"Well, he has connections everywhere. He's actually coming to Boston next week! We should totally all hang out. Like a double date situation!"
"That sounds..." Liam paused, clearly searching for a diplomatic response. "Unlikely."
"Why?" Lydia's eyes narrowed. "Did something happen between you two? He mentioned you got him traded or something?"
The silence that fell was deafening. Even Middleton stopped talking about himself, sensing drama.
"Gray Wickham," Liam said slowly, each word precise, "was traded because he violated team policies. Multiple times."
"What kind of policies?" Lydia asked, intrigued.
"The kind that exist to protect people," Liam said quietly, but there was steel in his voice.
Something in his tone must have finally penetrated Lydia's self-absorption, because she actually stopped scrolling.
"Dessert!" Linda announced brightly. "I made tiramisu. Store-bought ladyfingers but homemade mascarpone mixture. Liam, you must try it."
"I'll help with plates," Libby said, needing a moment to process.
Liam stood and followed her without a word.
In the kitchen, away from the audience, Libby turned to him. "I'm so sorry about Lydia. I had no idea she was in contact with him. And now he's using her to get to you again."
"It's not your fault." Liam leaned against the counter, suddenly looking tired. "Wickham has a pattern. Young women with social media presence, especially ones connected to me. He identifies targets, builds trust, then exploits it."
"Liam..." She moved closer, wanting to comfort but not sure how.
"They dated secretly for three months." His voice was flat. "He convinced her the age gap didn't matter, that they were 'meant to be.' She trusted him with everything. Her struggles with the pressure, the eating disorder she was fighting, the anxiety. Two weeks after she broke up with him, it was all in thetabloids. 'Olympic Hopeful's Secret Struggle.' With photos from her lowest moments that only he could have taken."
"Oh my God."
"The check from the tabloid cleared the same day the story broke." His jaw clenched. "Thirty thousand dollars. That's what her privacy was worth to him."
Without thinking, Libby reached up to touch his face, drawing his gaze to hers. "I'm so sorry."
He leaned into her touch for just a moment, his eyes closing briefly. Then he stepped back, putting distance between them.
"I should go."
"Oh." The word came out small. "Right. Of course."
He hesitated at the kitchen door. "Please tell your mother thank you for a lovely dinner." The words sounded hollow, automatic.
Before she could reply, he was gone. She heard him making polite excuses in the dining room, her mother's confused protests, the front door closing with quiet finality.
Libby stood alone in the kitchen, listening to his car engine fade down the street. Her palm still felt warm from where she'd touched his face.
Through the doorway, she could hear Lydia laughing about something on her phone, oblivious to what she'd just triggered. Her mother asking what happened. Her father's quiet observation that perhaps they should all give Libby a moment.
But all Libby could think about was the look on Liam's face when he'd stepped away from her. Like ice forming over water—perfect surface hiding whatever moved beneath.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Your boy cleans up well for someone who just spent three hours getting crosschecked," Clara observed, appearing at Libby's elbow with two glasses of champagne.
The Steel had just dominated Montreal 4-1 for a commanding 2-0 series lead, and Archer's exclusive private room hummed with victory. Libby accepted the champagne, watching Liam across the room where he stood surrounded by team executives, maintaining his perfect public persona even in celebration.
"He's not my boy," Libby replied automatically.
