The Royal and the Rebel (Royally Pitched 2)

He was right in his thinking. His entrance, just a couple of minutes following the start of the game, caused a stir.

Like a stone thrown in water. One tiny ripple first—from the people sitting around them. A disbelieving start in their countenance and then a befuddled stare. A wide-eyed shift before a tap on their neighbor’s shoulder. A whisper and pointing fingers. Then, like the ever-expanding circle of waves, the crowd’s attention veered from the action on the pitch to the box where they sat.

A single clap and then a rhythmic beat as the chant rolled through the stadium, “Skip!” Clap. “Skip!” Clap. “Skip!”

Rowan watched with both amusement and humility. The greeting warmed him all the way through.

Juliana wrapped her hand around his arm and leaned in close to him. Like a ventriloquist, she said, “You should acknowledge them,” and then she squeezed his bicep.

Rowan patted her with his opposite hand. Then, he waved to the crowd. Their approval was a roar. And after the exchange, everyone settled back to watch.

Even though he wasn’t out there fighting with his mates, he found he enjoyed watching. In his head, he was second-guessing some of the play, but the trepidation he’d been carrying around with him was gone. Juliana was surprisingly pleasant. She didn’t ask any questions and seemed to have more than a rudimentary understanding of the game. He appreciated her silent acknowledgment that the day, this venture, was about him.

When the match ended, he grabbed her hand and led her to the bowels of the building. She didn’t protest when he parked her outside the changing room, in a place reserved for the families, out of the way of the players, the coaches, the staff, and the reporters.

“I don’t think they’ll be any trouble,” he informed Mase, one of the stadium guards, “but so you know, Princess Juliana is the family area.”

Rowan barely earned a grunt for his disclosure. Feeling he was leaving Juliana protected, he ducked into the hallway on his way to the find his team. He paused in the inner atrium, waiting for the gaffer to finish his post-game mash-up. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes, conjuring the scene behind the closed doors. It was a good win today, so they would be happy. There were tweaks to be made, but no major strategies to be revamped. The sense in the room would be one of accomplishment. There would be smiles and back slapping. The din of hoots and congratulatory hollers would increase before dying down as they fell into the familiar patterns of post-game plans and non-football talk.

He missed this.

He missed the camaraderie and the routine. He longed for the purpose, the pull toward a common goal. The problem with being a team member for most of your life was that when it was over, you had to redefine your modus operandi.

So lost in his thoughts, he missed the quiet that had descended. When it registered, his eyes popped open, and he was surrounded by his crew. He managed to stay steady on his crutches, but they all laughed when he jumped in surprise. Then, it was all back slaps and head rubs and sweaty man hugs. Just as quickly as it’d started, everyone slipped away until only Tristan remained, leaning against the opposite wall.

Rowan expected anger or hurt, maybe disappointment. But Tristan was all smiles.

“Fucking wanker you are,” Tristan said as an opening.

“Aye,” Rowan acknowledged with a wry smile.

And that was it. The extent of the recriminations.

Tristan pushed off the wall. “Time for a pint?” he asked as he walked back toward the team room.

“Uh, maybe. Juliana is with me.”

Tristan stopped mid-stride and turned back toward Rowan. He was fighting a smile, and Rowan found he was too.

“Right,” he said. “I know just the place.”

Which was how they found themselves at a pub with Ele and Tristan, surrounded by a security detail. It took him by surprise again that Juliana moved through the world without the trappings of safety. But he found it was stifling and wondered how Tristan dealt with it. Not that his friend looked concerned. Instead, the kid he remembered, who was always stopping for selfies and yelling out captions, was ensconced with a princess. Tristan was all glowing grins and attentive boyfriend. And Ele had morphed into a relaxed woman, who laughed easily and parried witty comments back and forth with Tristan.

Rowan had a moment or two of disbelief—Sleeping Beauty waking up one hundred years later and finding a different world order. He’d been down for almost four months, and everything seemed rearranged.

Hemmed in by MI6 types, in the presence of Tristan, Ele, and Juliana, he realized he was laughing and joking. His knee was forgotten. His father and mother’s treachery tucked away. His ensuing unemployment a distant thought.

“How’re the pups?” Tristan asked.

Ele looked at him curiously, and Juliana grinned wide.

“Pups?” Ele asked.

Juliana leaned forward. “Ro has three German shepherds. Pelé, Leo, and Leia. They are great, hulking beasts.”

Rowan chuckled. “They used to be great, hulking beasts until you came along.” He gently pushed her shoulder, like he was a tween with a crush on a girl. “She’s domesticated them,” he explained to the group. “Leia might even choose her, if given a choice.”

Juliana pitched forward, blocking him. “She would definitely pick me.”

Rowan’s hands landed on her shoulders. He set her aside. “It would be a toss-up.”

“He could have a filet mignon at his feet, waiting for her, and she would run to me,” Juliana stated with bravado.

“You,” Rowan said. “Are. A. Brat.” Then, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Jules froze for a millisecond. Stunned by his impromptu action, she recovered quickly, and because he was partially blocking her, no one noticed. But when he pulled away, it was Rowan who was shell-shocked.