“Fake in that they aren’t in my name.”
There were so many things wrong with Juliana’s statement. Ele was tempted to call her sister on it but realized the futility of engaging with her about it, as she wouldn’t win. Jules operated by her own set of rules. Of all the things Ele could envy, it was her sister’s devil-may-care attitude she craved.
She went with, “Who is T-Dav? Is that a nickname?”
“Tristan Davenport. He plays for Hartesfield United. Jamie’s favorite team—if he could have a favorite team.”
“Right.” Ele shook her head.
Juliana was like a tween about to go see her favorite boy band, and Ele perfectly portrayed the frumpy middle-aged mother trailing behind in mom jeans.
Jamie, you owe me for this.
“Five minutes, Your Highness,” Robert intoned from the front. “We are on time. Nine fifty-five.”
“Thank you, Robert,” Ele responded as she mentally synced her watch with Robert’s. It was their routine, and he never failed to uphold his side of it.
The reminder of their proximity to the destination silenced Juliana. They drove into the gates of St. Peter’s Training Ground. Despite her relative calm before, as they sped past the entry, the first inkling of anxiety started in Ele’s belly. Her fingers began tapping of their own accord. The trap on Juliana’s mouth sprang free, and she began to chatter inanely, drawing Ele’s attention.
“Sir Nicolas Ramsey was named coach approximately three months ago, and he’s shaken things up. The majority of the players invited to the pool had very few international caps.”
“Are you speaking English?” Ele asked, trying to figure out what her sister was talking about.
“Caps is the number of international appearances. Anyway, although he is a national icon—a beautiful national icon, if you didn’t know—there is already talk of him being on the chopping block for his bold selections.”
Ele
couldn’t have been more surprised by her sister’s dissertation on the state of their national football team. “How do you know this?”
There was no answer forthcoming, but as the motorcade began to slow down, Juliana’s hand clamped on Ele’s arm. “We’re here,” Juliana sighed.
The Range Rovers came to a stop. Protocol demanded Ele and Juliana remain in the SUV, as Robert and Michael—Robert’s second-in-command—exited the car. When the door opened, Juliana stepped out, and Ele slid over the seat, following her. Ele got her first real opportunity to see Juliana in all of her casual-chic glory. Although Ele’s outfit had half-boosted her confidence when she put it on, compared to her sister, she appeared dowdy.
Juliana’s coltish legs seemed even longer in the slim navy-blue pants. Paired with a lightweight gold down jacket and navy flats, she managed to look patriotic and stylish. Her light-brown hair was swept back in a simple knot, highlighting her elegant neck. Jules’s face had graced magazine covers from the time she was a toddler. Her catlike green eyes, full lips, and button nose would have deemed her beautiful, but covered in freckles—some big, some small—she was both exotic and common. What had plagued her as a child made her memorable as a teenager and adult. In a world that loved porcelain-skinned beauties, Juliana had become the unofficial spokeswoman for perceived imperfections.
While they waited for the signal to move forward, Ele ran her hands down her hips, wiping the dampness away. She also wore a lightweight gold down jacket paired with skinny black pants, making her think of a bumblebee. Her hair—painstakingly straightened—was elegantly braided to the side, but compared to Juliana’s, it looked like she was trying too hard.
As her fidgeting increased, Juliana shifted closer. Ele looked up and noticed a line of men making their way through the doors where they would soon enter.
“I can’t wait to see those men bow before me,” Juliana whispered.
Ele struggled to keep her expression impassive. She had twenty-nine years of experience with schooling her responses, but in the face of Juliana’s outrageous declaration, Ele thought she might not be able to maintain her placid smile. She couldn’t decide which impulse was stronger—wanting to double over with laughter or wanting to box her sister’s ears. Unable to give in to either, she stood statue-like and waited for the all clear.
Robert bustled over once everyone was in place and took his position in front of the two of them. Noah—Juliana’s head of security—fell to their side, deferring to Robert’s lead. Two other men closed ranks around them, and they all began to move forward. When they reached the welcoming committee, security fell away. Princess Eleanor led, as she technically ranked above Princess Juliana. Millie appeared seemingly out of thin air to usher them through the introductions.
“Michael Strafford, Minister of Sport,” Millie said from Ele’s right.
“Your Highness,” Mr. Strafford said, “we are delighted to have you here today.”
In the next three minutes, Ele and Juliana met the chairman of the board of St. Peter’s Training Ground, the coordinator of international football, the director of St. Peter’s, and the director of the National Football Federation.
The normalcy of it calmed Ele considerably, so she was ready when they stepped through the doors to the facility. No one waited for them; instead, they were ushered to the side of the pitch, and they watched the team run through a well-directed routine. She had no idea what they were doing other than they looked good while doing it. Ele liked things ordered, and there was no doubt that what she was watching was a disciplined display of football. When a direction was spoken, every player moved into a new drill without any confusion. And Ele’s eyes were drawn to the man who had spoken.
She recognized him only because of the location. Had she seen him at an appearance, she wouldn’t have been able to make the connection, but here on the pitch, she knew she was looking at Sir Nicolas Ramsey. Even non-football lovers had gotten caught up in the fervor sixteen years ago when they won the World Championship Cup. And twenty-four-year-old Nico Ramsey had been at the center of it.
“He’s dreamy, right?” Juliana said matter-of-factly.
Ele shrugged her agreement. Sure, she could admit Sir Nico, with his model-like looks, was an attractive man, and she supposed he knew it. Footballers were gossip fodder in her country and had the appeal of American movie stars. The stories of their exploits and their women were prevalent. Ele rarely paid attention, but you couldn’t escape it altogether.