Standard Liam answers. Deflecting praise, redirecting to teammates. But there was something different in his delivery—less robotic, more present.
A reporter from ESPN stood. "Liam, there's been significant news today about Gray Wickham's arrest in connection with the gambling investigation. Can you comment on your involvement?"
The room went quiet.
Liam leaned forward slightly. "Gray Wickham's criminal activities have nothing to do with the Boston Steel organization or this team's championship run. That's a legal matter being handled by appropriate authorities. Tonight is about this team, this fanbase, and the Stanley Cup Final we just earned. Next question."
"But you were photographed?—"
"I said next question." Not aggressive. Just final.
Someone from the Boston Globe asked about defensive adjustments in the third period. Liam answered, but kept it brief.
"You've been notably more engaged with media throughout the playoffs," another reporter observed. "But tonight you seem almost eager to get this over with. Any reason?"
Liam's mouth quirked. "Well, my favorite reporter isn't the one asking questions."
The room laughed. A few people glanced around, trying to figure out who he meant.
Then Liam's eyes found hers in the back of the room.
Everything else disappeared.
"Speaking of," he said, standing up while Coach Taylor was mid-sentence about special teams, "I have better places to be. Coach can handle the rest."
Coach Taylor blinked, then grinned. "Get out of here, Cap."
Liam was already moving, striding through the media room with the same focused intensity he brought to the ice. Cameras swiveled, tracking him. Reporters started shouting questions he didn't acknowledge.
He reached Libby, took her hand—his grip warm and certain—and pulled her toward the exit.
"Liam, wait—" someone called.
He didn't wait.
They emerged into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them and muffling the chaos of shouted questions. The corridor was empty, everyone else still caught up in championship celebrations or media obligations.
Liam stopped walking. Turned to face her.
They stood there, his hand still wrapped around hers. His eyes traced over her face like he was memorizing it—the oversized jersey falling past her wrists, her flushed cheeks, the way her hair had come loose from its ponytail during the chaos. She looked at him the same way, taking in the exhaustion written across his features, the championship capstill backwards, a new bruise blooming along his jaw she hadn't noticed before.
"Hi," Libby said, because her brain had apparently abandoned all other words.
Liam smiled—that real, unguarded smile that made him look ten years younger. "Hi."
"You went to St. Kitts."
"I did."
"Alone."
"Yes."
"We're going to fight about that."
"I'm counting on it." His thumb brushed over her knuckles. "But not right now."
"What happens right now?"
