Libby's mind raced. Was he actually offering what she thought he was offering?
"Are you—are you asking me to cover the Boston Steel?" she asked, needing to hear it explicitly.
"For the playoff run, yes. It would be a freelance arrangement, standard day rate plus expenses. We'd need you in Boston tomorrow for practice, first game coverage the day after. Assuming you're interested?"
Interested? It was like asking if she was interested in oxygen.
"Yes," she said quickly, then moderated her tone. "I mean, yes, I'm definitely interested. I'd need to check with my editor here, but I'm sure we can work something out."
"Good. I'll have my assistant email you the details. Welcome aboard, Elizabeth."
"Libby," she corrected automatically. "Everyone calls me Libby."
"Libby it is. See you in Boston."
The call ended, and Libby stared at her phone in disbelief.
"Well?" Clara demanded. "What did Boston's third-largest newspaper want with Springfield's finest hockey analyst?"
"They want me to cover the Steel for the playoffs," Libby said, the words sounding surreal as they left her mouth. "Their regular guy has food poisoning from team catering."
Clara's eyes widened. "Holy shit. That's… that's huge."
"It's temporary," Libby cautioned, as much to herself as to Clara. "Just for the playoff run. Freelance."
"It's a foot in the door," Clara countered. "A massive, steel-toed boot in the door, actually." She raised her coffee mug. "To Libby Bennet-Cross, who's about to show Boston what real hockey analysis looks like."
Libby clinked her "World's Okayest Journalist" travel mug against Clara's ceramic one, a giddy lightness bubbling in her chest. Then reality crashed back in.
"Oh god. I have to tell my mother."
Clara winced. "Maybe call from Boston? Like, when you're safely out of earshot?"
"Too late," Libby sighed, gathering her things. "Jane's coming over for Sunday dinner tonight. If I don't tell them, she'll find out at work tomorrow and then I'll never hear the end of it."
"Your funeral," Clara said cheerfully. "Text me when Linda starts planning your wedding to the backup goaltender."
"Not funny," Libby called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. But she was smiling as she stepped into the spring sunshine, her mind already racing ahead to Boston.
"MY DAUGHTER IS GOING TO BOSTON!"
Linda Bennet-Cross's voice reached a decibel level that probably violated Springfield's noise ordinances. Libby winced, already regretting her decision to break the news before dinner rather than after.
"Mom, it's just a temporary assignment," she tried, but her mother was already in full celebration mode, practically dancing around the dining room table where the family had gathered.
"Jane! Did you hear? Libby's coming to Boston! You'll be together again! My two oldest girls, conquering the big city!"
Jane, who had arrived early to help with dinner, gave Libby an apologetic smile. With her gentle demeanor and patient nature, Jane had always been the eye of the Bennet-Cross hurricane—calm amid the family chaos. As one of the Steel's physical therapists, she'd built a reputation for both professional excellence and unflappable poise, qualities Libby admired and occasionally envied.
"That's wonderful news, Lib," Jane said sincerely. "The Herald is a great opportunity. Their sports section has really improved since Reid took over."
"Is this the beard tweet thing?" asked Mary, the middle Bennet-Cross sister, not looking up from her laptop screen. "Statistically speaking, viral content rarely translates to sustainable career advancement."
"Thank you for that uplifting analysis, Mary," Libby replied dryly.
"Will you get to interview Liam D'Arcy?" Lydia, the youngest sister, perked up from her phone where she'd been documenting dinner preparations for her modest fitness influencer following. At twenty-three, Lydia approached life as if it were one continuous audition for a reality show no one else knew was filming. "He's so hot, in that broody, emotionally unavailable way."
"I'll be covering the team, Lydia, not speed dating the roster."
