"She's better now," he continued, thumb stroking over her knuckles absently. "In recovery. Has been for four years. But she'll never skate competitively again. The media destroyed her for the story—'Ice Princess Melts Down,' 'The Fall of Georgia D'Arcy.' They picked apart every aspect of her collapse, published photos of her at her sickest, speculated about whether it was drugs or boys or rebellion."
His jaw tightened. "The worst part? They got her medical information. Details about her weight, her treatment, things that should have been private. We couldn't figure out how until later—someone with access to our family sold it. Someone we trusted."
Libby's mind raced. Someone with access to the family. Someone they trusted. Liam's violent reaction when he'd heard about her lunch with Wickham. The way his whole body had tensed when she'd mentioned?—
"Someone who needed money," she said slowly, pieces falling into place. "Someone close enough to have access but desperate enough to betray that trust."
Liam went very still.
"Wickham," she breathed.
"Yes." The single word was sharp as broken glass. "He'd known her since she was twelve. Called her his little sister. And he sold her worst moments to the tabloids for cash."
His eyes never left Libby's face. "And I... I was so focused on my own career, my own pressure, that I didn't protect her. I saw the signs and explained them away. I was her big brother and I failed her."
"Liam, you were a kid yourself?—"
"I was twenty-two. Old enough to see what was happening. Old enough to step in." His jaw clenched. "That's why I've held back. But you... God, Libby, you're nothing like them."
"How do you know?"
"Because you see people, not stories. Because when you write about the team, you capture who we are, not just what we do. Because you're extraordinary."
The last part slipped out before he could stop it. She saw him try to pull it back, but it was too late.
"You can't say things like that," she whispered.
His hand tightened on hers. "My turn to understand something. It wasn't just Wickham whispering poison in your ear that made you dislike me at first."
She'd never told anyone in Boston this story. It was something her family tried very hard to forget ever happened. But standing here on the ice, held steady by his hands, she found herself talking.
"My father coached prep school hockey in Springfield for twenty years. He was good. Great, actually. His team made state championships seven times, sent a dozen kids to college onscholarships. He loved it—loved the kids, loved the game, loved building something that mattered."
His hand was steady and sure in hers, anchoring her.
"But then the Whitman family moved to town. Old Boston money, new to Springfield. Their son was a mediocre player at best, but they wanted him to be captain. My dad wouldn't do it—the kid hadn't earned it. So they started making donations. New rink. New equipment. Suddenly they're on the school board, the athletic committee." Her voice turned bitter. "Within a year, my dad was out. They said it was budget cuts, but the next week they hired their hand-picked replacement at twice the salary."
"Libby..."
"Howell Whitman got his captaincy. The team hasn't made states since. But that doesn't matter when you can buy what you want, does it?" She finally looked up at him. "So yeah, when I met you—Liam D'Arcy, hockey royalty, old Boston money, throwing around the weight of your name—I had some assumptions."
Liam turned to face her fully, still holding her hand, giving her his complete attention. And she realized with a start that he always did this—gave her his full focus whenever she spoke. As a female journalist who was constantly talked over, dismissed, or simply ignored by the men around her, Liam never did that. Not once. When she talked, he listened like nothing else in the world existed.
She took a shuddering breath at his touch, at the realization of how wrong she'd been.
"I was wrong," she said softly. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too." He squeezed her hands gently. "I need to tell you something else. When you suggested ending this last night... I should have agreed. I should have let you walk away."
"Why didn't you?"
His voice went rough, almost angry at himself. "Because I'm selfish when it comes to you."
He shifted closer, their bodies almost touching now.
"I know the position I've put you in. Team captain, your access depends on my cooperation, the fake relationship you couldn't really refuse without damaging your career. I lie awake at night thinking about it—whether you felt obligated to play cards with me in Portland. Whether you stayed because you had to, not because you wanted to. Whether every comfortable moment between us has been tainted by the fact that I have power over your career."
He broke off, jaw clenched.
