Libby exhaled slowly. "Excited. Terrified. Convinced they'll realize they made a huge mistake about three minutes after I arrive."
"You're more than qualified," Jane assured her. "Your analysis is better than half the established hockey writers in Boston."
"But they don't know that," Libby pointed out. "All they've seen is a viral tweet about a beard. What if that's all they want? Some quirky female voice to add diversity to their coverage?"
Jane considered this. "Then prove them wrong. Show them what you can really do."
The back door opened, and Robert stepped out, joining his oldest daughters at the railing.
"Your mother's planning your joint wedding to the Steel's first line," he informed them dryly. "I thought you might need reinforcements."
Libby groaned. "Can I stay at your place in Boston until I find something?" she asked Jane. "I'm not sure I can handle Mom's daily calls if I'm in a hotel."
"Of course," Jane nodded. "My roommate's away on a yoga retreat for the next month anyway."
Robert leaned against the porch railing. "You know, Libs, your mother's enthusiasm aside, this is a real opportunity. The Herald's a serious paper."
"I know," Libby said. "I just don't want to be the token female voice making jokes while the men do the real analysis."
Her father nodded, understanding immediately. "Your grandfather used to say that in journalism, you get one chance to define yourself. The first impression sticks."
"Great, so no pressure," Libby muttered.
"Just be yourself," Jane advised. "Your real self, not what you think they want."
"And watch your back," Robert added. "The sports world hasn't changed as much as they'd like us to believe."
Libby thought of Clara's warning earlier that day. "So I've been told."
"You'll be brilliant," Jane said with her characteristic optimism. "The Steel are lucky to have you covering them."
"The Steel don't even know I exist yet," Libby pointed out.
"They will," her father said with quiet confidence. "Just remember who you are and why you're there. Don't let them make you doubt yourself."
Libby nodded, grateful for her father's faith in her. Inside, Linda's voice carried through the open window: "Lydia, what do you think—Steel blue or burgundy for the wedding colors?"
"I'm doomed," Libby sighed, but she was smiling as she said it.
Later that night, Libby sat cross-legged on her childhood bed, laptop balanced on her knees as she frantically researched the Boston Steel. Her open suitcase lay beside her, half-filled with what she hoped were appropriate clothes for covering a professional sports team.
She'd read through the Boston Herald's recent Steel coverage, familiarizing herself with Jackson's style and approach. Solid but traditional. Heavy on game recaps, light on analytical depth. She could do better—if they let her.
Her browser tabs multiplied as she dug deeper: team statistics, player profiles, recent trade acquisitions, injury reports. She pulled up Liam D'Arcy's career highlights, watchingclip after clip of the Steel's star center finding gaps in coverage that shouldn't exist, turning defensive formations into Swiss cheese.
Derek's dismissive comment about D'Arcy being a "daddy's boy" echoed in her mind, but the evidence on screen told a different story. His hockey IQ was off the charts, his positioning always perfect, his passing lanes creating opportunities that other players wouldn't even see.
But it was what happened after the plays that caught Libby's attention. While teammates celebrated goals with elaborate routines, D'Arcy's reactions were always muted—a raised stick, a brief helmet tap, then immediately back to game mode. In interviews, the same pattern: minimal emotion, deflection of personal praise, redirection to team accomplishments.
A post-game interview from last week auto-played. D'Arcy stood at his stall, still in half his gear, patiently explaining a complex play to a young reporter who'd clearly misunderstood the strategy. Instead of the condescension she'd seen from other stars, his explanation was clear, respectful, almost teacherly. When the reporter stumbled over a follow-up question, D'Arcy waited, gave him time to reformulate, then answered what he'd meant to ask rather than what he'd actually said.
"Huh," Libby murmured, unconsciously leaning closer to the screen.
"What are you hiding behind that robot routine?" she murmured, watching him cut short yet another question about his personal achievements.
Her phone buzzed.
Clara
