The Princess and the Player (Royally Pitched 1)

He sighed audibly. “Bloody hell,” he muttered so softly that Ele thought she might have imagined it.

She smiled. It was bad for their future if she couldn’t stay mad at him.

“Look, when we returned from the World Championship Cup this summer, we, all of us, were bombarded with requests for endorsements. Every day, there was something new to do. Some were requests from the Federation and others from my agent. I didn’t vet them as I should have. Mostly because, I mean, I’m me, and I love that shit.”

He sounded chagrined, and Ele’s smile stretched.

This guy. There was something so sexy about someone so self-aware.

“I was at this shoot for a bloody cologne—which I don’t even wear, by the by. And the photographer asked the model and me to re-create the World Cup ‘swing hug.’ Did you know it has its own hashtag? Hashtag swing hug. What?” His voice rose a little, and she imagined him talking to Rowan and Caleb. “Anyway, we did. The model and me.”

“Of course. What else would you have done?” Her voice might have sounded a little sarcastic because, yes, he was ridiculously adorable, but he also could have said no.

“If I’d had any notice, I would have said no. But it seemed spur of the moment, and I didn’t want to be an ass.”

“Are you sure you didn’t want to capitalize on the spotlight?”

“No.”

Ele flinched. “No, you aren’t sure, or no, you didn’t want to capitalize?”

Another sigh. “Look, I’m always going to be honest with you, even when it makes me look like a wanker. I want to be able to say that I didn’t want to take advantage of the limelight, but I can’t do it. Which makes me a complete shit and reinforces all of your doubts about wanting to be in a relationship with me.”

Startled quiet rained down on them.

Isn’t that my worst fear? Tristan using their relationship as a means to be in the public eye constantly. Tristan taking their most private, touching times and wanting to share them with his fans. Or exploiting their spontaneity with canned, preplanned imposters available for public consumption. Ele shuddered. They hadn’t gone there—purposefully, she thought now. Confronting this fundamental issue between them could negate all the good stuff—the friendship, the camaraderie, the sex, the warmth, her safety. Ele had endured some heart-wrenching therapy over the last twelve weeks, delved into all of the fears she’d previously refused to name, worked on ways to combat her paranoia about media exposure.

Only to realize she was in love with a man who lived for public adulation.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Did I hurt you?” Sorrow laced itself around the question.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She did know. She could almost feel his apology and regret.

“Here’s the thing, E. I can’t make what I did better. Even when we were in the middle of it, I knew it would hurt you. The fundamental difference is, I think of that moment with fucking joy. I’d just won the Cup, and there you were, presenting me with the medal. I don’t think I can even describe my feelings. It should be the picture definition of rightness. I wasn’t just happy I’d won; my whole world was right when I lifted you up and spun you around. It wasn’t any of the affection I wanted to shower you with. If you were just a girl and I were just a guy, I would have spun you around and then kissed you until the stadium emptied and we were the only two people left. It would have been the most public claiming to have ever occurred in the history of the world. If experts were to study the picture and our body language, they would know. So, I don’t know … if re-creating it makes other people happy, if it’s a feeling others aspire to, what’s it matter?

“We’ve avoided the issue of us for the last four weeks. Hell, since the second we met, we’ve avoided it. Maybe we both thought it was too soon, too crazy, that there were too many differences between us. But you’re about to come home. And I want … I want … bloody, bloody hell,” he whispered. “I want you in the most public way. I don’t want to hide; I don’t want to pretend. I want the whole of the world to know that T-Dav has fallen for Princess Eleanor. And I want you, Ele, to know that I have fallen for you. I am yours.”

Tears gathered in her eyes and then spilled over, coasting down her cheeks, unchecked. She wanted to be brave more than anything in the world.

“I am willing to give up the social media thing. I’ve discovered the acceptance of one woman trumps the whole world’s adoration. But it wouldn’t make you immune. Being with me will be public. And me being with you will be public. We cannot escape it. This is the part that will be hard for you to accept right now, but I need you to hear me. Ready?”

She sniffled.

“Fuck, you’re crying.” He groaned, but she knew it was directed inwardly, not at her. “Are you ready to hear this?”

“Yes.”

“I will protect you. Your safety and peace of mind will always come first.”

More than anything, this was what she’d wanted to hear. And that he knew that … well, of course he did. But she didn’t speak. She didn’t tell him anything.