Page 14 of Landing Liam

Maggie

The Glorious Pig is exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find on the west side of a sleepy mountain town—dimly lit, with a faded neon pig sign flickering in and out above the door. The wooden facade is chipped, and the parking lot is a mix of cracked asphalt and packed snow. It’s not just a bar; it’s the kind of bar where the locals feel comfortable enough to tell stories, to exaggerate truths, and, hopefully, spill a secret or two about Liam Thompson.

According to my research—which consists of a treasure trove of decade-old Facebook status updates from a twenty-one-year-old Liam—this place was, and maybe still is, one of his favorite haunts. A quick Google search also revealed that it’s owned by none other than his cousin’s tech billionaire husband. Between those two tidbits, the odds of uncovering something juicy about Liam here seem pretty promising.

I pull open the heavy door, the smell of beer and bad decisions hitting me all at once. The low hum of conversation fills the space, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the sharp crack of billiard balls colliding in the back. The decor leans heavily into rustic charm—distressed wood paneling, antler chandeliers, and a jukebox tucked into the corner playing a mix of old country hits and classic rock. But its the metal sculpture of a pig that really nails the whole rundown bar vibe.

I stop in front of the bar and take a moment to scan the room. There’s an interesting crowd here tonight—locals nursing beers at small round tables, a couple of snowboarders fresh off the mountain still wearing their bulky jackets, and a group of rowdy twenty-somethings arguing over darts. It’s not hard to picture a younger Liam here, all easy smiles and carefree energy, slipping seamlessly into this crowd.

“What can I get you?” The bartender, a guy about my age with a man-bun and a flannel shirt, greets me as he wipes down the bar.

“A glass of white wine,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too out of place. “I’m not picky.”

He nods and gets to work, and I pull my phone out, pretending to scroll while keeping one ear on the conversations around me. I need something—anything—that will give me an edge in piecing together the story of Liam Thompson.

As the bartender slides the drink in front of me, I glance up, catching snippets of a conversation at the table behind me.

“Remember when Liam almost wiped out trying to impress that blonde on the half-pipe?” one guy says, his voice carrying over the noise.

Bingo. I take a slow sip of my drink, ears pricking up, hoping they’ll say something I can use.

I snag a small table against the wall, nestling into the shadows with my glass of wine. The goal is simple: blend in, observe, and gather intel. I set my phone down on the table, angling myself toward the entrance as the rowdy group of men nearby keeps up their chatter about Liam.

“He dislocated his shoulder,” one of them says, the words laced with admiration. “And still landed a date with that supermodel.”

“He’s a legend,” another sighs dreamily. “A damn legend.”

I roll my eyes, taking a long sip of my wine. Legend? Please.

“Liam!” someone shouts, cutting through the legend talk. My eyes snap to the door, and there he is—Windwood’s very own snowboarding bad boy, waltzing in like he owns the place. A small group follows in his wake, laughing and jostling each other like this is their usual hangout. His posse, no doubt.

I adjust my beanie, pulling it lower over my forehead. The odds of Liam recognizing me as the girl who dumped coffee all over him earlier today seems slim, but I’m not taking any chances. Keeping a low profile feels like the smart move.

“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asks as Liam approaches the counter.

“A round for my siblings,” Liam replies casually.

Siblings? Not exactly the entourage I was expecting.

I sneak a glance at the group surrounding him, keeping my movements subtle. There’s a tall, dark-haired man who looks strikingly like Liam—his older brother, Taylor, if my research is correct. He has his arm draped around a woman with glossy black hair streaked with vibrant purple highlights. That must be Elle, Taylor’s wife. She’s stunning, and if the subtle curve of her stomach is any indication, possibly pregnant. But I’m not here for family drama or baby news.

Then there’s another woman, petite with dark hair and sharp features. I know it’s Liam’s youngest sister, Emmy, a well-known wedding photographer, a rising star who’s been featured in major online magazines. Around here, she’s practically a celebrity in her own right.

The group doesn’t seem to include anyone else, so I take another sip of wine, settling back into my chair as the Thompson siblings’ antics unfold. They’re loud, animated, and impossible to ignore, their bond evident in every teasing jab and shared laugh. For a moment, I almost forget why I’m here—watching them feels like peering into a family holiday card, a picture-perfect display of togetherness.

But then my gaze drifts back to Liam, his easy confidence and effortless charm on full display. I remind myself why I’m here: to uncover the truth about the doping allegations surrounding him. Family quirks and sibling banter are nothing more than background noise.

For now, I’ll keep watching and waiting. Everyone has cracks in their armor. Even legends.

The night drags on as I nurse my glass of wine, my eyes flicking occasionally toward the Thompson siblings crowded around the bar. I stay planted at my little table, unwilling to risk crossing paths with Liam again. But as the minutes tick by, I have to admit—watching him is becoming unexpectedly… fascinating.

Liam laughs a lot. Not the forced, over-the-top kind of laugh you expect from someone performing for an audience, but the kind that’s genuine and easy. He’s polite to everyone who approaches, whether they’re asking for an autograph or just stopping to shake his hand. He doesn’t brush them off or make it seem like they’re wasting his time. He talks to each person like they matter, like he actually cares about what they have to say.

It’s surprising. Odd, even. You don’t see that kind of humility often in someone with a career as high-profile as his. Fame usually comes with an air of untouchability, but Liam doesn’t seem to have that. The fact that he’s spending his night hanging out with his siblings—rather than some flashy entourage or a VIP table—makes him feel more grounded than the gossip sites would have you believe.

I take another sip of wine, a thought flickering uninvited through my mind: Maybe there’s more to him than I thought.

Just as I’m mulling that over, a blonde with curls spilling over her shoulders sidles up to Liam, tapping him on the shoulder. She tilts her head coyly, batting her lashes as she says something I can’t hear. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make him smile and let her tug him toward the dance floor.