Tristan snickered.
“At eight thirty, take it and follow it around to a turn. Go left and enter the first door you get to. She’ll be waiting for you.”
She didn’t give him a chance to respond before she melted into the crowd.
And it was a crowd. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. But the room in front of him was adorned with television screens that appeared to be running clips of the greatest plays from their run at the Cup. And there were fans. They didn’t appear to be the wealthy aristocracy Tristan had envisioned. Instead, the room was filled with a variety of people, all sporting blue and gold, cheering. There were kids and moms, elderly grandparents and young men. There was a collection of fans to celebrate with them. It was so unanticipated that Tristan found himself smiling. And then taking selfies with anyone who asked. He was prolonging the moment, the anticipation. He could feel Ele’s presence on some molecular level, and he knew if he saw her, he wouldn’t be able to look away, might be pulled toward her like a ship caught in a tractor beam. So, he continued mixing and mingling, hiding behind his T-Dav persona.
Until the team meandered through the crowd, up to the place where the royal family waited. Then, with no other option, he looked up, straight into the ice-blue gaze of Princess Eleanor.
And everything else around him ceased to exist.
28
4 August
Celebration Gala
Ele’s gaze scoped the drawing room back and forth, an eye-sweeping pendulum. It was one of those skills she’d picked up somewhere, whether princess school or grandmother crash course; she was never to give more attention to one person or thing than the other. There was a power and knowledge in it though.
She knew she could look over the assembly while watching Tristan from the corner of her eye. It was how she had seen his surprise and then joy at the guests awaiting the team’s arrival. The lottery for access to the celebration had been Jamie’s idea. They could have sold tickets, made it about money or power or being seen, but Jamie had said the team deserved something special, so they conducted a secret lottery, sending emails to every person who had purchased National Team gear, signed into the National Team website, or attended any of the viewing parties—all while adhering to data protection regulations. Each ticket included a guest pass, and if a parent won a spot, they were able to submit the number in their family for attendance. It was a heartfelt, brilliant plan, and without the team knowing how the group had been selected, she could tell they appreciated the audience.
She watched as Tristan crowd-dived. Without any thought for his safety, he jumped into the midst of the people. His phone had found its way into his hand as he posed for pictures and joked around with everyone, further cementing himself as the crowd favorite. While it scared her, the way he leaped headfirst into whatever fray presented itself, it was also endearing. He infused joy into and out of every encounter he had.
To be that carefree.
When the team moved forward to begin the ceremony and Tristan finally sought her out, she was more than ready. She craved his attention, his acknowledgment, but as soon as their eyes met, she understood his delay because all she wanted was to whisk him out of the room and lose herself with him. All the control and practice of a lifetime escaped her. She could no more feign indifference to Tristan Davenport than she could pretend interest in mud wrestling.
A pinch on her arm brought her out of her Tristan-induced haze.
Without turning her head, she mumbled, “What was that for?”
With his princely mask in place, Jamie said, “You look like you are about to abandon your duties and disappear with a footballer.”
Startled by his observation, she whipped her head to the side.
He met her gaze. “Stand down. You’ll get your chance.”
Then, like nothing extraordinary had happened, Jamie returned to his position, and Ele was left bewildered.
“It’s true,” Jules whispered. “You looked like you were about to jump off the stage.”
“Bloody, bloody hell,” she muttered.
Because she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist temptation, she kept her mind on the proceedings of the night. The introduction of the team to the crowd. The procession of them to the dais. The receiving line of congratulations. The queen adhering the Imperial Order of Merit medal to each of the coaches, players, and staff. The queen took moments with Sir Nicolas Ramsey and Tristan Davenport and a longer than usual moment with Rowan Beckwith.
Ele was present but not. She was excited for the team, having grown fond of them during her time in the States. Even though she’d had not one thing to do with their victory, she was so proud of their accomplishment, and she was a bit possessive of them. Like, somehow, they were hers now. After the queen’s bestowing of their awards, the team came forward and were congratulated by Jamie, herself, and Juliana in turn.
She should have been prepared for Tristan to walk into the room earlier, for the breath to leave her body, for her to become a flight risk. Unfortunately, she’d been taken by surprise by the depth of her longing for him. Before he stepped to her, she centered herself, knowing this brief touch wouldn’t be the last.
When her hand slid into his, her body responded in a predictable fashion, like a thirsty flower suddenly offered water.
Something inside her unfurled as he bowed his head and spoke, “Your Highness.”
“Don’t,” she chided.
His gaze locked on hers. “E,” he said with a cheeky grin.
Her teeth clamped on her top lip as she fought the giddy smile threatening. “Mr. Davenport,” she managed. “Congratulations. It was such a pleasure to be able to attend the Cup and to be there for your victories. I look forward to supporting Hartesfield in the future.” She’d practiced her little speech, saying it over and over in front of the mirror in the loo, just so she could deliver it with believability.