The Royal and the Rebel (Royally Pitched 2)

“What’s the date?”

“Tuesday next.”

“You’ll stay here, of course. Your beasts are already used to the routine. The kids can stay with Katrine. But I’m headed out of town on Thursday. Perhaps Juliana can take over for me for a couple of days.”

Rowan hesitated. Part of the ask was his method of avoiding Juliana. After last night, he thought space might be best for them. Yet even as the thought coalesced, his brain tripped backward to the night before. The image of her straddling his leg, her dress playing peekaboo with each squirm against his hand, the devastating smile on her face as she worked his cock—a bit of wonder, a bit of exhilaration, a bit of power—the tight, wet feel of her around his hand. He shook his head, trying to shut out the sweet, sexy image of the princess. Yeah, he needed a couple thousand light-years between them. And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to forget all the intriguing contradictions she presented.

“I’ll get it covered,” Rowan said.

Nico didn’t say anything for a moment. “Your mom is in charge; she’s still your medical proxy. It was how she kept us out of any of the discussions.”

Rowan ran his hand over his head. He knew this. He’d filled out the paperwork when he was a seventeen-year-old phenom and he still needed Mommy’s signature on everything. It was how they spirited him away from the hospital without any team interference. Even with what he felt was his mother’s betrayal, he struggled to think about changing things. Who else could he trust with his medical decisions? As he answered the question, he remembered his mother had broken his trust by allowing his father to take over.

“Can you get me the forms I need to sign?”

“From the national team, yes. But from your club, your agent will have to do it.”

“Right. I’ll handle it.”

“And make sure you discuss what you want with Juliana.”

Rowan almost sputtered. Of course Nico would think Juliana would be his proxy as Rowan was thinking he was going to list Nico. This was getting more complicated by the moment. He had no desire to get into any of the particulars now, so he merely let the dead air speak for him.

“Mate, you sure you’re okay?”

No, I am not okay. My sperm donor is blackmailing me by using my mother against me. I am fake engaged to a twenty-three-year-old princess who might be the sexiest woman ever created, but who I have a hard time getting along with. The only girlfriend I ever had showed up at a farce marriage mart, created to see my dodgy half-brother settled with one of Europe’s richest, titled aristocrats. My career is over because of a completely normal tackle. I have months of rehab ahead. I was virtually kidnapped and brought to this estate without my knowledge or consent. I met my fifteen-year-old half-sister for the first time, and she might turn out to be one of my favorite people in the world, but when I leave this place for my third surgery in the last eleven weeks, I am going to leave her behind. My dogs are being untrained by my best mate and his children. Oh, and I have to give my life and death instructions to the aforementioned princess because everyone in the world has to think she is my fiancée.

“Brilliant,” he answered with as much conviction as he could muster.

“Right.”

“I’ll get you the hospital details.”

“All right, mate.”

With a final cheers, they rang off. Rowan relaxed back in his chair; his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He turned his mobile over and over in his hand. He checked the time and pulled up his Calendar app. Match day against Avila. Big rivalry. The boys would just be arriving to the stadium.

With thoughts of knocking out a slew of obligations at once, he found Tristan’s contact and connected to FaceTime. He quickly glanced down at his clothes and laughed. He was wearing a Hartesfield training jersey. Oh, the irony. Hardly one ring finished before a close-up of Tristan’s face appeared.

“Bloody hell!” Tristan exclaimed at a decibel reserved for bullhorns. “Ro! Is that really you? It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what you look like. Did Jules give you my message? And aren’t you a sneaky weasel, keeping a woman under wraps like that?” It was one stream of consciousness as Tristan said every thought that materialized in his head.

There was a ruckus, a shuffle. The screen went wonky, and Rowan closed his eyes against the dizziness.

“Ro!” Caleb yelled. “Holy hell, Skip. It’s good to see you.”

Rowan could hear his teammates in the background, fighting for the phone. The Englishman, Lowry; Toledo from Spain; Thorvaldsson from Iceland; Seb; and Tomas, Mick, and Vincent. The sentiments were all the same. They missed him. They hoped he was feeling better. They couldn’t wait to see him. And they didn’t want to put up with anymore radio silence. The mobile made the rounds through the room until it landed back in Tristan’s hand.

“I’ll be a minute, chaps,” Tristan explained as he held the phone up and everyone chimed in with a chorus of good-byes. Then, Tristan’s familiar mug filled the screen again. “You’re a fucking wanker, Ro.”

The light, excited mood from before had faded, and Rowan could see the hurt in his friend’s face. Hurt and something like anger. No more teasing or joking about the self-imposed exile, Tristan was bristling with quiet fury.

Genuine regret battered him. How did he tell Tristan that cutting them off kept Rowan sane? It was enough to face his injury on his own. But to stay linked into the team, to see them running around on healthy legs, winning without him, to watch Tristan step so steadily into Rowan’s role with missing hardly a beat—it was a deep wound, submerged in alcohol. Wide open and stinging, sending red-hot pain to his receptors. He’d had to turn away from them to survive his new reality.

The silence stretched between them as Rowan struggled with the words to reassure his friend. But none came, and they merely stared at the tiny little window on their phones, meeting each other’s gaze through the distance of a screen.

The discomfort grew. In the whole of their friendship, they’d never truly been at odds. What did they have to argue about? Sure, Tristan could try Rowan’s patience, but their friendship had been forged on the pitch, much like Rowan and Nico. He thought of his moment with Juliana a few days ago when he’d apologized for his heavy-handedness with her family. He pictured her surprise and then her delight. He’d told her he wasn’t above apologizing when he did something wrong, so he wondered why he was having such a difficult time with getting anything out now.

“I need to go. Big match today.” Tristan pulled the phone from his face, and Rowan watched as Tristan’s finger moved to disconnect.

“Wait!” Rowan demanded.

Tristan complied without any fight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he waited.

He was a fuck, but he hoped it was all Tristan would demand of him. An explanation would be downright embarrassing.

Tristan sighed. “Fucking wanker,” he muttered.

“I am that,” Rowan admitted.

Tristan snickered. “Well, it’s good to see you. But I do have to go.”

“Are we good?” Rowan asked, hating the rather pathetic sound of his voice.

Tristan grinned. “We’re good, Skip.” Tristan went to hang up again. The mobile shot back up, and Tristan’s face filled the screen. “Post-match analysis.” It wasn’t a request.

It was Rowan’s turn to smile. “Talk soon.”