The Princess and the Player (Royally Pitched 1)

Impervious, Millie said, “Get changed, Your Highness.”

Tristan leaned against the wall, guarding the changing room from everyone else. This had not been

part of the plan. All he’d had to do was hand Princess Eleanor her gear and pose for a couple of photos.

At first, when Nico had given them the predetermined signal, his gaze had been drawn to Princess Juliana, like most of the penis-toting world. Her banging body seemed to have marquee lights around it, pulling his attention. She was probably one of the most photographed women in the world. But all of the glancing looks he’d taken at her magazine photos did little to really capture her allure. She was beautiful, sure, but there was this otherworldliness about her that made her freckled face spectacular. When he handed Eleanor her gear though, everything changed. Her rising panic rumbled through him like an earthquake before a tsunami. All he could think about was getting her to higher ground. So, he’d improvised.

He was sure Nico and Rowan were wondering where the fuck he had gone and what he was up to. He hoped no one asked him straight up because he wouldn’t have any idea how to respond. He closed his eyes, properly chagrined by his actions.

“I hope this isn’t how you are going to guard my charge.”

Tristan’s eyes snapped open. In front of him was the scary motherfucker who was Princess Eleanor’s shadow. He had to be six and a half feet—or maybe he just seemed that big against Tristan’s own average height. His frame was double that of a normal man, but he moved as swiftly as Tristan did with a ball at his feet, except this dude was probably packing two guns and six knives.

Tristan cleared his throat. “Just a quick blink,” he quipped.

The princess’s personal protection officer’s brow inched up his forehead. “That’s what I was afraid of. I’ve been standing here since you came out of the door.”

“Blaming a guy for being starstruck?” Tristan should have quit while he was ahead, but it wasn’t in his nature to admit defeat or weakness or momentary insanity.

“Looking at Princess Eleanor the way you were could get you on the watch list.”

Tristan couldn’t stop his smile. He supposed a man who had been trained to observe had caught his dumbstruck ogling. Thankfully, his teammates had been otherwise engaged. The bodyguard’s assessing gaze never left him, and Tristan struggled to determine his best response.

“She’s special,” he said quietly, as if Tristan didn’t get that. “And not any man would be able to handle her.”

Tristan wanted to beat his chest and proclaim he was just the man to do it, but then he caught himself. What the actual fuck?

The personal protection officer looked like he wanted to laugh but was too damn professional to actually show emotion.

“You’re fucked,” he said instead, and Tristan thought the dude knew exactly what he was talking about.

He shook it off when the door opened to the right of him. Princess Eleanor stepped out of the changing room, outfitted in national team gear. He liked the casual sophisticate she’d presented when she watched them practice, but wrapped up tight in joggers and a hoodie, wearing the same colors as he was, blew his appreciation into the stratosphere. She glanced hesitantly at her PPO, who signaled his approval with a nod. Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned her attention to Tristan. The icy blue of her eyes warmed him all the way to his toes.

He shot her a half-smile and then held out his hand to her. “Shall we?” he asked.

He expected her hesitation, but her hand slipped into his like it was a foregone conclusion.

He led her away from the changing room toward the heart of the building. “First time here, right?”

“Yes.”

The clipped response could have been nerves or just her natural reticence. He couldn’t be sure one way or another, but he didn’t let it deter him.

“The most interesting place is the physio room.” One of the more incredible aspects of playing at a high level was the technology used for evaluating players and dealing with injuries. He wasn’t sure, but he figured Princess Eleanor would appreciate something in this building other than football. “When we first got here, we had to do a strength and conditioning profile. We ran through a series of exercises, and the results were analyzed.”

She glanced over at him, her first spark of interest.

“In this room”—he pulled the door open—“we do joint testing, gait analysis, strength training. But they also have hydrotherapy pools, an altitude chamber, and an antigravity treadmill.”

Eleanor’s face lit up. Tristan let go of her hand, so she could look around without him hindering her. He sat on a nearby weight bench while she weaved among the machines. It was eerily quiet in a room normally full of staff and players alike. She paused when she got to one of the machines and looked over at him.

“Body composition analysis,” he answered her unasked question. She waited, another question in her gaze. “Body fat, water in your body.”

“Body fat?”

If he didn’t know who she was, her proper diction and accent might have given her away.

“Yes.”