"But I have so much more to lose," Libby said quietly.
"You don't know that, Libs."
Before Libby could respond, Liam emerged from her father's study, looking slightly more relaxed and holding a glass with a finger of scotch. He smiled when he saw her.
"Your father's been showing me his old coaching rosters," he said. "Impressive."
"Oh God, not the coaching rosters," Libby groaned. "He'll keep you there for hours."
"I don't mind." He seemed to mean it. "Though he did suggest that you might be better company."
She gave him a wry smile. "Hardly."
They stood there for a moment, alone in the living room, that same charged awareness from yesterday morning filling the space between them.
"Is that you?" Liam asked, moving to examine the wall of photos. He stopped at one of seven-year-old Libby in full hockey gear, grinning toothlessly next to her father on what appeared to be the world's smallest backyard rink.
"First year of peewee," Libby confirmed, moving to stand beside him. Too close, probably, but he didn't step away. "Dad flooded the backyard even though it barely got cold enough. I think we got maybe six days of actual ice that whole winter."
"You were adorable," Liam said softly.
"Were?" She turned to face him, playful challenge in her voice.
"Are. I mean—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks.
He looked down at her, and for a moment she thought he might actually finish what they'd started yesterday. The space between them seemed to shrink without either moving.
"Libby—"
"Is that young Elizabeth in her hockey gear?"
They jumped apart as Calvin Middleton's pompous voice preceded him into the room. He stood in the doorway in what was clearly his best suit, holding a bottle of wine like a trophy.
"Calvin," Libby managed, attempting to paste a smile over her grimace. "What a... surprise."
"Your mother mentioned you were having a family dinner. I thought I'd drop by with this excellent vintage. I have it on good authority this label is favored by Kate Davenport herself." His eyes cut to Liam, then back to Libby. He licked his lips. "The Montreal owner. I'm quite familiar with her preferences."
"Mr. D'Arcy," Middleton said, stepping forward with hand extended. "Calvin Middleton, host of 'Middleton's Middle Ice' and special correspondent for Springfield Sports Radio. We met briefly at the Winter Classic media event."
"Mr. Middleton," Liam replied, his handshake brief but polite. "Of course. The Winter Classic."
His tone was perfectly calibrated—warm enough to seem genuine, vague enough to mean nothing. Libby, who'd spent weeks analyzing his press conferences, couldn't tell if he actually remembered Calvin or if this was just world-class media training at work.
"Well, dinner should be ready soon," Libby said, resigned to the inevitable.
"Your mother was kind enough to include me." Calvin's eyes darted to Liam again. "I've been developing a new show concept. Statistical analysis meets human interest stories. I'm in talks with several networks." A pause. "They're reviewingmy proposal. I'm expecting responses any day now. Perhaps you're familiar with the challenges of breaking into national broadcasting?"
"I wouldn't know," Liam said pleasantly. "I just play hockey."
"Dinner!" Linda called with convenient timing. "Everyone to the table!"
The dining room had been set with what Libby recognized as the "good china"—wedding gifts that emerged maybe twice a year. Linda had even lit candles, though one was already listing slightly.
"Liam, you sit here," Linda directed, placing him next to Libby with zero subtlety. "Calvin, you're across from them. Perfect for conversation!"
As they settled in, Mary appeared, carrying her tablet and wearing her usual expression of vague disapproval.
"Mary, no devices at the dinner table," Linda said automatically.
