Aiden glances at me, his face heating up. “Um, no. No one mentioned college women.”
“Come on, you have to tell us all about them, mate. My cousin Arnold started going last year, and he says the women are spectacular.” Henry saunters into the room, flanking my other side. He leans close. “Way more impressive than these teenage girls who don’t know a tempting offer when they see it.”
I spin around and ball my hand into a fist. Today isn’t the day. Ollie grabs onto my sweater and pulls me close to him. “Easy there, lass. He’s just taking the piss out of you.”
I think I nod, but I’m not entirely sure. Henry and Aiden start talking about school, but I can’t really make out what they’re saying. Instead, a loud ringing fills my ears. I want to crawl into my bed, cover my head with a pillow, and hide until Aiden goes back to school.
They never tell you what happens to the girls the prince doesn’t pick in the fairy tales. All the girls he danced with and made hope. What happens to all the girls the glass slipper just didn’t fit?
Ollie yanks on my sweater again, pulling me from the abyss. “What’s going on, Ryans? Are you all right?”
I look up at Ollie and force a smile. “Of course I am. Happy to see Aiden home. I’m fine.”
Ollie shakes his head, reaching up and wiping away a tear I didn’t know had fallen. “Liar,” he says softly.
Chapter Nineteen
22 Years, 10 Months, and 3 Days
Today, Sophie and Freddie are hosting a charity futbol match with foster children from local neighborhoods in order to raise money for the nonprofit she works for. In lieu of wedding presents, the couple is asking for donations. But since neither Sophie nor Freddie have an athletic bone in their body, captaining the two teams rests with Ollie and me. Only the man who has been avoiding me for the past three days.
After the tea party debacle, I chucked all the articles in the trash. I had made an ass out of myself and needed to explain.
I tried going to Ollie’s room several times, but he was always out. Freddie said he had taken to going partying with Henry, which left a sour taste in my mouth. Was he going because he liked it? Needed an escape? Or because that’s what Oliver Dudley was expected to do? Maybe all those tabloid stories were less the result of a restless boy and more about a man protecting his family. The more the press talked about wild Oliver Dudley, the less Aiden and Freddie had to worry about.
In our moments together, those moments outside of royal functions, moments away from the cameras, he had just been Ollie. The boy who could always tell when something was wrong. The boy who stood before me so vulnerable that day, sharing with me moments that still haunted my heart. Moments that touched me in ways no other experiences ever had. I had fallen in love with Oliver Dudley, not the prince but the boy, in those moments.
“Thanks again for doing this. Have I mentioned you’re my favorite American?” Sophie asks, linking her arm through mine as we walk toward the makeshift pitch set up on the palace grounds.
“It’s the least I can do after embarrassing you during the garden party,” I reply.
“Pish, posh. That’s old news,” she sings. I wonder if birds help her get dressed in the morning. Now that we’re close enough to the reporters, she turns us to face them, plastering on a thousand-watt smile. I do the best I can to follow suit, but something about the click of the shutters makes me tick.
Click.
How dumb does a girl have to be to fail out of a state school?
Click.
How does it feel to solicit sex from a professor to raise your grade?
Click.
How does it feel to be a home-wrecker?
I grit my teeth and lower my head.
“If you think the tea party was mortifying, wait till my team of rugrats destroys yours on the field,” Ollie says loud enough for the press to hear as he appears by my side. A few of them chuckle, and it’s no wonder they eat out of the palm of his hand.
Sophie busies herself answering questions the press calls out about her charity while Freddie poses for pictures with the kids, which leaves Ollie and me alone. Well, as alone as two people can be surrounded by a hounding press with cameras.
“How bad you itching to reach up and touch that hair of yours?” Ollie asks quietly, so none of the reporters can hear.
“Almost as bad as I want to kick your ass in this game,” I counter, hoping I can ease the tension by some friendly sports-fueled banter. I muster enough nerve to look up at him. He’s not smiling. Clearly, things are still not good with us. I sigh. “Ollie, I want to say sorry about what happened at the museum.”
“What do you think Aiden meant?” he asks, choosing to ignore my request.
I shoot a glance over at the reporters to make sure none of them are paying us any attention. The last thing I need is one of them reading our lips and causing another incident before Sophie and Freddie’s big day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quietly.
Ollie reaches up and runs a hand down my hair. My mouth drops open at the brazenness of the act. The reporters are right there. The way Oliver is staring down at me screams punishment. I clench my jaw.
He isn’t going to get a rise out of me here, but if I accidently kick him in the face during the game, that wouldn’t be an entirely bad thing. He leans closer to me. “You know…all that mess about when we’re not human, we make the biggest mistakes. You think he meant you, Ryans? Not being with you, that is. Do you think that was his biggest mistake?”
I let free a shaky breath. “I don’t know what he meant, but this isn’t the time to talk about it. In case you haven’t noticed, there are about thirty reporters over there,” I say, nodding toward the press.
“What are you afraid they’ll see?” he challenges, his voice the kind of low that settles into my chest, awakening in me something unable to be controlled. Something animalistic.
“I don’t know, Ollie. You tell me,” I counter, raising my chin.
Ollie’s hand juts forward and grabs onto my jersey. Gripping so hard his knuckles turn white, he looks down at me with that look—the one that reminds me of where he’s been. The look that calls to me of things past and things that could be.
“Ollie,” I breathe. “They’ll see.”
“I don’t care,” he replies roughly.
I bite down on my bottom lip.
“Stop it,” I croak out. Because if I don’t say something, we will really give the press something to write about.
Ollie furrows his brow, letting go of my jersey. “How about a bet, Ryans?”
I reach up and pull my ponytail tight. Trying to get my breathing under control. The way my chest is heaving up and down is sure to raise some questions. “A bet?” I ask, slightly out of breath.
Ollie’s non sequitur leaves me a bit befuddled, but it does awaken something in me. The warrior. My muscles ache. They need, want to be worked to exhaustion. If waging a bet with Ollie makes this futbol match more intense, I’m all for that.
“Look, this thing between us, Ryans, it’s making me crazy,” he admits.
This thing between us…he didn’t mean…did he?
“What does that have to do with this?” I ask.
“Just hear me out,” he implores. “We tried pretending it never happened, and that was a disaster. We tried calling a truce, and, well, that was another one for the books. If my team wins, we go somewhere and talk. I mean really talk. No lying. I’ll answer any question you want. You’ll answer mine. No hiding behind uncomfortable truths or made-up personas. Finally hash this all out, so we can move on. ’Cause God knows the way we have been dealing with it hasn’t been working.”
My teeth grind together at the mere thought of baring our souls. I squint my eyes as I stare up at him. “And what do I get if I win?”
He pulls at the collar of my jersey, glancing over at the press. “I wasn’t done with my terms.”
“Wow, these are turning out to be some pretty hefty demands,”
I note, raising an eyebrow.
“I want you to stay,” he replies without a moment of hesitation. “When the wedding is done, you stay. At least for a while. It doesn’t have to be forever. It doesn’t matter if we hash things out, if you are just going to disappear on us again.” He reaches up and scratches at the back of his head, his eyes finding solace on the ground. “We’re not the same without you, Ryans. Even when I’m pissed at you, I have to acknowledge that.”
Stay.
Was that something I wanted? I sure as hell didn’t have much to go back to the States for. But even if this was my home, staying here would be idiotic for so many reasons. The press. The pressure to be perfect. Falling even deeper in love with a man who would surely destroy me.
God, he’s asking a lot of me. I throw back my shoulders and place a hand on my hip. He isn’t going to intimidate me. “And what do I get?”
“What do you want?” he taunts.
I gulp as a wave of red rushes from my cheeks down my chest. “I…I want… If I win…” Ollie places a finger against my lips. “Ollie, the press,” I whisper against him, my eyes going wide.
He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t care about them anymore. Let’s play the game, Ryans. You think about what you want while we’re doing battle, and if you win, I’ll give you whatever you want. No questions asked.”
I reach up and pull his hand from my mouth. He bends his knees, so his eyes are level with mine. “What do you say?” he asks softly.
I offer my hand to Ollie. “It’s a bet.”
“You’re a blasted cheater!” Ollie charges.
“You’re delusional,” I snap, slapping his pointy little accusing finger out of my face.
“One, I heard you tell that kid to foul my forward. Second, you were running trick plays all up and down the pitch. And third, you were flirting with the ref!” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.
“I forgot how big of a wanker you are when you lose,” I reply, shaking my head as I cross my arms over my chest.
“Oh, goodness, you are right. She does sound a bit silly when she uses British slang,” Sophie chimes in.
My head whips in her direction.
“Um, love, maybe not the best time to make note of that,” Freddie warns. He steps in between Ollie and me. “If we both could just take a deep breath and relax—”
“I’ll relax when he apologizes for being a misogynistic ass who thinks the only way a girl can beat him is if she flirts with the ref!”
Ollie rolls his eyes. “Bloody unbelievable. I’m a misogynist? Really? Me?” He runs a hand across his jaw, a slow grin creeping across his face. “How can that be when we all know how much I love women? Isn’t that what all your little articles tell you?”
“Enough!” Freddie yells, causing both of us to turn and look at him in shock. Never in the entire time I’ve known him has Freddie raised his voice. “I won’t stand for another second of this. I mean bollocks! You two made multiple children cry today. This was supposed to be for charity. Sophie’s charity. You both owe her an apology.”
“Sorry, Sophie,” I mumble.
“Yeah, sorry, lass,” Ollie replies, kicking at the grass with his foot.
“Now, you’re going to go into the greenhouse and get yourselves together. Then, you’re going to come back out here and do whatever Sophie asks you to do. Mail a thousand pledge letters. Box a billion care packages. Renovate the Tower of London. Her wish is your command. Is that clear?” Even though his lecture ends in a question, it’s very clear there’s no question about it—we are going to do exactly that.
Ollie lets out a low whistle. “Look who went and started sounding all royal?”
Freddie moves until his face is inches from Ollie’s. “Do I need to repeat myself?” he asks, his voice edged with anger.
I reach up and gently tug on Freddie’s arm. The last thing I need is Freddie and Ollie fighting. Once again, I’m messing everything up. “We’ll go,” I assure him. “And then it’s anything Sophie wants. We promise.”
Freddie gives a curt nod before moving to stand next to Sophie, who stares wide-eyed at her fiancé. He kisses the top of her head before whispering something into her ear. Her shock melts away. Her features so soft and unconcerned. So trusting. How easy they make it look.
Ollie and I can’t get through a charity futbol game without wanting to rip each other’s throats out. The game was brutal. Hell, brutal wasn’t even a strong enough word for it.
At first, it was the fear of the bet fueling me. I had to win because talking about everything scared the shit out of me.
Then, it became about something else. It was the thrill of the game. The taste of the win. I failed at so many things. Being a good daughter. Being a good friend. School. Love. Everything except this. This I could win.
Each time I ran down the field, I grew stronger. Every time my foot connected with the ball, I felt safer. It was the reason I coached. Why I made deals with the security guard back at my university to leave the gym unlocked for me late at night. There was no way I was going to let Ollie win. Of course, in my frenzy to take the game, I ruined yet another one of Sophie’s events.
I start massaging my temples. I have a raging headache, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse. “Did you hear that, Oliver? We’re going.”
“Lead the way, Alexandra,” he replies, putting his brand of special all over my name.
“You’ll need this,” Sophie says meekly, hesitantly holding out a first aid kit. I scrunch up my forehead. “You know…for your injuries?” she explains.
Injuries? For the first time since the game ended, I really look at Ollie. Like really, really look at him without the fiery lens of war clouding my vision. A small stream of blood runs down from his forehead onto his cheek.
Did I do that? I remember thoughts of kicking him in the face dancing through my head before the game, but had I really been ballsy, not to mention crazy, enough to do it?
For the love of J.K. Rowling!
I really made a mess of everything. “Gosh, Sophie, did I mention how sorry I am?” I offer, taking the first aid kit and tucking it under my arm. “Seriously, whatever you want from me is yours. I’ll do just about anything to make it up to you.”
“Maybe you could find me some more of those hot crisp things from the other day?” she asks as her cheeks bloom pink.
“I’ll buy you a whole crate of them.” I grin. I am eternally grateful that Freddie is marrying the sweetest girl in all the world.
“Please skip the part where you tell me that this is going to hurt.”
It takes all my remaining strength to stop from rolling my eyes. I hold the cotton ball soaked in alcohol centimeters from his wound. “Doesn’t matter if I say it or not, Ollie, it’s still going to hurt like a mother—”
He grabs onto my wrist, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Trust me, Ryans, I’ve had worse.” His thumb rubs across my skin, and I shiver. “Ollie,” I warn. “I won.” Which means he doesn’t get to say things like that to me.
A small, broken laugh breaks free from his lips. “Right. You win. Funny how you still look miserable.”
I pull my wrist from his grip and throw the cotton ball at him. I turn around, unable to look at him. Not with that stare that threatens to undress me and lay all my deepest secrets bare for the world to see. I pull at the leaf of some plant I’ll never know the name of.
The greenhouse is damp and humid. As if I wasn’t sweaty enough after that bloodbath of a futbol game in the middle of July. I hear a sharp hiss from behind me as Ollie goes to work mending his wounds. The noise does something weird to my heart.
It’s not as if this is the first time Ollie and I competed against each other. It’s also not the first time one of us has come out of a game with injuries. There were a good few years where we thought it was cool to show each other our scars. He’d win or I’d win, and it would be followed by a few days of ball busting and bragging, but, in the end, we knew no m
atter what side of the pitch we stood on, we were on the same team.
It doesn’t feel like that anymore.
Some scars you can’t see.
“So, Alexandra, what do you want?” Ollie asks, throwing the kit on the table, making me jump.
“I want you to stop calling me Alexandra,” I reply. Even with my back toward him, I can feel his eyes on me, drilling holes in the back of my head. I snap the leaf off the plant. The game calmed the swelling tide that threatened to drown me, but it didn’t stop it completely.
I’m about to snap.
“Sure, whatever you want,” he mumbles. “Are you ready to go back out there?”
I crumple the leaf in my hand. “Not until you fix that tone,” I sass back. “We continue to make a mess out of things for Sophie. The least we can do is pretend to pull it together.”
Ollie grabs onto my arm, spinning me around. It’s only now that I’m looking at him that I realize how close he was standing next to me. “We continue to make a mess out of everything. Don’t you see that, Ryans? We have to talk about it.”
I swallow. “I won,” I repeat. More firmly this time.
“Fuck the bet, Ryans!” he says roughly.
“You’re only saying that because you lost,” I argue as I take a step back. I’m desperate to escape but the table blocks me. There’s nowhere to run to. Not anymore. Ollie invades my space. He bends slightly, so his eyes are level with mine. His lips press into a hard line as he dares me to say something, do something. Hell, I don’t know what he’s daring me, but I feel it between us, a wall ready to crumble. I lick at my much too-dry lips. They’re thirsty. They want.
“We can’t go on like this,” he replies, his voice breaking. His shoulders slump. I want to reach up and smooth out the wrinkles that have appeared on his forehead. Easygoing, lovable Oliver Dudley replaced with this shell of himself. Or at least the self the world knows. Safely away from the cameras and fans, this is Ollie now. The Ollie I helped make. Had I broken him when I was busy destroying myself?
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