Liam circled back to center ice. Looked up.
There—blue and silver, number 17. His name across her shoulders.
His heart kicked.
He tapped his stick once against the ice. Placed his gloved hand over his heart—held it there, one beat, two—then raised his stick and pointed.
At her.
At the box.
At the choice she'd made.
The crowd noise shifted. Cameras found him. The jumbotron caught it: Liam D'Arcy pointing his stick at his family box, at a woman in his jersey.
"Holy shit," Varlenko said beside him. "Did you just?—"
"Yep."
"On jumbotron?"
"Yep."
"You must win now. Can't make gesture like that and lose. Internet destroy you."
"Better win, then."
Varlenko grinned. "Is my captain."
Libby was going to pass out.
"Breathe," Georgia murmured beside her, sounding delighted. "In through the nose, out through the mouth."
"I can't feel my face."
"That's because nearly twenty thousand people just watched my brother point his stick at you on the jumbotron." Georgia leaned closer. "He's never done that before, by the way."
Charles D'Arcy turned halfway around, expression unreadable. "That was certainly... unambiguous."
"Charles," Helen murmured, warmth in her voice.
"I'm simply noting?—"
"You're simply being impossible," Georgia interrupted. "He pointed his stick at her, Dad. That's a grand gesture. Be romantic for once in your life."
"I'm extremely romantic. I once bought your mother an entire jewelry store."
Libby couldn't breathe. The jersey felt enormous—his number, his name—falling nearly to her knees. She'd walked past the press box to get here, past everyone who'd dismissed her as clickbait that first day. They'd been setting up laptops, organizing notes, doing the work she'd been doing until everything imploded. But tonight she wasn't Libby Bennet-Cross, byline. She wasn't here to analyze plays for voracious hockey fans, to agonize over word placement, to claw and fight tomake sure her insights would get the most clicks. Tonight, she'd been given a gift—to be the face he saw when he looked up.
The private elevator had smelled like furniture polish and fresh flowers. The hallway to the family boxes had carpet so thick it absorbed footsteps. Framed photographs lined the walls—Liam mid-slapshot, every muscle engaged. Other Steel players. Championship banners. The D'Arcy name on a bronze plaque beside the door.
This was his world. The one she'd never imagined being close enough to cover, let alone stand inside wearing his name.
And he'd just pointed his stick at her. On the jumbotron. In front of everyone.
After vanishing for twenty-four hours. After the jersey and the note and the utter confusion about what any of it meant.
"I need air," Libby managed.
