The Princess and the Player (Royally Pitched 1)

“Of course. Besides, you know I’m not going to be seeing anyone.” He said he wouldn’t be seeing anyone. That did not mean he was going to be celibate.

“Nico, you can’t live your life like that.”

“We’re not getting into that again. Leave it alone, Kat!”

She stiffened in his arms. And he immediately felt contrite.

“I’m sorry. I’m just … not ready.”

“You looked ready when you were making fuck-me eyes across the ballroom.”

“I was not.”

“Oh my God, Nico. I know you better than anyone. You’ve got a thing.”

“Shut it, Kat,” he said good-naturedly.

“Of course, of all the people in the world, only you would fall for someone completely off-limits and out of reach. You’re a masochist.”

He shook his head. He wanted to argue with her, but she was probably right. He couldn’t do a single thing about his crush, which made it exceedingly safe. He’d tried marriage and commitment once. If he couldn’t make it work with the best woman in the world, he couldn’t make it work with anyone. She would argue the point. But he knew.

“Well,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek, “for what it’s worth, a certain prince couldn’t take his eyes off of you either.”

11 December

St. Mary’s Hospital

Rowan tried to shift in the hospital bed, but every move sent pain radiating through him. They’d saved his leg.

There was no other good news. Likely, he would never again play football at the highest level. Indeed, a bitter pill to swallow. There was a future awaiting him. Unfortunately, he wanted nothing to do with it. Without football though, he wasn’t sure he would be able to put it off any longer. It had been a guillotine hanging over his outstretched neck for as long as he could remember. He wasn’t a religious man, but he often praised those higher beings for giving him the talent to be a football player.

The door swung open, and his mother walked in. She was a stunning woman. Her dark skin showed none of the lines of her fifty years. The upward tilt of her eyes—from some unknown Asian ancestor—heightened her exotic look. She wore her hair natural in an Afro most couldn’t pull off. Depositing a full water pitcher on the table next to his bed, she sat daintily in the lone chair. Rowan was big for a footballer, but he did not get his height from his petite mother. She poured water into a cup and shoved a straw into his mouth.

“Drink,” she ordered, the lilting Caribbean accent settling around him.

Rowan drew a few sips from the straw. The cold water hit his parched throat, soothing it. Greedy, he took a couple more pulls. She snatched it away from him so quickly that water dribbled down his chin. He went to wipe it away but groaned from the pain. She picked up a napkin and dabbed at his chin.

“Your friends are here.”

“Alicia?”

“Pfft. No. Tristan, Caleb, and Sir Nico. They’ve been calling every day since it happened, but no visitors are allowed in the ICU.”

He knew that. Right after it’d happened, he’d had several missed calls from his teammates, but Tristan was the reigning champ of checking on him. But Rowan really didn’t want to see them. He wasn’t ready for the sympathy and the pity. They wouldn’t mean to, but being with his mates would only make it worse.

“I’m not up for it,” he groused.

His mother looked at him with compassion. “It will make you feel better.”

“No, it won’t.” His throat was still gravelly from the surgery and disuse over the last few days. “Not now!”

She shook her head but left his room. When she returned, she plopped into the chair again. She reached into her bag for a set of knitting needles. Settling the needles in her hands, she pulled on the yarn she kept in her bag. The quiet cadence of the needles scraping together worked with the medicine to send him to sleep. But when he woke, his mother was still there, the telltale sign of her knitting a bulge of patterned yarn.

“You’re awake.” She put her things away and gave him another sip of water.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Five hours.”