He mouthed something. Wait for me.
Then a camera operator stepped between them, blocking her view entirely, and Liam disappeared behind lights and lenses and the organized chaos of championship media coverage.
Libby pulled back from the glass, heart hammering. Wait for him where? The ice was locked down. The locker room would be closed to everyone but team and credentialed media. The press conference?—
The press conference. That's where he meant.
She turned and fought her way back through the crowd, heading for the media room. Her phone started buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out while navigating around a group of celebrating fans.
News alerts. Twitter notifications. Text from Clara:
Clara
HOLY SHIT TURN ON ESPN RIGHT NOW
Libby opened Twitter. The first video that loaded made her stop walking.
Liam, in sunglasses and a suit with no tie, stepping off a private plane. Behind him, two security guards flanking a man in handcuffs who looked significantly less comfortable than he had in St. Kitts.
Gray Wickham.
The news report was posted an hour ago, but the timestamp on the actual security footage was clear: MONDAY 4:15 p.m., LOGAN AIRPORT.
Monday.
He did this yesterday. While she was spiraling, convinced he'd abandoned her. While Jane was getting reinstated. While she was staring at her phone, feeling hollow. He wasn't silent because he was pulling away. He was silent because he was in St. Kitts, retrieving the man who had torn her family apart.
She scrolled frantically. More videos. Photos. A statement from the FBI thanking the government of St. Kitts and Nevis and the D'Arcy family for their assistance, and looking forward to Mr. Wickham's cooperation as they pursue charges. A quote from the D'Arcy organization's legal team about bringing a fugitive to justice.
Liam had gone to St. Kitts. Alone. Had brought Wickham back to face federal charges.
For Georgia. For Lydia. For her.
Relief hit first—he hadn't disappeared, hadn't retreated back into careful distance. Then irritation, sharp and immediate, because he'd gone alone to confront a criminal in a foreign country and she was going to have words about that particular brand of protective stupidity.
And underneath both, buoyant and unbidden: love.
The stupid, weightless kind that made her chest feel too small. That string that had been pulling her toward the ice had gone vertical, her heart floating up and away like a balloon cut loose from its tether.
Oh God.
She was in love with him.
Not the careful, maybe-this-could-be-something feeling she'd been telling herself was reasonable. Not the this-makes-sense-on-paper logic she'd used to justify putting on his jersey.
The full, terrifying, no-going-back kind.
"Excuse me—sorry—" She pushed past a group of reporters setting up cameras outside the media room. The press conference was about to start.
She slipped in just as Mariska was introducing Liam and Coach Taylor. The room erupted in applause. Liam sat down at the table, championship cap still on, exhaustion and satisfaction written across his face.
"Liam, congrats on the win. Talk about that game-winning assist."
"Morrison made a great shot. I just got him the puck."
"Your performance throughout this series has been exceptional. What's clicking for you right now?"
"Team effort. Everyone's elevated their game. Credit to coaching staff for the preparation."
