The Princess and the Player

by J Santiago

  “I said something wrong,” Ele commented.

  The heel of his hand rubbed over his heart, like the touch could soothe the weird ache residing there. “No,” Tristan assured her. It might be wrong for him, but he wasn’t going to argue for her to feel something more or different.

  “I think we need some time to see what’s really between us.”

  The sword is not quite deep enough. A little deeper, love.

  He might have offered a grunt. He heard a rustling and then the click of her heels as she moved closer to him. He prayed she didn’t touch him.

  “There are duties, responsibilities I have. I can’t just be whimsical in my choices and decisions. If we were to move forward and then discover our differences were too great or that I couldn’t handle the constant limelight you had shining on you or if you decided the weight of my life was too heavy for you to shoulder … I mean, I’m not just a normal girl … there would be consequences. Far-reaching consequences. Things I can’t share with you right now, but it’s not just about me. You understand that, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I thought we could see how things went. Spend more time together. Date?”

  He chuckled, but it tasted of bitterness. “Date. But not in public? How does that work?”

  Her scent surrounded him, and he knew she was right behind him. Touching distance.

  “I don’t know, truthfully. I’ve never dated before.” She sighed. “I’m almost thirty, and I’ve never dated anyone.”

  He rejected any pity for her circumstances, but he sympathized with her. He couldn’t imagine surviving what she had, only to become a prisoner to her fears. He should be rejoicing in her bravery, and if she wasn’t breaking his heart, he would be proud of her for going after what she wanted. That she was presenting this to him instead of Robert or Millie was practically a miracle.

  He turned to her. “Ele, what are you hoping will happen?”

  She looked away. “It’s been a long time since I’ve hoped for anything.”

  “Right, Ele, but if we do this, what are you hoping to find out or figure out?”

  “If we’re compatible?”

  “What other evidence do you need of that?” he said. It cost him everything to keep his voice level, to not snap at her. Because, again, if she couldn’t feel what was between them, he refused to convince her.

  She held his gaze. “None.” At his furrowed brow, she went on, “I don’t need any other evidence. But everything about you has taken me by surprise. I didn’t know I could feel about another person what I feel for you. But I am literally bloody Rapunzel. I’ve been living in a tower, one of my own making, and my first step outside, the first person I see, I fall for. You make me feel safe, even when you’re not around. But you live this life, this big life. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I want to be able to support you and give you what you need. I don’t only want to be taken care of. I want to take care of someone. And what if I can’t?”

  She looked away from him, and panic raced through him.

  “I don’t want to be your queen,” she whispered. “I want to be your warrior.”

  He fought a smile because she was magnificent. And perhaps a little bit tragic.

  Because he couldn’t offer her any guarantees, and she wanted assurances.

  He reached out for her, lightly gripping her chin and turning her head. He wished a million little things in that moment: he could promise her it would be okay; the story of the two of them would be a big splash but then would die a natural death like all celebrity gossip fodder; her fears about their compatibility were baseless; the bigness of his life was really just another social media filter, glossing over the serrated edges to provide a smooth little lie. So, instead of words, he brought their mouths together, a soothing touch of lips, muting all the uncertainties.

  “When can I see you again?” he asked, leaning his forehead against hers.

  She startled a little and pulled back. “You still want to see me again?”

  “E,” he sighed. “I’m in this with you.”

  He might have promised her the kingdom by the smile that lit up her face.

  So easy to please.

  She threw herself into his arms for the second time tonight. And he held on. Tight.

  “I have to see, but soon.”

  Tristan nodded to the door. “We should go. You have definitely been missed.”

  “No.” She adamantly shook her head. “Tonight is about you, so you have been missed.”

  “How do we do this? Should you go first and I wait five minutes?”

  Ele moved her hands to her hair, fussing with it. She shook her head. “You go first. I need to straighten up.”

  “Should I find someone for you? Millie or Robert?”

  She walked toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m fine.”

  He knew he needed to walk away, but he didn’t want to leave her. The ambiguous “soon” didn’t sound confident or definitive enough for him. And he didn’t like the idea of leaving her here alone. “Are you sure you will be okay?”

  Tiara mode engaged.

  “I grew up in this house.”

  He smirked. “Okay, Princess.”

  Ele scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue. And Tristan laughed.

  Then, he turned from her and walked to the door. He pulled it open and barreled through, firmly closing it behind him. One step later, a reporter sidled up to him.

  “T-Dav, quite the celebration tonight.”

  Tristan jumped a little, caught off guard by both the presence of another person and the statement. He looked over at the woman on his right. He recognized her. She was one of the reporters associated with the league. A striking, statuesque blonde who actually knew what she was talking about. He’d always been impressed with her questions and her skill for research. Although she had the looks, she never relied on them. He was momentarily relieved it wasn’t some pap lurking around. Then, he was horrified because the public could choose not to believe something in a tabloid, but if it came out of this woman’s mouth, he was screwed.

  “Miss Brinley-Smith”—he placed his hand on his heart for effect—“you scared me.”

  He kept walking, knowing he needed to get her out of this particular hallway.

  “I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions.” She waved her hand, and out of nowhere—or so it seemed to Tristan—a man appeared with a camera perched on his shoulder.

  Tristan tried to shake off the lovesick boyfriend to don the cloak of the carefree athlete. He was usually so good at it. He smiled bright, but it was brittle. “Sure,” he said, but he kept his pace, slow and resolute, moving from the door. “Fire away,” he instructed.

  The entrance to the ballroom was close, and once he rounded the corner, he thought he might be able to breathe. He was so focused on diverting their attention from Ele’s presence in the room he’d recently vacated that he missed the first question.

  “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” One more step.

  “I asked if you were excited to renew your friendship with Princess Eleanor.”

  He faltered. It was enough that Miss Brinley-Smith stopped walking altogether. She motioned for her cameraman to stop too. Tristan looked around. They’d made the turn, meaning Ele could get out. He didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t text her. He couldn’t shake the reporter. He positioned himself so that he faced the way Ele would come if she came directly to the ballroom, so Brinley-Smith’s back would be to her. He prayed it would work. Then, he prayed for divine intervention in the form of Rowan or Sheena or Caleb—or hell, anyone who could help keep the wolves at bay.

  “Of course. It was great to see Princess Eleanor, Princess Juliana, and the whole delegation. The best part though was seeing my teammates and the crowd at the ceremony.”

  Nice deflection.

  “Right,” she agreed. “That was the crown prince’s idea.”

  “I was told. A lottery. Brilliant
.”

  She went on to ask questions about what the last month had been like and if he would be ready for the season to start with all of the distractions of the summer.

  “Of course. I’m a footballer.”

  “Thanks for your time,” she said.

  “Anytime,” he replied as he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “One more question.”

  Tristan nodded, but his eyes shot over her head to make sure the coast was still clear.

  “We received some exclusive footage of the new ad campaign you just filmed.”

  Tristan’s stomach bottomed out. He’d forgotten to tell Ele about the commercial. All he knew to do was to default. T-Dav to the rescue.

  “Right. Lots of fun.”

  “Interesting that, of all the images from the World Championship Cup, they chose to immortalize the moment you spun the princess around. But I guess sex sells.”

  “Well, winning definitely does,” he responded flippantly.

  She smirked and winked at him. “Yes, it does.”

  Eager to get rid of them, he started for the ballroom entrance which was a mere fifteen meters from him.

  “There she is.”

  Tristan looked over his shoulder with dread. The photographer twisted his camera from Tristan’s back and focused in on Ele, who looked like she was hurrying from something behind her. He froze as another reporter appeared from around the corner, trailing Ele. She was caught between two cameramen and two reporters. She stopped dead when she noticed the camera in front of her, her eyes frantic. She had nowhere to go.

  Tristan watched with all the horror of an impending train collision. He froze in indecision. He wanted to sweep in and rescue her, but he feared her reaction. As he watched her panic rise though, he knew he had no choice. He stepped forward into the fray between the two opposing cameras.

  Ele absently looked at him, like she didn’t know who he was. She was in the grip of a full-on attack. Her eyes were wild and her breathing labored.

  “Princess Eleanor, where have you been for the last hour?”

  “You left the same room as Tristan Davenport. Were you two together?”

  “Are you a couple?”

  “Is there a place for a footballer in the royal family?”

  Where in the hell is Robert? And Millie?

  Indecision paralyzed Tristan until he saw Ele reach for her throat, rubbing frantically, like she couldn’t breathe.

  He moved toward her then, ready to sweep her up into his arms. But something held his arm. He turned to find Michael’s hand wrapped around his bicep. Robert was suddenly there. Tristan’s gaze locked on to Robert’s frigid one. Then, Millie appeared. But as Ele’s staff surrounded her, more reporters showed up, so the small crowd was like a mob. Their flashes lit up like a strobe in a dance club, casting light in all different directions. Millie and Robert formed a protective wall around Ele, but they were resistant to touching her. Even though Michael continued to hold him back, Tristan knew there was only one way to end this.

  “Sorry,” he said to Michael right before he turned and kicked him with all the force he reserved for a shot from outside the box.

  Michael let out an, “Oomph,” but didn’t release Tristan’s arm.

  Sheena appeared out of nowhere and must have seen Tristan’s thwarted attempt to get away. She walked in close to the two of them, and while Michael focused on Tristan, she brought her leg up and kneed him in the balls.

  Michael’s hand loosened. In his defense, he held on, but the slacked grip was enough for Tristan to twist his arm away.

  “What’s wrong with you, Princess Ele?”

  “Do you suffer from asthma?”

  Tristan stormed through the throng at the same time Robert had had enough. Robert scooped her up and took off at a run with her in his arms. Tristan made to run after them, but Michael was right behind him. He pushed Tristan against the wall with his arm shoved up under his neck.

  “You’ve done quite enough tonight, Mr. Davenport. Don’t make this any harder.”

  Security poured into the hallway, dispersing the crowd. Tristan observed helplessly as people were directed back into the ballroom. Robert and Millie had disappeared with Ele, and Michael remained with Tristan.

  “Get out of my way!”

  Tristan looked over to see Sheena arguing with palace security.

  “If you want to save another scene,” Tristan told Michael, “you might want to let my sister through.”

  Michael nodded. He released Tristan, stepped away, and nodded to the man who was arguing with Sheena.

  She walked to him and clasped his hand. “Rowan is outside with the car. Let’s go.”

  Tristan looked to Michael. “Can I—”

  “No,” he said before Tristan could make his request. “It’s best if you leave.”

  “He’s right, Tris. We need to go.”

  Tristan let himself be led through the maze of corridors. He never entered the ballroom again. He walked with a burgeoning sense of dread.

  “She looked wrecked,” Sheena said quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Eventually.”

  She would, he knew, be okay. When the fervor died down and the headlines ceased. But until she dealt with the tragedy of her parents’ deaths, she wouldn’t truly heal.

  “What about you, love?”

  “You were right to worry,” he admitted.

  He expected her to agree with him. Sheena loved nothing more than being right. But she merely squeezed his hand.

  As they ducked into Rowan’s car, preparing to drive away, Tristan allowed himself one final glance at the palace. His warrior queen was in there, protected by walls and her security detail. And he was out here, wishing like hell he could be the one protecting her.

  30

  5 August

  Shuffington Palace

  Like a slow leak suddenly bursting open, Ele came awake. She’d lingered between sleep and wakefulness, in a semi-conscious awareness, lapping up streams of partial conversations, snatches of information.

  “She is not going to like this, Your Highness.”

  Millie was not a confrontational person. Ele couldn’t recall a time when Millie’s voice reached a pitch above normal. Except for now, with her whisper-hiss at Jamie.

  Ele recognized the stress in Jamie’s tone. “It wasn’t solely my decision, Millie, but I agree with it nonetheless.”

  “It’s not your decision to make, and she will not stand for it.”

  Ele wondered, in her very clouded mind, what decision could make Millie angry. And while Millie was defending Ele, Ele could recognize the displeasure emanating from her assistant. She shifted on the bed, wanting to alert them to her presence. But even when she turned toward them, her eyes blinking in slow, pronounced ways, they remained locked in their battle.

  “Millie!” Jamie had obviously had enough, and Ele braced.

  When Jamie slipped into his crown prince speech, the one where he dared those around him to disagree, Ele feared the worst even though she couldn’t conjure up a worst in her present state.

  His voice returned to a normal level. “Listen, there was a major breach of protocol that resulted in a resounding disaster.” His voice dropped another notch, and Ele found herself inching closer and straining to hear. “She’s getting crucified in the press. No one is showing a bit of mercy or fucking humanity. He didn’t protect her, Millie. Whatever his reasoning for allowing her to step into the fray, it cannot be tolerated. I know you know this. You are going to have to let this one go. Adopt the party line and help her with the transition.”

  “What are you going on about?” Ele choked out. Her throat was raw and dry, hoarse from disuse.

  Millie and Jamie jumped from surprise. Then, they rushed to her side. Jamie crouched down, so his eyes were level with hers. He reached up and pushed the hair away from her face, rubbing her forehead in comforting touches.

  “Ele,�
� he sighed, worry creasing his forehead. His unshaven jaw and generally disheveled appearance spoke to a bedside vigil.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Just since last night. They gave you a sedative.”

  “Oh.”

  “Feeling foggy?”

  “Yes. That explains it then.” Ele leaned into Jamie’s hand, happy to soak up his concern and feel connected to something. “What are you and Millie bickering about?”

  “Let’s get you some water, Ele,” Millie insisted. She moved to the bedside table and picked up a pitcher.

  Ele could discern Millie’s movements, but she kept her eyes locked on Jamie. He always provided an anchor when she was adrift, and she needed him now more than ever. But as his gaze roamed the room, refusing to meet hers, she grew concerned.

  “What?” she whispered.

  Millie came around the other side of the bed and sat, helping Ele to a sitting position. She practically shoved the straw into Ele’s mouth.

  “Drink,” she ordered. Then, as an afterthought, “But not too quickly.”

  Ele straightened her sleep shirt and then gathered her hair and wound it around, so it was all on her right side. When she was ready, she leaned forward and took a few sips of water. It was silly, but everything was so out of control, and choosing when to drink seemed like one tiny little way to exert her power. The water soothed her scratchy throat. She relaxed back against the pillows. Her brain was wrapped in layers of cotton. Blinking her eyes to dislodge the fuzziness, she took another couple of sips. She wished she were more alert, but it wasn’t going to stop her from finding out what they were holding back.

  “Now,” she said, thankful her voice had come out commanding and crisp, “what has you two out of sorts?”

  Jamie was careful to keep his face neutral, but Ele recognized it for the mask it was.