"You clearly want distance. Wickham told me all about Anne Davenport today, your history, how everyone expects you to end up together, and we're both miserable playing this game?—"
"He seemed pretty convinced. Said the families expect you two to end up together, that it's inevitable?—"
"So this has bigger consequences than just you and me. This could affect your relationship." She scrubbed her hands over her face. "It already has."
"What relationship?" His voice was fierce, almost angry. "I'm single. Anne and I dated, yes. Past tense. Whatever hopes orexpectations she or her mother still harbor has nothing to do with me."
The space between them was charged, electric.
She shook her head, unable to form words, overwhelmed by his proximity and everything he wasn't saying.
"What are you so afraid of?" His voice dropped low, intimate, just for her.
God, what wasn't she afraid of? Having him. Losing him. And never being the same afterward. She shook her head again, the movement small, helpless.
"Meet me at the rink."
The words were desperate, urgent.
"What? Liam?—"
"Tomorrow morning. Six a.m.” His thumb was stroking over her pulse point now, and he had to feel how fast her heart was racing. "Before you end this. Before we stage some breakup and go back to being strangers. Please."
"Why?"
"Because I can't think straight right now. Because we've always been best when it's just us. We'll discuss this, and we'll figure it out. And if you decide that ending it is best, we'll do it together, in a way that doesn't hurt you. Promise me, Libby."
She should say no. She should pull away. But in the darkness, with his body so close to hers, with the desperation in his voice...
"Six a.m,” she whispered.
He released her slowly, like it physically pained him to let go. As she slipped past him toward the door, he caught her fingers briefly.
"That look," he said quietly. "After the goal. You were the first person I wanted to share it with."
She fled back to the party before he could see her eyes filling with tears, before she could do something stupid like pull him down for the kiss they'd been avoiding for days.
The practice facility was empty, silent except for the low hum of the ventilation system and the occasional tick of the building settling around them. Early morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the pristine surface.
Libby stood in the shadows of the tunnel, hands wrapped around a coffee she'd grabbed on the way over, watching Liam.
The rink was empty but for him, the scrape of his blades echoing like a heartbeat in the hollow space. She was used to seeing him armored—helmet, pads, gloves, a gladiator at war. Now he cut across the ice in nothing more than a t-shirt and jeans, and somehow he looked even more dangerous. There was no roar of the crowd, no clash of sticks, only the raw intensity he carried in his body. His stride was sharp, punishing, as if every push of his skate could grind down the thoughts riding him. Power radiated from him, masculine and controlled, but threaded through with something frayed—an aggression that spoke of weight carried too long, wounds left untended.
He was beautiful. She couldn't look away.
His Harvard Hockey t-shirt had seen better days. His hair was still mussed from sleep, no product, no careful styling. He looked younger like this. Vulnerable. Real.
When he finally noticed her, everything stopped. His whole face changed—the tension, the aggression, whatever thoughts weighed him down simply vanished. For a moment, he just stood there on the ice, looking at her like he wasn't sure she'd show up, and he wasn't sure what to think now that she had.
But she'd seen it. That split second of pure relief just because she was there.
He glided over to where she stood, stopping in a spray of ice that dusted her boots.
"You came."
"You asked me to." She wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive gesture she couldn't help.
He studied her for a long moment, then skated to the boards near the players' bench where a gym bag sat waiting. He pulled out a pair of skates and a long-sleeved practice jersey—D'ARCY emblazoned across the back in bold letters. He hesitated for a moment, holding the jersey, then held it out to her.
