"Come on, Libby. We both know you know more than that." His smile turned predatory. "I got a good shot at his knee in Game 2. All I want to know is if he's preferring you on top lately?" His eyes traveled over her deliberately. "I mean, who wouldn't, right?"
"Thanks for the coffee," she said coolly, standing despite his attempt to keep her there. "Good luck tonight. You'll need it."
"The D'Arcys always protect their own," Wickham called after her, his voice carrying a warning. "Just remember that when you're wondering why you're suddenly getting shut out."
As she left the café, she tried to shake off both his parting words and the feel of his fingers on her wrist.
The arena was electric from the moment the doors opened. Game 5, series tied 2-2, everything on the line. Libby sat in her usual spot in the press box, surrounded by other journalists who were frantically typing pre-game storylines, but she couldn't focus on her own notes.
Wickham's words from lunch kept echoing:Safe. Traditional. Inevitable.
"Bennet-Cross, you planning to write something or just stare into space?" Rodriguez from the Globe dropped into the seat beside her.
"Just organizing my thoughts," she managed.
"Better organize fast. This one's going to be a war." Rodriguez was already typing. "Did you see their energy in warm-ups?”
Libby frowned. “What are you doing here? Isn’t this Peterson’s beat?”
Rodriguez gave her a speaking look. “I assumed you knew, considering that your boyfriend is behind it.”
“Behind what?”
Rodriguez shrugged. “Peterson’s out. Persona non grata in this place. He’s under internal review for ethics violations.”
Libby gaped at him.
Rodriguez held up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. Actually, we’re good, right Bennet-Cross? No bad feelings, yeah?”
“Um, yeah,” Libby mumbled. “Right.” She turned to the ice, unseeing.
Liam. Liam had gotten Peterson fired. Worse—investigated. He’d never work at a reputable paper again.
A heady cocktail of emotion swirled beneath her skin. Anger at his power games. Satisfaction that Peterson was getting his due. And a blurry, confusing warmth. She didn’t need anyone to protect her, had not asked him to intervene, and yet, the fact thatshe hadn’thadto ask, that he’d taken steps to protect her on his own…
No, it was an overstep. Every feminist bone in her body should be wailing right now.
Her eyes focused on the rink, and the war for territory that was in full swing below.
Liam was playing with an intensity that bordered on reckless. Every shift was maximum effort, every hit delivered with extra force, every shot taken with violent precision. He wasn't just trying to win; he was trying to obliterate.
Portland pushed back hard. They'd come to play, and they weren't intimidated by Boston's home ice advantage. The game was brutal, both teams trading hits and chances, the refs letting them play through everything but the most egregious penalties.
Liam took a massive hit in the second period, sandwiched between two Portland defenders, and Libby found herself half-rising from her seat before she caught herself. He got up slowly, shaking his head, and she could see Coach yelling at him as he headed to the bench.
But he didn't slow down. If anything, he pushed harder.
He's going to hurt himself,she thought, watching him throw himself into another punishing forecheck.
Third period, five minutes left, game still tied. The tension in the arena was suffocating. Every rush brought eighteen thousand people to their feet. Every save drew collective groans or cheers.
Then, with forty-seven seconds left, Portland scored.
The silence was deafening. Libby watched Liam on the bench, saw his hands clench on his stick, saw Mattingley lean over to say something that made Liam's jaw tighten further.
Coach called timeout. Whatever he said, it worked. When they returned to the ice, there was something different in Liam's posture. Controlled fury rather than reckless anger.
They pulled the goalie. Six attackers, desperate for the tying goal.
