"D'Arcy! You planning to actually hit the net today or just the glass?" Coach's voice boomed across the ice.
Liam refocused, forcing himself through the shooting drill. But every shot felt mechanical, his usual precision compromised by the constant awareness of her presence.
He noticed when she shifted positions to get a better view of a drill. Noticed when she paused her typing to watch a particular play develop. Noticed the way she absently rolled her shoulders after hunching over her laptop too long. Noticed, most of all, the weight of her eyes on him when she thought he wasn't looking.
"Whatever's got you twisted up, save it for tonight," Tommy said, skating alongside him. "Portland's not going to roll over just because we're up in the series."
At 11:30 exactly, he watched her pack up her laptop. She moved with the same efficient grace she brought to everything—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Professional. Controlled. Everything he was pretending to be while falling apart inside.
Their eyes met across the distance as she stood to leave. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to see a flash of emotion across her face before she turned and disappeared into the tunnel.
Liam hit the next drill with enough force to send Barnett sprawling.
"Jesus, Cap," Barnett groaned from the ice. "I'm a friendly, I swear."
Every professional interaction was agony. Yesterday, she'd asked him about the team's defensive adjustments, and he'd had to grip his stick so hard his knuckles went white just to keep from reaching for her. This morning, she'd arrived at the same time he had, and they'd done an elaborate dance of avoiding each other at the entrance, him holding the door but staying carefully distant, her murmuring thanks without meeting his eyes.
He was the one enforcing this distance. He knew that. It didn't make maintaining it any easier.
He'd turned Portland into something that couldn't exist in Boston. One night of letting his guard down, and now they were both paying for it with this careful choreography of avoidance. She'd picked up on his withdrawal immediately and responded with walls of her own. Professional. Controlled. Exactly what he'd wanted.
Exactly what was killing him.
"D'Arcy!" Coach called across the ice. "Forwards meeting in five. Wrap it up."
Right. Game 5. The reason he needed to focus, needed to compartmentalize, needed to stop fixating on someone who'd clearly gotten his message and responded exactly as he'd intended.
He was so completely fucked.
The café was crowded with the pre-game lunch rush, but Wickham had secured a corner booth that offered privacy. He stood when she arrived, pulling out her chair with an exaggerated flourish and a wicked smile that undoubtedly worked wonders on the puck bunny crowd.
"You look like you could use this," he said, sliding a coffee across the table—oat milk latte, extra shot, exactly how she'd ordered it when they'd grabbed coffee after the towel cart incident. The fact that he'd memorized her order from one meeting should have been flattering. Instead, it felt like performance, like he'd filed it away as useful information rather than genuine interest.
"Thanks," she managed, wrapping her hands around the warm cup.
"Rough morning?" Wickham asked, stirring his coffee with slow, deliberate movements.
"Pre-game day chaos," Libby replied. "Still getting used to the playoff intensity." She took another sip of coffee. "You seemed off at the gala the other night. I wanted to check in—are you doing okay?"
He waved off her concern with practiced ease, but she caught the tightness around his eyes. "Just some contract stuff. Nothing exciting. The Mariners are being... difficult about next season."
"I'm sorry. That must be stressful."
"It is what it is." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "Speaking of stress—how's our captain doing? Physically, I mean. That hit he took in Game 4 was brutal. Heard from some media friends he was moving stiff at practice yesterday."
Libby raised an eyebrow. "Our captain, huh?"
Wickham gave her that charming smile. "You can't blame me for trying. If we lose this one, we're out."
"And you'll be out too?"
His smile turned into a grimace. "Unless I have the game of my life, probably."
"All I can tell you is what's publicly available," Libby said evenly. "He's starting tonight with no known issues." She took a sip of her latte, then added with deliberate casualness, "As far as I know, that's true."
"As far as you know?" Wickham's eyebrow raised, and there was something knowing in his expression. "Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise..."
The words hit closer than he could know.
