"Whatever family emergency you're about to have," he said without preamble, "take it. Deal with this. The Herald will cover you for forty-eight hours, but Libby—this is bad. The league is launching an internal investigation."
"Sully, I had no idea?—"
"I know. Anyone with half a brain knows. But perception is reality right now, and the perception is that the Bennet-Cross sisters have been running a gambling ring using insider information. Fix this."
He hung up. Her phone rang again. Stewart Phillips from ESPN.
"Libby, I heard about the situation," Phillips said without preamble. "We need to postpone your interview until this is resolved."
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. "Mr. Phillips, I had no idea?—"
"I believe you didn't," he said, and she could hear him choosing his words carefully. "But we're covering this story regardless—it's already breaking nationally. And it's a slow news day, which means it's going to be on every local sports segment tonight. If you have family who watches the eleven o'clock news, I'd call and warn them. I wanted to give you the option torespond on our platform if you choose to. No pressure, but the offer's there if you want it."
A chance to control her narrative, not exploitation. But still—they'd be covering her family's scandal either way.
"I appreciate that," Libby said carefully. "But I need to handle my family situation first."
"Understood. The Bristol position is on hold until this resolves, but I'll be in touch. For what it's worth, Libby—I hope this clears up quickly." He paused. "And if you do want to make a statement later, my number's open."
They wouldn't hire her yet, but at least he wasn't treating her like just another scandal to exploit.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother:
Mom
Call me RIGHT NOW. Lydia has DESTROYED us all. I can't breathe. Your father won't speak. CALL ME.
Then her father in the family group chat:
Dad
Family meeting at the house. 4 PM. Everyone needs to be here.
Mary
I’m upstairs
Kitty
why am I always the last to know ANYTHING in this family
Jane
I’ll be there
Libby
on my way
Then, ominously, nothing from Lydia. No response, no Instagram stories, no TikToks. Just silence.
Libby looked up from her phone. Gate B21 to Montreal. The game, the coverage, her entire career... it was all right there. Then she looked back at her father's text: Family meeting at the house. 4 PM.
It wasn't a choice. Not really.
Libby ran. Not toward the gate, but away from it, through the terminal, her heels clicking against the floor as she sprinted back toward ground transportation. She ordered an Uber to Jane's apartment—then they'd drive to Springfield together—then called Jane back.
"I'm not going to Montreal," she said when Jane answered.
