"Right. Just your fake boyfriend who spent Sunday dinner with your family. Who's watching you right now, by the way."
Libby's gaze snapped up to find Liam indeed looking in her direction. They hadn't spoken privately since that disaster of a family dinner five days ago—Lydia announcing her partnership with Wickham, Liam's abrupt departure. It had shattered whatever fragile intimacy they'd built on the ice that morning, leaving them in an impossible space where they maintained public appearances while carrying the weight of an almost-kiss, of vulnerabilities shared but never acknowledged.
"It's complicated," Libby sighed.
"So you've said. Repeatedly. For weeks." Clara clinked her glass against Libby's. "Congratulations on the series coverage, by the way. That piece on Montreal's neutral zone trap was brilliant."
"Thanks," Libby smiled, grateful for the shift to professional territory. "Reid actually let me write the analysis without inserting random quotes about 'heart' and 'determination.'"
"Progress," Clara nodded. "And ESPN on Wednesday? You ready?"
"As I'll ever be," Libby replied, surprising herself with her lack of enthusiasm. Six weeks ago, the ESPN interview would have been the professional culmination of everything she'd worked for. Now, it felt strangely... complicated.
"By the way," Clara said, scrolling through her phone while they stood near the bar, "did you see Portland waived Wickham today?"
Libby turned from watching Liam across the room. "What?"
"Yeah, cleared waivers. Nobody wanted him." Clara showed her the screen. "He's done. AHL if he's lucky."
Relief flooded through Libby. "Thank god. Maybe Lydia will finally stop with the TikToks about her 'NHL boyfriend.'"
"We can only hope." Clara pocketed her phone. "Though knowing your sister, she'll probably spin this into content about 'supporting your man through career transitions' or some nonsense."
Libby laughed, feeling lighter. At least that particular problem was solved. Wickham out of the NHL meant Wickham out of their lives.
Before Libby could dig any further, Varlenko appeared before them, his Russian accent thickened by celebratory vodka shots.
"Libby! Our lucky charm!" he announced, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "You must interview me now. I have many insights!" He tapped his temple with an index finger the size of a breakfast sausage, winking dramatically.
"I'm off duty, Andre," Libby laughed, extracting herself from his enthusiastic embrace. "Save your insights for tomorrow's media availability."
"No, no," Varlenko insisted, brandishing his phone. "Not for newspaper. For Instagram! My followers want to meet famous girlfriend of Captain Serious."
"I don't think—" Libby began.
"Varlenko," Liam's voice interrupted smoothly as he materialized beside them. "Coach is looking for you. Something about your defensive zone coverage in the third period."
Varlenko's expression shifted to theatrical horror. "But we won! Why always so mean?" He glanced around like a hunted animal, despite being six-foot-five and built like an industrial refrigerator. "I go hide now." He drained his vodka in one swift motion and lumbered away, his massive frame visible to everyone as he slipped behind a decorative fern that barely reached his waist.
"There is no coach critique, is there?" Libby asked when Varlenko was out of earshot.
"Not until film review tomorrow," Liam confirmed, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "But his followers will survive without your Instagram debut."
"My hero," Libby said dryly, with only the slightest flutter of her traitorous pulse.
Liam accepted a glass of water from a passing server, declining the champagne option. At Libby's raised eyebrow, he gave a small, almost self-deprecating shrug. "Morning skate comes early."
Libby felt a sudden pang, remembering their last post-win morning session on the empty practice ice—his invitation, their shared confidences, the strange intimacy of gliding across the surface together. No such invitation had come this time.
"Always the captain," she observed.
"Someone has to remember we're playing Montreal in four days."
Clara, who had been watching their interaction with undisguised interest, cleared her throat. "I should mingle. Potential sources everywhere." She gave Libby a pointed look that promised detailed questioning later. "Congratulations on the win, Mr. D'Arcy."
Left alone in their small bubble amid the celebration, Libby found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
"The win was impressive," she finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
