The Princess and the Player (Royally Pitched 1)

“A bit.”

“You don’t seem upset.”

“I think he’s secretly proud of me, but he knows he can’t admit it, so he’s hiding his pride beneath a layer of gruff. Can’t have people knowing he lost his charge for a short while.” She shrugged, unconcerned.

Robert had caught up with her and Tristan at Navy Pier, but a couple of hours had elapsed in between. He hadn’t said anything to them in public, but when they’d gotten into the car, he’d lectured them on their irresponsible behavior.

Tristan laced his fingers with hers. “Listen, if for some reason tonight doesn’t turn out like I think it will, I just want you to know I have enjoyed every minute we’ve spent together.” His tone was casual, and when she chanced a look at his face, he was completely relaxed.

But the elation of unexpectedly seeing him seeped out of her. Nothing he’d said was shocking, and if she had let herself go there, she would have realized that a loss tonight would be more than just a loss for her country. A pang of sadness rippled through her. It was just like Tristan to put it out there, to meet it head-on, but some part of her wished he hadn’t reminded her. It heightened everything about this interlude and the game to follow.

“I’m not sure what will happen after the match, win or lose. If we lose, I think we fly back tomorrow. If we win, we might be on lockdown until the final. Either way, it will be difficult to find time.”

He tugged her hand, pulling her into him. She pressed all of her weight against him. He wrapped his arms around her as she rested her head against his chest. Her head was spinning though as she tried to hold on to the memory of their last night together. She hadn’t known at the time, or she would have marked it in some way—a memory bookmark, a highlighted passage. She was a descendant of kings and queens but no more able to define the parameters of her endings than a commoner. It made the trappings of her life seem distinctly unlucky. There were words she was supposed to say, sentiments to share, but she found she was mute. The things looking to jump from her mouth were words better left as unspoken thoughts.

“If there’s time, I’ll come to you after,” Tristan said.

She nodded. But she knew it wasn’t enough. So, she raised her head and smiled at him. He moved his hands from her waist to cradle her jaw, and she leaned into the touch. Then, she lifted up on her toes and pressed her mouth against his. This time the aggressor, she kissed him with all of the emotion she held at bay.

On her tongue were the words she refused to speak. Maybe I can leave them here with him, swirling in his mouth, so he can take them with him and figure them out later.

She ran her hands up his arms, mapping his glorious biceps, touching him wherever she could reach. Imprinting.

Pulling away from the kiss, she looked up at him as he opened his eyes. He cocked his world-famous smile at her, and she melted a little.

“I’ll make time,” he amended.

She laughed, and he joined her. Then, he leaned his forehead against hers and paused. It was a moment where she could say something, injecting some truth, but she didn’t.

As much as it was the time, it wasn’t.

23

11 July

SeatGeek Stadium

Ele was poised on the edge of her seat, her hands shaking with an unfamiliar rush of adrenaline. With five minutes left in the second period of extra time, the teams were deadlocked. The match had been a battle with bodies flying and tempers flaring. The humid night air had settled into the stadium, stagnant and heavy. The players’ jerseys were plastered to their chests, sweat beaded along their bodies, hair matted to their heads. Every tackle sent splatters of sweat flying, particles of water catching the bright lights shining onto the pitch.

Ele turned from the field for a split second, like she was driving a car and a glance away from the road might propel her into oncoming traffic. “If it’s still tied, we go to penalty kicks?” she asked, returning her attention to the action below.

“Yes,” Jamie answered. “A penalty shootout.”

Without looking at him, she continued, “How does that work?” She didn’t have to see her brother to know he was most likely rolling his eyes at her ignorance. “This is the fifth football game I’ve ever watched, and none of them have ended like this.”

Jamie snickered. “They clear the field. Each team sends a keeper to the goal. Both teams select five players to take a shot from the penalty spot, in rotating order. The team with the most goals wins.”

Questions rolled around in her head. Ele had a deep-seated desire to know the ins and outs of things. She’d suppressed it over the years, allowing things to go unexplained as a way to keep her world smaller and more manageable. Fear sometimes lurked for her in the known rather than the unknown. If she suffered anxiety as a result of an unexpected occurrence, it was better than being afraid of something she should have expected. It exonerated her. After she watched the time expire and the teams huddle for water and then take their places for the shootout, she turned again to her brother.

“Is the pressure greater for the keeper or the person shooting?” She looked back to the field, her vision narrowing to just one player.

The lines of his body were both familiar and surprising. Her fingers curled into fists on her thighs as she remembered running her hands along the length of his back, tracing the rise and fall of sinew on his arms, rubbing her legs against his rock-hard ones. The man who had scooped her up in his arms mere hours ago differed from the athlete on the pitch. His jersey clung to the planes of his lean muscles.

He appeared focused but loose, relaxed in a way Ele had only recently discovered she experienced in the presence of a few people.

“I think most people would say the person shooting. The keeper isn’t meant to save ev

ery shot. You hope he can save one.”