Page 12 of The Prince and the Puck
“Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. You’re really under pressure here.” We were alike in that way.
“Kind of, yeah.” She shrugged, tilting her head so her smooth dark ponytail slid over one shoulder. I forbid myself from considering what it would feel like to grip it in my hand while I guided her head to my—nope. Forbidden. Not thinking about that.
“Okay, so what ideas do you have?” I asked her.
“Well, I was going to interview everyone to start, and then go from there. Maybe kind of build on whoever has the best story. Maybe a coming up from nothing kinda thing.”
“So you want Rubio for that. Grew up in East Los Angeles, super tough neighborhood. Ended up going to some camp put on by a former Wombats player.”
She nodded and made a note in her phone. “Okay, good. Who else?”
I thought about my teammates.
“Elks might be a good one to chat with. His older brother played hockey too. He was always in the guy’s shadow. Then his brother died in a car crash, so now he says he channels him while he plays. Wears his number, plays every game in his honor.”
“Oh, that’s good too. Really sad, though.” She made another note, and I watched, wishing I could tell her my story. It was pretty compelling too, I thought, even though no one in the US had even heard of my country. But my history and my background were things I couldn’t tell anyone. The only person in the states who had any idea who I really was was my Uncle Jericho. And he’d never tell a soul.
CHAPTER 10
LIZZY
PORTUGAL. NOT AN ISLAND.
The eveningwith the prince ended up being fairly enjoyable. His ideas for a documentary weren’t bad, either. If I let him help, I might actually have a chance of actually creating something to help the team out, something I hadn’t really been planning on in the first place.
But if I kept him close, I could kill two birds with one stone, I figured. I could make sure he was safe, and I could start working on convincing him he needed to go home. The question was how exactly to do that without telling him who I was, admitting I knew who he was, or tipping him off to the very delicate state of his father’s health—any of which could invalidate his claim to the throne.
“Call it a night?” I suggested, as he pushed away his drink.
He nodded. “Probably shouldn’t have had that at all with a game tomorrow.”
“I’ll drive home?”
“It’s my truck,” he pointed out.
“I’ll pick you up for the game.”
He made a face. “You’re quite a gentleman.”
He didn’t mean it that way, but the arrow sank deep. That was something I’d heard in different forms many times. Whichwas why I’d given up on dating. Men didn’t want a woman who was every bit as tough or strong as they were. They didn’t want a woman who could hold her own physically and verbally. They said they wanted an equal partner, but I had yet to find a man who didn’t use my own strength against me somehow to make me feel like less of a woman.
“I’m sober,” I told him.
“I mean, if you want to do math,” he began. “I’m at about two-fifteen right now, and I don’t think that wine counted as a real drink?—”
“Then why do you drink it?” I couldn’t help it. I was curious about the pink wine.
“Lizzy,” he said, leaning forward slightly as if I should be able to figure this out for myself. “I got that for you.”
“Oh,” I said, understanding hitting as a laugh grew in my chest. “And I drank yours?”
“Yeah, you did,” he laughed.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!” I couldn’t stop laughing now, though I wasn’t even sure why it was so funny. I’d accepted that the prince drank pink wine and just cataloged it as a quirk.
“I don’t drink pink wine,” I managed through a gasp. “Why would you assume that?”
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
