by Jewel Allen
The Reckless Prince
Jewel Allen
The Reckless Prince
Copyright © 2020 Jewel Allen
Cover design: Josephine Blake
Editing: Christina Schrunk
Interior formatting: Jewel Allen
First publication: July 2020
No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for critical articles and reviews. All rights reserved.
The next book in the Royal Billionaires of Mondragón series is The Rebel Prince,
about the Assante black sheep Mateo.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Chapter One
Diego
The crowd was silent.
Watching me play goalie, pitted against Anton Haas.
Bavaria’s best penalty kicker stood with his lips hitched in a smile, already tasting victory, his hands at his waist.
The arrogance.
There was time for a last play before the first half ended. With our teams tied at 1-1, this could easily set the tone for the next half. And this game would set the tone for the entire season.
My body buzzed with adrenaline and nerves, pushed nearly to the breaking point. But I kept an impassive face, not wanting to feed the trolls. On and off field.
The chanting started. These Bavarians would die for their futbol team. Would Mondragón’s?
They had better. This was our home turf at our island principality in the Mediterranean Sea. El Calderón Arena, named after the habitat of the mythical dragon on the Assante family’s royal crest.
Yes, our fans were getting into it too. Pounding drums, singing, stomping, yelling. Thousands of screaming fans at a game that would decide the fate of these rival teams.
My head was in a bubble, aware of the noise and the excitement but keeping it separate from the other players in front of me. Bavaria’s team assembled behind Haas. My team members had to watch from the sides, unable to help me.
They didn’t need to.
I knew my worth as a player. I had been playing this game since I was able to toddle toward a ball. Slept, ate, and breathed soccer. Attended camps. Played the drills. Went small, then medium. Until I made it into the big leagues as the greatest goalie on earth.
You tell yourself these things to build yourself up. When you’re faced with talent like Haas, let’s face it, you need every ounce of self-confidence you can get. He wasn’t just good on the foot skills; he was smart. Legend had it, when he came from his mother’s womb, he emerged from a soccer ball.
The referee nodded at me with a question in his eyes. Are you ready?
Was I ever.
I spat to the side and turned back to the referee. Then I focused on Haas, the ball, the others behind him. My team players to the side of them. And then back to the ball. Everyone blurred while the white-and-black pattern turned razor-sharp clear.
I nodded.
“Diego, Diego, Diego…”
The chanting turned into a hum as I focused on the ball with laser precision. That was my only concern for the moment.
Not the crowds.
Not Princess Adele Vogel of Bavaria up in the stands with my family, crossing country lines. Which practically meant our betrothal.
Not my arm that was supposed to have surgery which I’d been putting off for ages because if I were to get hurt, that might be it for my career. For a long while anyway.
Focus, Diego.
I breathed in and out, the sound loud in my ears. Haas took a running start and kicked the ball, letting it sail up and above me where I’d have to stretch my bum arm. He knew these things. I told you he was smart.
I leaped into the air, my injured arm stretching to the fingertips, perpendicular to the blue, blue Mondragón sky. It only took two seconds, quick enough that it would’ve gotten into a net with a goalie who had fewer years of experience.
But Haas was up against Diego Assante.
Who never caved under pressure.
I sailed as high as I possibly could, hooking the ball with my fingertips and slamming it to the ground.
“Denied!” the crowd roared.
Not today, Haas.
The ball bounced. Back toward Haas.
Pain burned my shoulder nerves, but I knew my work wasn’t done. I coiled in readiness for the next defensive action.
Haas pulled back his head like a catapult and headed the ball back in my direction. As the ball released, I arched my body that direction, stretching my arms. Ignoring my tearing muscles as they reached for the ball.
I caught the ball in my hands but felt it slip ever so slightly, enough to make or break a play. I lunged once again and slammed the ball onto the ground, tucking it under my chest and landing on it. The ball knocked the breath out of me.
Haas, trying to get to the ball first, leaped without the ball into my net.
Not today, Haas.
The arena broke out with an uproar of triumphant madness. I rolled away from the ball just as my teammates scooped and hoisted me on their shoulders. The crowd sang and waved yellow-and-red Mondragón flags. It hurt to raise my arms to wave, but I did. I had to. I owed it to my fans to give them a good show.
My teammates turned me in the direction of the royal box where my family and their guests sat.
All my brothers except for Mateo, who was who-knew-where wreaking havoc in the world, and their spouses were clapping for me. Mother sat in front of them, waving a handkerchief. Princess Adele, in all her blonde coolness, blew a kiss from bright red lips I could see clear across the field. Right at me. I caught it and smooched my palm, imagining her as my recipient once I’d showered and made myself presentable after this winning game.
My team surged forward and launched me back to the ground, my feet breaking into a run for the tunnel. I got shoves, pats, and grins from my teammates as we made our way in for halftime break.
Rafik Bel, my teammate from Morocco, came at me with shining eyes. “Good work, Assante!”
At the same time, a fan from the rival team hurled an insult at Bel that I didn’t think I’d hear nowadays. A racial slur because of Bel’s skin color.
Bel came to a dead stop and turned toward the bare-chested fan. I couldn’
t see my teammate’s expression, but I could imagine it. Easy-going but sad. His muscular shoulders rose as he balled his hands into tight fists.
“What did you say?” Bel asked, his voice low.
With a malicious smile, the fan repeated the nasty expletive.
Bel launched into a dead run and threw himself into the air. I was just a second behind him, yanking him back by his shirt. Security swarmed between us and the fan in the stands, running up the stairs toward the fan, whose armful of snacks erupted in the air as he jerked back in fear.
“Bel,” I said, keeping hold of his jersey. “Rafik.”
He was shaking.
I loosened my hold of him. “Don’t give the idiot the time of day.”
Bel turned, revealing his expression. He was laughing so hard tears ran down his cheeks. “He was so scared!” he whispered in a semi-cackle.
I grinned.
Not learning his lesson, the fan continued being an idiot. “Hey, Prince. Lucky save.”
I ignored him. Security was eventually going to reach him and kick him out.
I felt something whip at my head and turned. The fan held a Bavaria shirt in his hand, taunting. He moved as though to flick it at me again.
Reaching up, I yanked the shirt over the railing and down to the tunnel floor.
“My arm! My arm, it’s broken!” he yelled.
I threw his good-for-nothing shirt at him. “Serves you right!”
I dodged swarming media and ran into the tunnel to the thunderous rush of administration. Coach Quinn and Mondragón’s head security, Brigid Zimmerman, bore down on me, looking unamused.
Chapter Two
Gemma
I should have quit months before when I had the chance. I’d signed up for the kids’ sake, not for this bozo’s demeaning attitude.
My boss, Jason Lindall, leaned back in his chair making the hinges squeal. It was particularly noisy that day, grating on my nerves. He stared at me, his face impassive, his salt-and-pepper mustache and thinning head of hair in place. Coiled and watching me.
Much like how I felt—a calm, brewing cauldron of frustration.
He’d made my life a pain from day one. He was older by ten years and thought that meant he knew everything—and I knew nothing.
Never mind that I’d been playing defense since I was in junior high and had gotten into comp leagues. Never mind that I’d sacrificed my teen years for the sport so I could travel and compete all over the US. Never mind that I had taken coaching classes and continued to do so.
“Could you please at least cc me on your email to the other team?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
He seemed to suck in his breath at my request. Such an affront to his authority. His eyelids drooped into a disinterested expression. “I’ll try to remember.”
Seriously? He would try to remember.
I should’ve just stood and walked out. This constant barrage of little humiliations added up to an unbearable whole.
Until I thought of the kids. Their cute faces, their hopeful smiles, the way this program made them blossom. I couldn’t just walk out on this program—and them—forever.
“Thank you,” I said through gritted teeth.
He stood. I was dismissed.
I scrolled through my phone notepad frantically, reviewing the list of things that had piled up since the start of the summer training season. We trained kids year-round, but summer was our busiest season. “Another thing—”
“Sorry, no time.”
I bit down my frustration. It was hard to talk to a moving target. Jason walked over to the doorway of his office, his body turned away from me.
I swallowed my humiliation. “When can we talk again?”
“After my lunch break. Maybe.” His voice was bland, but I knew I was getting under his skin.
I thought about asking if we could go to lunch, my treat, just to see how he would squirm out of that one, but didn’t. Outside the building, he went one way, and I went the other. Once out of his sight, I paused, trying to calm my breath.
“Don’t cry,” I whispered. I pressed my eyes shut and then opened them again, staring at the sky.
Regardless of what I did or how hard I worked, I never seemed to get ahead with Jason, always getting stuck with the grunt work. I glanced at the sign, Lindall Soccer Training Center, and the nicely groomed fields on the property in Sunnyridge, Colorado. When I first came on as head trainer, I was impressed and thought I had it made.
How wrong I was.
I took out one of the soccer balls I kept in the trunk of my little Subaru and kicked it over to the middle of the field. It rolled to a stop about where I wanted it. Swallowing my tears from my conversation with Jason, I jogged over to the ball. I only had my running shoes on, but it didn’t matter. I just needed to move around and blow off some steam.
I started slow, dribbling the ball around in circles and then figure eights. I pretended I was in a game playing defense. There was a gap in the players, and I could, if I wanted to, dribble my way down to the goal and try to score.
Tapping the ball rhythmically, I advanced down to the net. Closer and closer until I was just a few yards away. Staring my imaginary goalie in the face. Except this time, I pictured Jason’s impassive, unsympathetic face. With a mustache tweaked like a villain from one of those melodramatic cartoons.
If he wouldn’t move out of the way, I’d just have to dribble around him.
“Here goes nothing,” I said and then dribbled, tap, tap, until I was close enough to see the whites of his eyes. Then, boom, I kicked the ball and sent it sailing right smack into the soccer net—just as a blindingly painful sensation flared in my right knee, sending me buckling to the other knee on the ground. I gasped and held my leg, waiting for the pain to subside.
This was the reason I could never play soccer anymore. I’d had so many surgeries in my life it wasn’t even funny. My two knees could set off the alarm at the airport. And now, even just kicking the ball sent me into the pain zone. I could get one more procedure done on my right knee, but what was the point? Certainly not for me to play. Or even to dribble around Jason Lindall’s smug face.
I blinked back tears and sniffled. And then I stood. With ginger steps, I retrieved the ball and made my way to my Subaru where I stuffed the soccer ball in my trunk, shutting it with a satisfying thud.
Car tires crunched on the gravel, and I looked up. A sleek white Cadillac had arrived, spotless and pristine like it had just come off the car lot or out of a car wash. A woman with a brown pixie cut and circular thin-frame gold glasses came out of the back passenger seat. She wore a pantsuit like a politician running for Congress.
“Is this the Lindall Soccer Training Center?” she asked in a voice that had a faint accent. Spanish, maybe?
“Yes.”
She glanced at the building and then at the fields. “Very nice.”
I thought she was talking to me, but she nodded to someone sitting inside the Cadillac, someone I couldn’t see through the heavily tinted windows. I pictured it to be some child soccer prodigy, come to check out the facility.
Glamorous stockinged legs swung out of the car in black high heels and a gray dress suit. The woman looked to be in her upper fifties or sixties. She had a blonde bob and a little black hat that looked utterly useless for anything other than a fashion statement. In her arms, she carried a little fu-fu dog like an accessory.
She glanced briefly at me then around like the first woman did. “It will do.”
I stood there impatiently waiting for them to introduce themselves as opposed to just judging our facility.
The woman with the super-short haircut studied me again. “This is Her Royal Highness of Mondragón, Princess Nina Assante.”
“Well, hello…er…” How does one address her? “Princess.” And where exactly was Mondragón? In Europe somewhere, if I remembered correctly…
“And I am Brigid Zimmerman, head of the Mondragón security detail.” Her expres
sion was cool, as though she was capable of killing a man bare-handed. “We are here on an official diplomatic mission from our principality, and we have a proposal for you.”
Chapter Three
Diego
“He started it,” I muttered as Coach Quinn marshaled me down the hallway of the Mondragón palace.
“Yes,” Coach said in his gravelly voice, “but did you have to yank his shirt away right in front of the cameraman?”
“So that is the only reason why I’m in trouble? It was caught on tape?”
“Not the only reason. On top of the last fight you got into—”
“Fight?” I bristled. “The other guy was twice my size, and he headbutted me!”
“And you knocked him out cold.”
“I served my time there,” I grumbled. “Missed nearly the entire season. I don’t see why I still have to do penance…”
“You’re right. But collectively, your reckless behavior shows a disturbing pattern—”
“Reckless!” My hackles rose. “It’s not my fault that fans are misbehaving.”
“But you don’t need to take their bait. Everyone will troll you. You know that, Diego.”
We had reached the palace boardroom. The shiny mahogany doors were shut. I was glad. Stopping there, without anyone watching me, gave me a chance to regroup. To collect myself. In the eye of the storm.