CHAPTER 1
Tucker Taylor walked across the sticky floor carrying a second round of drinks for the table. The pub’s best days were probably a few centuries ago, but that fact didn’t seem to faze his companions, their voices rising from the dimly lit booth.
His younger sister, Nora, gave a cursory nod as she reached for a pint and continued her argument. “Clearly, Jane Austen’s impact is the most far-reaching. Her insights into social issues were way ahead of her time, and her exploration of class and society remains as relevant today as in the nineteenth century.”
“Oh, come off it!” Her friend Pip slumped back, her freckled features contorted. “The Brontë sisters were literary rebels. They gave us Mr. Rochester, the ultimate bad boy, and Heathcliff, who originated the idea of a situationship.”
These two had been going in circles about dead writers for forty minutes. Tuck slid into his seat and absentmindedly checked his phone for the umpteenth time. Maybe something cool would pop up, like underwater hockey trick shots, kitten rescue shorts, or the mating habits of Peruvian giant yellow-leg centipedes. At this point, he’d honestly settle for a weather update.
“You’d prefer gloom-and-doomery over wit, charm, and financial stability?” Nora scoffed. “Who needs unhinged passion when you can have a comfortable marriage with a side of banter? Bro . . .” She gestured to him with a weigh in here motion. “Who’d you choose: the boss who harasses you and totally doesn’t have a wife locked away in his attic—”
“Or,” Pip interjected, “the snobby wanker who is embarrassed to be infatuated with you?”
“Uh?” Tuck froze, hoping he didn’t look like a deer in headlights. “Neither?”
Both women groaned, exchanging eye rolls before resuming their debate.
Nora, studying British literature at the University of Bath, had already booked a short friend trip to the village of Hallow’s Gate when Tucker had sprung his surprise visit on her. She’d insisted that he tag along. Tonight, they had all gone to celebrate Yule at Ye Olde King’s Head in the town square.
“What happened to the new king’s head?” Tucker had mumbled when they parked out front. Pip, another student from Nora’s department, offered a lukewarm grin, her facial muscles barely going through the motions. So, he’d decided to zone out, only half listening to which literary icon was the GOAT . . . Jane Austen or the Brontë sisters.
Who’d he pick for best goalie? Brodeur? Nah, probably Hasek. Weirdest? Hard to say. Maybe Bryzgalov—that dude was a bag of feral cats draped in a jersey, just as likely to start talking about bears as he was to ponder time travel.
He took a sip of beer, the amber liquid disappearing down his throat as he swiped at the foam clinging to his upper lip. It didn’t take long for his mind to go back on airplane mode.
An hour later, Nora and her friend still hadn’t come up for air. He’d passed the time packing down battered fish with thick-cut, golden-brown fries—sorry, chips—mushy peas, and a giant bowl of sticky toffee pudding while sending furtive texts to teammates.
Thousands of miles away, it was game day—the Austin Regals versus the Denver Hellions—and he wasn’t playing. Again. He should be eating his lucky pregame meal—buttered bowtie pasta and a Coke—while wearing his superstitious boxers, the ones with cartoon axolotls. His teammates teased him for his habits while secretly revering them. After all, being a goalie came with tacit permission to be odd. But no rituals had ever prepared him for the team doc finding a lump in his armpit last spring or the diagnosis of stage 1A Hodgkin lymphoma. The good news? It had been easily cured. But treatment had been hell, and he’d be sidelined for much—if not all—of the season.
“Hey.” Nora reached over and poked him. “We’re boring you, huh?”
“No, it’s all good.” He swallowed back a jaw-cracking yawn. “But I don’t have a lot to contribute.”
Pip’s lips quirked to the side. “You’d rather tell us about how you hit a puck super hard?”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking or being a pain in the ass. Maybe both. “Actually, my job is to stop them.”
“Come on, guys,” Nora pleaded, flashing a peace sign. “I’m positive there’s some conversational sweet spot on the Venn diagram here.”
Tuck shared a brief glance with Pip, and they both silently agreed to let their differences be like the one sock that always disappears in the laundry—mysterious and unresolved.
“Why don’t you two stay put and bookworm to your heart’s content. I’ll walk back to the B and B and catch some z’s. We’ll reconvene in the morning for crumpets or whatever counts as breakfast around here.”
“Really?” Nora furrowed her brow. “Pip and I can leave too. You do look tired.”
“Nah. I’m fine.” The lie rolled off easily. He’d been saying it enough.
“I know you’d choose hockey over South Hampshire any day of the week.” Nora squeezed his shoulders in a half hug. “But I am excited to play tourist together. You haven’t gotten much of a chance to see the world beyond the arena. It’s good out here. I promise.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He playfully yanked one of her braids.
She slid her hand over. It took him a second to realize she was passing him her car keys.
“No.” His answer was firm. “I’ll walk.”
“You’d be doing me a favor,” Nora wheedled. “We need to drink a lot more before we start on the Romantic poets, and you’ve only had a beer and a half.”
“At least we agree Percy Bysshe Shelley is the worst,” Pip muttered into her glass.
“He took his second wife, Mary’s, virginity on her mother’s grave,” Nora explained, like that cleared up everything. “Then that same Mary went and wrote Frankenstein.”
“Huh.” Not going to lie—it was kinda cool being related to a walking Wikipedia.
“Anyway, I digress. Take the car.” Nora’s tone was final. “Later, I’ll text you and you can come back and get us.”
“Deal.” He fisted the keys. “Be good. Don’t talk to strangers.”
Nora gave him a double thumbs-up. “If anyone offers us a lolly, I’ll kick ’em in the shins.”
Tucker kept the smile plastered on his face until he walked through the door. Out in the square, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the rhythmic strike of his footfalls echoing against the cobblestones. Night mist hung low, full of woodsmoke and the earthy scent of decaying leaves—a far cry from Zamboni fumes and chlorinated ice. The brick row houses flanking him on all four sides could be from a storybook, except he didn’t believe in fairy tales. Only the hard truth scraping against the back of his mind.
Shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be here.
He made his way over to Nora’s Mini Cooper. It was as boxy as a toaster. He opened the door and frowned down at the passenger seat. Shit. Wrong side. Walking around, he made a mental note: Drive on the left.
Inside, his knees smashed against the steering wheel as he shoved the key in the ignition, and he had to drop his jaw down to his chest to fit. He snorted. This was a glorified go-cart. Reaching for the seat belt, he jumped as his elbow beeped the horn. Scratch that—this was a clown car.
Walking might have been easier. Even with the cold.
Downshifting and releasing the clutch, he eased into the empty laneway. Condensation veiled the windows, obscuring his view. With a reluctant grimace, he opened the window, bracing himself against the bitter gust of December air that rushed in like an uninvited guest. Crossing a stone bridge over a creek on the outskirts of town, he had just reached for the radio dial when a cry drowned out the trickle of water over rocks.
A sheepdog bolted from a farmhouse on the hill, heading straight for the road. Hot on its tail was a boy in flannel pajamas and too-big rubber boots. Tucker’s stomach hollowed as he stomped on the brakes. Shit. Black ice. The dog and kid, illuminated by the headlights, froze in front of him, wide-eyed. Tires screeched. This wasn’t going to work. He’d strike them. Without a second thought, he violently jerked the wheel to the right, throwing him off the road like a rodeo cowboy on a wild bull. He bucked and bounced, out of control, through the snow toward a frozen pond.
With a roll, the car hit on the driver’s side, and there was a heavy crack of breaking ice. Frigid water funneled through the open window. As he clenched and unclenched his fists, he fought to relax. He focused on the sensation of his nails digging into his palms, the slight sting helping to ground him in the present moment. Calm down. No big deal. This was like the cold-water immersion therapy the PT staff used to make him do to help muscle recovery after tough games. He needed to breathe through it—slow and steady. With a quick motion, he got the seat belt off, and just in time. The car was sinking fast.
He pushed away the thought as he rattled the door. Stuck. Damn. He’d have to squeeze through the window.
He was a pro athlete and used to be able to run through box jumps, ladder drills, sprints, and cycling to keep his cardio fitness in top form. But last week, he’d gone jogging and had to dial it down to a walk after a measly quarter mile.
Fuck cancer.
He still had his mental fortitude, though. He was paid to stay cool under pressure. He needed to imagine himself by a roaring fire, dry and warm, recounting the story to Nora. He rehearsed it, visualized it, and, with a determined crawl, got halfway through the open window before his belt caught on something.
He pushed, but his arms might as well have been made of wet noodles. His strength leached out by the second.
Failure wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t go out like this. Not after everything he’d survived. He bit his cheek, wrangling his focus. He had to control and execute each movement efficiently—no room for error or wasted effort.
His heart jackhammered in his ears as he finally kicked free and started swimming for the surface. The top of his head cracked against a frozen ceiling. Unyielding. No way out. Everything was so cold, yet his lungs were a firestorm, burning with fierce intensity. He punched violently. His knuckles scraped a wall of ice. His nails tore, ripping and breaking. No exit. Shit! He felt his strength ebb as his cells screamed for oxygen. Black water pressed on all sides. He couldn’t resist the urge. Had to breathe. As he reflexively gasped, the darkness rushed in. An intense emptiness took hold, coupled with a whirling chaos, a sense he was at the end of everything. And then . . . nothing.
From PUCK AND PREJUDICE by Lia Riley. Copyright © 2024 by Lia Riley. Reprinted by permission of Avon Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
