Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Five

Lizzy’s clear blue eyes zeroed in on his torso, her gaze inscribing a secret message across his skin. Tuck ran his tongue

behind his top teeth, making a conscious effort not to cover his chest. Why the sudden self-consciousness? He wasn’t a stranger

to female attention—everyone from infatuated fans to chemo nurses slid into his DMs. Maybe it was because he wasn’t accustomed

to feeling this out of control. Here, he had no idea how to play it cool or figure out his next play.

He was in 1812? What the fuck.

He hiked up the micro pants and rolled his shoulders to release some tension, flexing and relaxing the muscles in his chest.

Lizzy let out a sound that was a cross between stepping on a dog’s toy and letting the air out of a balloon.

Tuck glanced down to see if he’d grown a third nipple in the day’s chaos, but everything appeared as usual—dark hair whorling

across his chest. “What?”

“You’re in a... a... a...” She craned her face skyward, her pulse fluttering in her throat as she flapped her arms

like a hyperactive hummingbird.

He cocked a brow. He wasn’t imagining things. Lizzy might seem as prim as a nun, but she’d just checked him out. So what if he wasn’t as shredded as when he was in peak NHL shape? His muscles had been responding to his recovery workouts.

“You’re in a state of nature,” she blurted.

That was a new one, but he could guess what she was getting at. And it was sort of cute, seeing her perform this little thrashing

dance.

He didn’t have a specific type of woman he was attracted to—no particular look or interest. The moments of chemistry happened

when and where there was some kind of alchemy in the blend of personality and atmosphere.

This sure as shit wasn’t a good time for any of that. And yet... here it was, that warm curiosity tapping him on the shoulder.

“What’s the nature I’m stating?” he asked, more to calm down a notch than win any comedic points.

“Do you truly require me to articulate the word? Naked.” Thunder clapped through the gathering clouds with a dramatic punctuation.

“You. Are. Naked!”

Why was she acting like she’d never seen a shirtless guy? Did people here go around fully covered at all times? That couldn’t

be true. What about at the beach? Or exercise?

But if she kept hyperventilating, she was going to pass out—hard to feel flattered if a woman went unconscious.

“Shhhh. Look. I’m wearing your tiny pants, okay?” He’d gotten into them—just. But breathing was going to be a challenge.

She slid him a sideways look, her gaze traveling down from his navel to his happy trail before she slapped her hands over

her eyes.

The warm feeling ebbed as exasperation took hold. Christ. It wasn’t like he was out here swinging his dick in the wind. “Hang on. Can we stick to the real issue?” He fisted the flowy white linen shirt she’d given him. “Like the fact you got me a dress to be inconspicuous? Kinda defeats the purpose.”

She went from peeking through her fingers to planting her hands on her hips—her protests ceased. The stony silence lasted

a beat, broken only by a cow lowing nearby. He smothered a grin at the return of her queen-bee attitude. She might be a handful.

But there was no denying she was cute as hell.

“Please be so kind as to remind me what you did while I went through considerable risk and no small embarrassment procuring

that disguise?” She tapped the center of her chin with a pointer finger. “Oh, yes, I recall. You remained right there, sinking

ever deeper into the mud.”

He drew himself to his full height. “That was not my—”

She cut him off with a derisive huff, holding up her hand to silence him. “I’m speaking now, and for starters, I didn’t pilfer

a dress.” She pointed at the limp garment dangling from his fist. “That’s a smock. Farmers wear them to cover the rest of

their clothing from the elements. Plus, see how loose it is? You’ll get much more ease of movement than ladies do, strapped

into corsets with so much whalebone or cording that we can scarcely breathe.”

“I’m not the fashion type,” he mumbled. “More of a jeans and T-shirt guy, you know?”

Her blank face told him that she didn’t. Of course not. She was dressed like she starred in one of those costume dramas that

sent him snoring before the first waltz.

Here it was the norm for guys to wear micro pants, and God forbid showing any bare chest. If she saw the inside of the Regals locker room, she’d have a stroke. This time period was too different. Too uptight. Too two hundred fucking years ago. What was he going to do? A dozen questions crept to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them back.

He needed to get out of here, stat. If a pathway to the past opened, then it was only logical that it could unlock in the

other direction. He’d tried diving back in when she was off looking for clothes, but nothing lurked under the water but mud

and weeds. No one was coming to the rescue—it was on him to figure out how to escape.

He poked his tongue into the side of his cheek, a headache brewing. Somewhere, apparently in another dimension, a bottle of

ibuprofen sat in the top drawer of his dresser at the B and B. Regrets were useless, but if he’d only stuck it in his jacket

pocket before heading to the pub. He had a feeling he’d need some painkillers in the coming... Damn it, how long would

he be trapped here? Regular folks lived by a clock or a calendar. He was a pro athlete. He lived by a schedule. Practice days.

Game days. Team meals. Off days. Since being out on medical leave, he’d gotten disoriented. Lost track of days and sometimes

his purpose. And now this...

“Oh, do make haste,” she snapped, glancing over her shoulder. “Should anyone chance upon us in your current state, we’d be

marched straight to the nearest altar. And I can assure you that matrimony does not feature on my list of intentions.”

“For real?” He paused. The last thing he wanted was to put her in a compromising situation. “Sorry. I’m serious. You didn’t

ask for this, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”

She met his gaze and then looked away. “Apology accepted as long as you understand that from this point on, I insist that

you notify me whenever you remove even a stitch of clothing. Afford me the courtesy to remove myself.”

“That’s absolutely fair.” Who cared about clothes? He had bigger things to worry about and she’d made a genuine effort to source this smock from God knows where, so time to put up or shut up. There wasn’t a chance he’d fit in here, but he could do his best to look the part.

He slipped the garment over his head. It stretched tight across his chest and the sleeves weren’t going to cover his wrists.

“It doesn’t fit.”

“It will have to suffice,” Lizzy ordered, cutting off any more complaints in a preemptive strike. “And if you remain like

that, a bird will relieve itself on your lip.”

He jerked back. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s an expression my mother used whenever I was petulant as a child. And the way you hold your mouth like so.” She mimicked

a sulky expression, lower lip pushed out. “I don’t care where you come from. That’s a pout in any time.”

He snorted. “Whatever you say.”

“Yes. And I say pout,” she muttered, as she turned to start walking. “Gather your things.”

He shoved his Regals shirt and jeans into his down jacket, compressing the entire thing under one arm before giving chase.

If fate existed, then why in the hell had it forced him to travel two hundred–plus years, not to save the world or do anything

heroic... just to bicker with this woman? But to give proper credit, she was taking this all in stride in a way that was

remarkable.

She was scrappy.

He liked scrappy.

“We’ll go through the rocky field. Wait. That won’t do. There’s that farm with the seven children. No. It must be the forest. The path will be muddier in this weather, but it’s direct.” She glanced over, brows furrowed. “I’m choosing the best way to move unobserved.” She gestured as he slid on his sneakers. “Because those shoes don’t belong here.”

“None of me does.”

A few hours ago, his top concern was being benched for the season. Now he was dressed as if for a Renaissance festival, caught

up in a Tom-and-Jerry routine with a woman who seemed genetically engineered to push all his buttons. He had no idea where

he was going or what was going to happen next. Lightning forked in the sky, and thunder cracked again, closer this time.

Heading toward the forest’s edge, he couldn’t help but notice the absence of streetlights, stop signs, cars, and phones. The

back of his neck tingled. It was as though this place was both familiar and alien, sort of like landing on Mars and discovering

it resembled the park near his house. The notion hurt his brain. Maybe he should have gotten drunk last night.

It didn’t help that Lizzy was giving him another one of her assessing looks. “Is everyone...” She slammed her mouth shut.

“Never mind.”

“If we’re going to be a team, we need to trust each other.”

Lizzy scrunched up her nose, making it look like a tiny accordion, a hint that she wanted to start yet another argument, but

raindrops began falling in thick plops.

She startled, hugging herself. “Pardon me. I don’t care much for storms.”

He glanced at her eyes and his chest tightened as he noticed fear clouding her formerly vibrant expression. The only way he could think to calm her down was to keep the conversation going, leaving no room for silence, or a chance for her thoughts to spiral out of control. “Hey, remind me how far we are going again? I got a bit distracted with all the clothing excitement.”

“A-about a m-mile,” she stammered.

He flicked moisture from his hair. “Then we might as well accept that we are going to get wet. You’ve already seen me half-naked.

No secrets, all right?” His attempt at humor was a bit clumsy, but his intentions were good. “What were you going to say a

minute ago?”

Normally, he had a knack for reading a room, a rink, or a person. His approach involved sharp observation, analyzing possible

plays, and anticipating the next move, especially when it came to the puck’s trajectory. He knew what others expected from

him: fans wanted wins, teammates needed him to be unbeatable, the press hoped for another oddball goalie with good sound bites,

lovers desired him to be superhuman. But this woman was different. She wasn’t trying to get anything from him. And she hadn’t

signed up to be a cosmic chaos cleaner today.

“It wasn’t anything intelligent or captivating. Just a fleeting thought.” A dimple appeared with her shy smile. “You are notably

tall, you see, surpassing most gentlemen I’ve encountered. And more— How do I express this delicately... ?” She gestured

at the breadth of his chest. “Are men from your place of origin generally as imposing as yourself?”

He processed her question, still adjusting to how she spoke.

A soft patter of raindrops whispered through the air.

It took a beat to figure out she was asking if guys in his time were as ripped as he was. Standing at six-two, he was average by NHL standards. “I’m taller than most,” he said, keeping his face neutral so as to avoid showing his satisfaction and closing her off. “And to answer your other question, no, not everyone is as, uh, muscular.” Despite the rain, despite the disorienting strangeness of the day, the corner of his mouth twitched, a smile emerging. When all was said and done, he kinda liked this weirdo.

So would Nora. Lizzy was her type of person.

Shit.

Lizzy read his face, her hair clinging to her cheeks in wet tendrils. “What’s the matter?”

He meant to say his usual “Nothing,” but the truth snuck out before he could catch himself. “My sister... She won’t know

what happened to me. She’s going to be frantic and there’s nothing I can do. And I’m all she’s got, since our parents, well,

they don’t really...” He swallowed back the words. He wouldn’t bring any of their nonsense here.

She turned her head, surveying him with surprise. “You hold your sister in high regard?”

“Yeah, but I don’t always show it,” he admitted. “I’m cold, standoffish, even, and—”

“Always believe you know best?” she broke in.

“Oh no, she’s the brains.” Tuck wiped a wide hand over his face. “I got the brawn, as you pointed out. She’s studying here,

actually. Well, England. The University of Bath.”

“She’s permitted to do advanced study?” Lizzy repeated the fact under her breath as if it were unusual. “But there is no University

of Bath.”

“Dunno.” Tuck shrugged. “Must have been built later. But it definitely exists in my time and she’s there getting a master’s

degree in British literature.”

“British literature? What does that mean?”

“She’s always talking about this one writer... something Austen.”

The rain intensified, fat droplets pelting their skin as they stood facing each other.

“Austen,” she parroted blankly, loosening a breath. “I’m sorry—what was the rest of the author’s name?”

He frowned slightly, trying to remember. “It was like... Janette or something. Pretty sure it started with a J .”

“Jane.” The color leached from her cheeks.

“Bingo.” He snapped his fingers before silently swearing at her frown. He needed to quit saying words she wouldn’t understand.

“Jane Austen. Are you certain?” There was energy behind the question, an urgency that he didn’t understand.

“Yeah. Why? Is Jane Austen a big deal now too?” He shook his head. “What’s with the hype?”