libby had been up since 4 AM for the early flight, had dealt with Peterson's passive-aggressive commentary, three different media availability sessions, and the constant strain of maintaining her fake girlfriend performance.
She'd barely stepped onto the team bus when Varlenko appeared, blocking the aisle with a conspiratorial grin.
"Libby! Perfect timing!" He gestured dramatically to the empty seat beside Liam. "I must move. Jensen needs me to discuss very important... hockey... things. You sit here."
