Page 25 of Puck and Prejudice
“Made up of men from your nation?”
“Yes. And no. Also, men from Canada. Norway. We have a Russian too.”
“My head is starting to ache.” She rubbed her temples. “Where do women play hockey for work?”
“Most don’t.” He frowned. “There have been some starts andstops to get a female league. There is one now, but not that many cities are in it.”
“So women don’t do sports?”
“Many women play many different sports. But it’s hard to get a lot of sports teams for women to earn a lot of money.”
“Because men don’t want to watch or value them,” she concluded softly.
Shit.
She was right. Her reasoning got to the ugly truth.
And worse, he’d barely thought of it before. He’d known, of course. Everyone knew. But somehow the knowledge was so ingrained—the unfair dynamics of the two-tier reality of women in sports—that he’d come to accept it as the norm.
And fuck that.
Now he had to be here with this bright, beautiful woman who’d hoped that over time wrongs would be righted, and all he had to offer was...It’s pretty shitty. And I’ve done nothing to change it.
Shame soured his stomach.
“Hundreds of years in the future and women still can’t enjoy what a man can.” Her laugh was forced, like someone replaced the real thing with a cheap plastic imitation. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
And the hollowness in her voice—he hated it.
Right now, from what she’d shared, a woman was the property of her husband. And it didn’t seem right that all he could offer her was that in the twenty-first century at least a woman could work a job that would usually pay her less than a man. Not much of a reason to take a victory lap. He wanted to say something honest, even if it wasn’t much.
“I’m sorry. And worse, I could have done better. But I’ve been so focused on myself; my goals are big, it’s a competitive world,there’s a long line of guys waiting for me to mess up, so they can take my spot. But it shouldn’t beeither-or. It should beboth-and.”
“Beboth-and?” Lizzy’s smile pushed through like a tiny flower appearing in a sidewalk crack. “I like how you talk.”
“Glad I amuse you,” he said. “But if me showing up here can make a difference to you? Make it so you can work to become a writer? To live a life on your terms? To inherit this house? Then I’m going to say yes. Scotland. Gretna Green. Marriage. Let’s do it.”
“If you are willing to accept, then so am I.”
He wasn’t breathing. The hair on the backs of his forearms had gone extra sensitive.
“But I have a few rules. All are nonnegotiable.” She held up three fingers.
The way she spoke, her voice quiet yet filled with intense focus—it was as if she had gained the power to redirect his blood straight to his brain, making him hyperaware of every single word.
Talk, idiot.
He cleared his throat, and the sound felt too loud. “Go for it.”
“First, we respect each other’s need for privacy and personal boundaries. We will be traveling together, but not as husband and wife. Eloping with you shall enrage my family. I prefer to mitigate that by behaving with decorum.”
“Okay, deal. What else you got?”
“Second, social contracts. We will identify and agree on how to address each other in public. We can be unusual, but we must be convincing.
“Third, we support each of our goals. I assist you in returning home, and you will help me become a widow.”
“Who grieves me terribly,” he murmured wryly.
