Chapter Thirty-One
I love you.
Lizzy, I love you.
As long asI live... I’m going to love you and only you.
I love you so much that I’ve tried to invent new ways to say it, but always circle back to those three perfect words.
Tuck opened his eyes to find his teammate Knight staring at him. Seven weeks had passed since Tuck had regained consciousness in that English hospital bed, and tonight marked his second game with the Regals since receiving medical clearance.
Tuck thrust out the thermos he’d been cradling. “Want some oolong? It’s not souchong, unfortunately, that’s hard to find these days. Go on, I put some lemon in it, and lots of sugar. No milk, of course, never milk with lemon. It’s good, try some.”
Knight blinked. “Uh, thanks, but I’m good, man.”
“What are you and Wilson getting up to later?” Tuck asked, taking a sip of the tea.
Knight frowned. “Who?”
Tuck gestured at Knight’s thick scruff. “You look like Tom Hanks inCastawaywith that lucky beard. I gotta get you a volleyball to be your BFF.”
“Oh. Ha. Wilson. Yeah.” Knight chuckled, turning away witha half-relieved expression, as if thinking,Everything’s fine, Taylor’s a weirdo as per usual.
Tuck took another swig of tea, swishing the hot, sweet water around in his mouth. How long had he been zoned out in his stall inside the Regals’ locker room, not focusing on the upcoming game against the Maple Leafs? His thoughts all circled back to Lizzy. Her presence loomed in his mind, a persistent echo of the words he wished he’d found the guts to say before leaving—words that now haunted him with regret.
Regret was a new feeling. He had always charged ahead to achieve his goals, and perhaps it had made him cocky. Now he found himself carrying his wedding ring on a gold chain around his neck. The team locker room was no place for distraction. It was so steeped in superstition that the Regals logo adorned the Jumbotron on the ceiling, ensuring no one would ever make the mistake of stepping on it. That crown symbolized the team, the fans, and their collective pride. Painted on the wall opposite were the words “I see no virtue where I smell no sweat.” Tuck grimaced. If that were true, his teammates would be candidates for sainthood, because even with state-of-the-art ventilation, the place got fragrant.
He cranked up the volume on the audiobook playing through his AirPods. The female narrator’s voice grew louder: “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”
He’d been immersing himself in Jane’s books since returning. It turned out, not only was she funny as hell, but she’d taken his suggestion to heart and really named her bookPride and Prejudice.
Pretty cool.
The press had caught wind of Tuck and his newfound Regency obsession, and in an interview yesterday he’d been told, “Didn’t know hockey players even read.”
To which he’d shot back, “I don’t. I listen.” Audiobooks were his favorite.
When Tuck first woke up in the hospital, Nora informed him that it was the end of January. This made sense to Tuck, as he recalled that when he had first gone through the cow pond in December, he had ended up in Lizzy’s time during the summer month of June. Therefore, it was logical that leaving in Lizzy’s time in August would have thrust him forward another six months. However, Tuck was less interested in the confusing-ass intricacies of time travel. His thoughts were fixed on Lizzy and how much he missed her.
And if his sister thought he was crazy, she didn’t let on.
“Your story is too detailed,” she had kept repeating. “And then there’s the ring. I can’t quite wrap my head around it, but strangely, I believe you. It all seems too real.” And with that, she’d launched into a barrage of questions... most of them about Jane Austen.
The night before he flew back to the States, she burst into his room, waving her phone. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Tuck. Look. You gotta see this.” He had taken the phone, and his insides froze as he read the headline: “Search Given Up for Missing Scholar.” The online news article, dated a few years back, detailed the disappearance of UC Berkeley professor of Celtic history, Ezekiel Fairweather, who had vanished during a walk in Oxfordshire. He hadn’t been seen since. Foul play seemed unlikely, and there were no clues in the case.
“Is that him?” Nora had pointed at the photo. “The time traveler you met?”
“He didn’t have that goatee and his hair was shorter, but yeah. That’s the same guy. No doubt.”
“Ready for tonight?” Someone squeezed his shoulder, snapping him back to the now. It was Coach. “Feeling good, T?”
Tuck popped out his AirPods and paused the book. “I’m great. Fired up. My little sister is here tonight. She flew in today, and hasn’t seen me play since before Covid.”
Coach gave him a thumbs-up. “I don’t know how you do it. Cancer. Car accident. Coma. But I saw you in practice this morning and you have no quit.”
“Never have.” Tuck’s shrug was one-shouldered. “Stop pucks and ask questions later.”
This was true. Technically. He just wasn’t going to share what kind of questions kept him tossing and turning all night—big ones about life, the universe, and love.
