Page 10

PIPER

M id-November has a sneaky way of creeping up on you in Boston. One minute you're enjoying crisp fall days, the next you're blinking into bitter winds that slice through your heaviest coat.

I stare at my phone for the seventh time in ten minutes, the screen illuminating my frowning face in the dimly lit journalism department lounge.

The mixer started at seven, and no Liam Sullivan.

My stomach twists with that irritating mixture of anxiety and disappointment that only Liam can create.

Because after our surprisingly good cafe experiment three days ago, I thought maybe I could count on him.

But nope. Inviting him to tonight's networking event as our second "Love Lab Experiment” was the second biggest mistake I’ve ever made—second only to the time in eighth grade when I wanted to be a blonde.

Turns out getting bleach in my eyes is a better alternative to being stood up.

“Waiting for your hockey heartthrob?"

Deidre Jessup, a fellow journalists major, swirls her glass of department-covered grape juice as she approaches.

A talkative know-it-all in every class we share, her signature severe bun makes her narrowed eyes look even smaller behind her tortoiseshell glasses.

"He's not—we're not—“ I clear my throat. “I’m not waiting for anyone, Deidre. But thanks for the concern.”

"Of course.” She flashes me a smile that makes her knock her juice onto the cheap department carpet. "Your podcast is quite the campus sensation. Though I must say, I'm surprised by your choice of co-host."

Before I can explain—again—that Liam wasn't exactly my first choice, the lounge door swings open, and there he is.

Only...not the Liam I'm used to seeing.

This Liam wears a charcoal button-down tucked into dark jeans, a navy blazer that fits his broad shoulders perfectly, and—most shockingly—looks freshly groomed.

His usually wild dark curls are somewhat tamed, and I catch the subtle scent of cologne as he makes his way toward me.

My mouth goes embarrassingly dry.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, looking genuinely apologetic. "Coach added an extra film review session at the last minute."

"It's fine.” I swallow, trying not to stare at this transformed version of my usual disheveled co-host. "You look...different."

He grins.” Different good or different concerning?"

"Just...different."

Deidre clears her throat pointedly.

"Oh! Deidre, this is Liam Sullivan, my podcast co-host. Liam, Deidre and I are in the same Media Ethics class. We’ve been classmates for a while.”

To my continued shock, Liam extends his hand with perfect professionalism. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Deidre. Piper speaks highly of your expertise in that media ethics course. She mentioned your presentation on parasocial relationships in digital media was particularly insightful."

I blink.

I had mentioned that lecture, but only in passing during one of our podcast prep sessions. I didn't think he was actually listening.

Deidre—over-inflated egotist that she is—looks equally surprised but pleased. "Well, Mr. Sullivan, I'm impressed. Perhaps there's more to you than hockey statistics."

"I try to maintain a balanced shot percentage both on and off the ice," he replies with a charming smile.

His response is so smug that I’m sure Deidre doesn’t catch the humor.

"Enjoy the mixer," she says before drifting toward a horde of faculty members that need brown-nosing.

I turn to Liam. "Who are you and what have you done with the guy who brought the exploding chip bag to our recording?"

"What, surprised I can clean up?" He tugs at his blazer collar. "Ryan helped. Said if I was going to crash a journalism event, I should at least look the part."

"Well, it's...effective," I admit, trying to ignore how the dark blue fabric makes his hazel eyes look more green than usual. “But remember…This is another experiment, alright? Tonight's is about navigating professional spaces as a couple, particularly when you come from different social worlds."

“Sure. Professional research." He glances around the room. "So, what exactly are we recording here?"

I hold up my phone. "Voice memo app. I'll take notes later on our interactions. Just act natural—well, this version of natural—and we'll discuss observations on Tuesday."

"Roger that, Professor Thompson." He offers his arm. "Shall we mingle?"

Ignoring the flutter in my stomach, I take his arm, hyper aware of the firm muscle beneath the fabric. "Let's start with Professor Bennett. He specifically asked about the podcast after our second episode."

We navigate through clusters of faculty and eager journalism students toward where Professor Bennett stands conversing with two teaching assistants.

He spots us approaching and his eyes light up.

"Ah, the dynamic duo of 'Love & Logic,'" he greets warmly. "Excellent timing. I was just discussing your latest episode with my graduate seminar yesterday."

"You were?" I ask.

"Indeed. Your debate about relationship red flags sparked quite the discussion. We're analyzing evolving media formats for my Digital Journalism course, and your podcast represents an interesting intersection of entertainment and practical information."

"Thank you, Professor," I say, professional pride swelling. "That means a lot."

"Your insights were particularly interesting, Mr. Sullivan," Professor Bennett continues, turning to Liam. "Your perspective on authenticity versus performance in relationships sparked some thoughtful dialogue."

Liam, to his credit, doesn't look flustered by the academic attention. "I'm just speaking from experience, sir. Piper's the one with the research and stats.”

"And that's precisely why it works. The tension between empirical data and lived experience creates compelling content."

As the conversation continues, I watch with increasing amazement as Liam holds his own, asking thoughtful questions about digital media trends and even making a surprisingly insightful comment about podcast advertising ethics.

Who is this person?

The evening progresses smoothly until we encounter Professor Kripke, notorious for his academic snobbery and dismissive attitude toward anything sports-related.

"Ah, Ms. Thompson," he says coolly when we approach. "Your podcast is certainly... popular with the undergraduates."

His tone makes "popular" sound like a communicable disease.

"Thank you, Professor," I reply stiffly.

His gaze shifts to Liam, eyes narrowing. "And you must be the... hockey player."

"Liam Sullivan," Liam introduces himself, extending a hand that Kripke barely touches.

"Hmm. Interesting choice for intellectual discourse," Kripke glances at me. "Though I suppose sports metaphors make complex relationship concepts more accessible to... certain audiences."

The condescension in his voice is unmistakable.

Beside me, Liam's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. As for me? The air feels like it’s gone out of my lungs. My ears are hot.

Literally hot.

And I blink, trying to clear my vision that is slowly blurring.

"Actually," I say before I can stop myself, "Liam brings valuable perspectives that complement the research. His ability to translate complex emotional dynamics into relatable examples is precisely why our audience connects so deeply with the content."

Kripke's eyebrows rise. "Is that so?"

"It is.” I nod, spine stiffening. “In fact, some of our most insightful listener feedback specifically mentions the balance between data-driven analysis and experiential wisdom. It's a dialectical approach that creates more nuanced content than either perspective could achieve alone."

I feel Liam’s gaze shift to me, and my body temperature lowers steadying once again.

"Well," Kripke says stiffly, "how... progressive of you. If you'll excuse me."

As he walks away, Liam leans closer to my ear. "Dialectical approach, huh? Big words for 'I argue with a jock about dating.'"

"He was being an ass," I mutter. "You handled yourself perfectly professionally, and he had no right to be dismissive."

"Did Piper Thompson just defend my honor?" He places a hand over his heart. “I’m swooning."

“Oh, stop it. It was for the podcast's credibility."

"Of course it was. Nothing to do with my wounded feelings."

"Your ego is incapable of being wounded," I retort. "It's too massive."

He laughs, the sound unexpectedly warming me in the overly air-conditioned room.

Two hours later, we walk across the quiet campus, the podcast mixer successfully navigated.

The night air is cold enough to see our breath. And for some reason, most of the fog is coming from my end.

I can’t seem to stop talking.

"I still can't believe you quoted Marshall McLuhan to Professor Bennett," I say, shaking my head. "Where did that even come from?"

Liam shrugs, hands tucked into his blazer pockets. "I may have done some light research before tonight. Figured I should know the basics if I was entering enemy territory."

"Research?" I stop walking to stare at him. "You?"

"Don't look so shocked, Thompson. Even hockey players can read." He grins. "Besides, I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your professors."

"That’s…thoughtful."

"I have my moments." His expression softens in the glow of a campus streetlight. "Your world's important to you. I respect that."

We walk in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few moments before he asks, "Was your mom a professor too?"

"No," I reply, surprised by the question. "She was a journalist. Investigative reporting was her specialty—corruption, cover-ups, that kind of thing. She was always chasing the next big story."

"Sounds badass."

"She was." I smile at the memory. "She had this way of making people tell her things they never meant to reveal. Dad always said she could've been an FBI interrogator."

"So that's where you get it from."

"Get what?"

"That intense focus. Like you're cataloguing every word for future reference." He snorts softly. "I noticed it during our recordings.”

I laugh softly. "Dad says the same thing about Mom. After she died, I found all her notebooks. Pages and pages of meticulous research, observations, theories. I started keeping notes the same way. Felt like... I don't know, keeping part of her with me."

"Makes sense…I wear Connor's number. Fourteen. It was his in high school."

We've reached the fork in the path where we need to separate—me toward my apartment, him toward Hockey House.

We pause on the sidewalk, our gazes suddenly fascinated with the ground.

"Thanks," I say finally, eyes lifting. "For coming tonight. For making an effort."

"Thanks for defending my honor against Professor Stuffy Pants," he returns with a grin. "Tell me, was that part of the experiment, or just your natural protective instincts?"

"Purely professional. Dataset integrity."

"Right. Well, Experiment Two was a success, I'd say. We make a convincing academic power couple."

"We're not a couple," I remind him.

“Of course not,” he agrees wink. "See you Tuesday, Thompson."

As he walks away, I find myself watching the confident set of his shoulders under that perfectly fitted blazer far longer than strictly necessary for experimental observation.