"I've become everything I never wanted to be. Selfish. Compromised. Unfocused. These past weeks, having you next to me at events, watching you handle Kate's hostility with grace, the way you understood without my explaining why I needed to win so badly... I should let you go. Hold a press conference absolving you of any wrong. If the Herald fired you, I'd make sure you had the best legal team in Boston. And after, I'd buy the paper and give you Sully Reid's job."
"Liam..." she breathed, but he wasn't done.
"Tell me you feel obligated. Tell me this is just professional for you. Tell me that you're only here because you have to be, and I'll end it right now. We'll stage the breakup, go back to professional distance, and I'll never bother you again. But if there's even a chance that you..."
"You think I stayed up playing cards with you because I had to?" Her voice was shaking now. "You think I'm here at 6 a.m. because I'm worried about my career?"
"I don't know," he said desperately. "I can't tell anymore. I'm an idiot. I'm good at hockey and not much else. But I know I don't want to walk away from this."
She raised her free hand to his chest. She could feel his heart racing under her palm, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.
She looked up at him, really looked at him, and something shifted in the air between them.
Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Or was she reading into things, seeing what she wanted to see? God, she couldn't tell anymore. Every look, every touch felt loaded with meaning, but maybe that was just her—projecting her own feelings onto him, turning professional courtesy into something more. Maybe he treated all his fake girlfriends this way. Maybe she was just another in a line of?—
"Stop thinking so loud," he murmured, and his voice was rough in a way that made her stomach flip.
She realized he'd been slowly backing her up, each adjustment of their position bringing them closer to the boards. She was so focused on his face, on trying to read his expression, that she hadn't noticed until?—
He started to lower his head toward hers, and she wobbled, her ankles betraying her.
"Easy," he said softly, a smile ghosting across his lips as he gently pressed her back against the boards, steadying her with his body. His hands bracketed her waist, holding her secure.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough.
She couldn't. Wouldn't. Her hand fisted in his shirt instead, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
They were close enough now that she could feel his breath on her skin, could count all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone.
"Libby..."
Her name was a prayer, a question, a surrender.
She tilted her face up toward his, saw his eyes darken as he closed the distance between them?—
The sudden roar of the Zamboni shattered the moment like a hammer through glass.
They sprang apart, both breathing hard, both looking absolutely wrecked. Liam's hand was still extended toward her, like he couldn't quite process the interruption.
"Morning folks!" Tom the Zamboni driver called cheerfully, completely oblivious to what he'd interrupted. "Didn't expect anyone here this early! You two getting in some extra practice?"
Liam's public persona slammed back into place like a wall, though his eyes remained wild. "Just helping Libby with her skating, Tom."
"Oh, that's nice! You know, my wife always wanted to learn to skate. Never could get the hang of it though. Kept falling on her—well, anyway, good for you for trying, Miss Libby!"
Tom proceeded to give them a detailed rundown of his grandkid's latest Little League game, complete with play-by-play of every at-bat, while Liam and Libby stood there, carefully feet apart now, vibrating with interrupted desire and unfinished confessions.
When Tom finally started his slow circuit of the ice, Libby's phone chimed.
And chimed again. And then again, twice more.
Liam gave her a questioning look.
"My mother," she said without even checking the screen. "She's demanding I bring you to Sunday dinner. She's threatened to come to Boston and cook in Jane’s apartment if I keep refusing. Says she needs to meet the man who's 'stolen her daughter's heart.'" She winced at the phrasing.
"Oh, it's fine. She's just..." Libby trailed off with a laugh. "Let's just say she's extremely invested in our 'relationship.' Now she's demanding I bring you to Sunday dinner to meet the family." The words left her mouth before she'd fully considered the implications.
