Risking the Crown (The Crown 2)

“What the fuck?” I roared.

My temple throbbed with sharp pain. My fingers tingled. I drew back and knocked the side of the box where my equipment should be.

“Lach, calm the fuck down.”

I shook out my palm. Blood trickled from my knuckles. I had split the skin in a jagged line.

I stormed past the other players.

“Where are you going?” Conley tried to jump in front of me, but I shoved him out of the way. I’d had enough of his bullshit for the day.

“Lach, come on!”

I didn’t answer. I kept walking. I emerged through the tunnel onto the pitch. It was being lined on one side with white chalk. They weren’t ready for us. I grabbed a ball from the rack and kicked it halfway across the stadium. It curved in mid-air. I didn’t bother to see where it landed or if it hit anyone as it rocketed off my foot.

I strutted over the grass, leaving the stadium behind.

2

Aspen

I scrolled through the media blast again on my phone before the flight attendant told me I had to turn off all electronics. I smiled politely at him, but I was hesitant to be detached from the firestorm of bad press for over eight hours.

I hadn’t stopped reading about the British soccer star’s scandalous night out since I awakened this morning. And the pictures. It seemed as if it was the only thing anyone was talking about on Sports Now.

Oh my God, the pictures.

If Lachlan Kenzie could upend everything in one night, he had the potential to take down my biggest account before I even touched down in Rio de Janeiro.

I pulled the strap on the seatbelt and tried to relax. That was crazy—I couldn’t relax, not even with a drink in my hand—not with two. There wasn’t enough alcohol to undo the damage he had done to his reputation or to ours.

I wouldn’t be able to take a deep breath again until I knew that rogue of a soccer player was under control. What in the hell was he thinking?

He had to know everything he did in public was recorded. I had watched the same thirty seco

nd clip on repeat. I told myself I was repulsed an ambassador of our company would lick a woman’s stomach in a bar while someone filmed it, but every time I saw it, I squirmed in my seat. He had bad judgment, but it didn’t come without undeniable sex appeal.

He eyed her with primal hunger before he lowered himself over her half-clothed body. I didn’t know who she was, but she was exotic and gorgeous with dark hair that reached her waist and long eyelashes that fluttered every time he lapped liquor from her navel. The entire scene annoyed me, but I didn’t know if it was because the girl was the complete opposite of me. I was a blond-haired, blue-eyed Southern girl with creamy white skin. There was nothing foreign and exotic about me.

It didn’t matter what the reason was—what Lachlan Kenize did was a publicity nightmare for me.

I closed my eyes when I felt the plane reverse from the jetway. I hated flying. I took a sip of the champagne, hoping it would do something for the rolling queasiness I felt when we launched into the air. An eight-hour flight was not my idea, but unless I wanted to hop around for two days on multiple flights, it was the quickest way to Rio. I didn’t have that kind of time.

The plane slowly started down the runway. I think it made me hate Lachlan even more.

Not only was he about to cost me my position with Revolution, but he also made me fly—two things that shouldn’t be happening. I was on a plane because he couldn’t keep his rash ego in his pants. I squeezed my eyes tighter, avoiding the view from my cushy window seat. First class couldn’t make me forget I was getting ready to be shot into the sky like a bird. I hated not having control. I hated not being able to know what was happening.

I heard the captain rev the engines as we accelerated. Oh God. I cringed.

Within seconds, I felt the plane angle into the air. The ground was gone and we were airborne. I opened my eyes one lid at a time. It wasn’t as bad once we were up. It was the getting there that scared the shit out of me. I peered out of the window. Miami looked small from here.

“Can I get another glass of champagne for you?” the flight attendant asked on his way through the aisle.

I nodded emphatically. “Please.”

It was true I was headed to Rio to reign in our highest paid ambassador for excessive drinking and partying, but I had eight hours to go—I needed another drink if I was going to make it.

He returned to my seat within minutes and brought an extra plate of fruit.