Page 13 of The Prince and the Puck
“For the record,” I said. “There is good pink wine, though. Just not white zinfandel. There’s a tiny vineyard you’ve never heard of in an island country you’ve probably never heard of, and it makes the most amazing rosé.”
“It’s not Murdan Rosé, is it?” Declan raised an eyebrow.
Shit. I felt my heart drop into my stomach. I couldn’t tell him I knew anything about our homeland. What had I been thinking? “No, what?”
The prince looked relieved, as if he’d brought up our country without thinking, just as I had.
“So what are you talking about?” We both stood and made our way toward the door.
“Sorry, what?” I had hoped he would just drop it.
“Good rose, you said. Tiny country?”
“Portugal,” I managed to blurt. “They make great wine there.”
Declan took my arm, turning me to face him. “Lizzy, I know athletes have a reputation for being ignorant… but I’ve heard of Portugal.”
“Oh, well, yeah. I guess it’s not that small of a country.”
“Also…” Declan looked sheepish as he unlocked the truck. “Portugal is not an island, Lizzy.”
“My bad,” I managed, feeling a furious blush climb my cheeks.
I ended up letting the prince drive me back to my own car in the arena parking lot, but I followed him from a distance until I was sure he was home safe. And then I considered what a completely ridiculous situation I’d gotten myself into.
CHAPTER 11
DECK
DATING IS NOT A SOLUTION.
In the end,I had said goodnight to Lizzy in the parking lot, though I had an odd sensation I was being followed all the way home, and thought I might have seen her car out the window as I swept through the front room, readying for bed, but that would be insane. All I could figure was that my interest in her was starting to creep into areas it shouldn’t.
For example, there was no earthly reason why I should've been out drinking the night before a game. But something about Lizzy brought out my worst instincts. Or, at least instincts I hadn't felt in a while.
I couldn’t figure that particular woman out.
She was hot—no questions there.
She was capable—of what I wasn’t quite sure. If I was honest, she seemed more built for athletics than for public relations. I wondered about her past—how had she gotten into this role in the first place? She’d explained, but it hadn’t really answered the questions I still felt lingering around her.
But the bottom line was that she was also a pretty sizable distraction from hockey. And that was something I didn’t need. That said, if I could help her make the team a household name, that would work to my advantage. If the world knew me as themost fascinating left winger in FHL hockey, then my position would be cemented here for the foreseeable future. And I needed to make it harder for Dad to come up with a reason to bring me home.
We’d won our game against the LA Cruisers, which was obviously a good thing. The roar of the crowd rang in my ears for hours after the final horn. It was one of those games where everything clicked. The pass from Stevens was pure perfection, slicing through the defense. I barely had time to think, just react—and the puck left my stick with a snap, finding the top corner behind their goalie. That goal tied it up, but the real highlight was the assist I set up for Remington in overtime. I fought off two defensemen in the corner, spun, and sent a blind backhand pass right to his tape. Watching him bury it, then the bench erupt, made everything else feel inconsequential. That was why I was here. For the game.
The next week at the rink, I did my best to keep my focus on the ice. Despite my offer to help her, I kind of avoided Lizzy. But it seemed like everyone else on the team was seeing plenty of her. And with every player that interacted with Lizzy and then returned to the team’s locker room with reports, it became harder to ignore the irritating feeling growing in my gut.
I hadn’t quite identified what that feeling was yet, but I knew it had to do with Lizzy, and I knew it had to do with me wanting to spend more time with her.
“She’s so fucking hot, man,” Van Porter reported, returning after practice one day to tell anyone who would listen about the interview he’d just done with Lizzy. “She’s got this kind of quiet, demure thing happening. Like she wants someone to tell her what to do, you know?” He wiggled his eyebrows at this, and some of the other guys laughed salaciously.
I was squaring up on the guy before I even made a plan to do so. “She’s here to work, Porter. Leave her alone.” I waspractically chest to chest with my younger teammate, and a few of the other guys stepped close in preparation to break us apart if needed.
“Whoa,” Porter said, raising his hands and grinning. “Did you already get in there? Wouldn’t want to step on your toes.”
I leaned in closer, until he could probably feel my breath on his weasel face. “No one is ‘getting in there,’” I assured him. “She’s a professional. Don’t touch her.”
“Deck, man,” Houstein was behind me now, a hand on my arm. “Everything’s cool.”
