He shot her a glance that bespoke incredulity and amusement, but not with any mean-spiritedness. “That’s all sitting in your head waiting to come out?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” She cast him a grim smile. “What do your thoughts tell you?”
“Well, I don’t think in words. Certainly not like you just shared.”
“How?” She frowned. “You must have an occasional thought rattle through that big square head.”
“Square, huh?” He laughed, his eyes never straying from her face. “I think in pictures, and, if I were to try to describe it, in feelings too. I mean, if I had to force myself, I could do it, but it would get annoying.”
“I’ve never pondered how I think before.”
“It’s not a typical conversation people go around having. But that doesn’t explain what upset you.”
Her head emptied out. No excuses or wit. Just the ugly little truth. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone. Given you’re the only person I know in 1812, the odds are high that I can keep my word.”
Fate had put them together. They were going to have to trust each other. At least enough to share some honesty.
“Very well.” She squared her shoulders. “You recognized my friend’s name. The writer. Jane.”
“Jane Austen.” He made a noise in the back of his throat. “I mean, look. Full disclosure. I haven’t read a single word she’s written. But my sister... It’s sort of her thing. Jane Austen is one of her favorite authors.”
“Your sister will read our Jane over two hundred years from now.” Imagine having made that sort of impact.
“I do know there are movies—which are like plays, I guess you could say—made of her books. People take trips to see where she lived, at least according to Nora.”
“And that’s wonderful. Truly. I mean it, even though I am going to sound like one of the worst people possible. It’s...” She squeezed her eyes shut and said as quickly as she could, “I amtrying to write a book too. But I haven’t even managed a satisfactory first chapter. No one’s discussing Lizzy Wooddash in your time, are they?” She opened one eye, checking.
He contemplated for a moment. “Can’t say I’ve heard of the name, but don’t let that worry you. I’m not much of a reader either—at least of old books. But look, you write? That means you’re a player too. Maybe you aren’t signing the eight-year, eighty-million-dollar contract, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t in the game. That’s what matters.”
“I’m sorry. Who is signing what for when?”
He winced. “I tried to make a hockey analogy, sorry.”
“Hockey?”
“That’s a whole conversation.” He gave a small sigh. “Hockey’s my work. And life too, honestly.”
“Ah, I see.” She let the falsehood fall effortlessly. In truth, it might as well be midnight for how little she saw. However, she loathed to appear uninformed. “Hockey is a sort of trade?”
“A sport.”
She blinked twice, reviewing the sports she knew: hunting, fishing, racing, shooting. But no gentleman did such things for money. Maybe boxing—she’d heard vague stories about pugilists who did illegal matches for payment in town. She crossed her arms, both from annoyance and an attempt to keep warm in this rain. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know—does it matter if I talk about it?” He rubbed the top of his head, his big hand flattening the short locks. “I can’t see how learning about hockey will have too big of an impact. Okay, let’s do this. In my time, there are plenty of sports. If you excel at playing one—and I mean truly excel, not just being good—then yeah, you can make a living off it.”
“How is this hockey played?”
“On ice. To make it sound simple, the players try to hit a puck into a net. Whatever team does that the most wins.”
“Puck.” She smoothed her damp skirt. “There’s a Puck inA Midsummer Night’s Dream. Shakespeare. But I presume you’re not referring to a fairy?”
He barked out a surprised laugh. “That would be a no. A puck is round, black, and made of rub— Wait, I don’t know if that material’s been invented yet. It’s designed to glide on ice.”
“And you hit it.”
“My job is to keep it out of the net.”
