Going Deep Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by DePaul, Virna

  Kyle Young—all-star quarterback and lady-killer—thought he knew what he wanted out of life: freedom, football and fun. Then he meets Bella. She seems like the perfect woman: gorgeous, funny, and a huge football fan. But what he doesn’t know? Bella also happens to be Princess Arabella of Salasia.

  Yearning for adventure and romance before she devotes herself to her country and marries a man she doesn’t love, Arabella can’t believe her luck when she meets Kyle. Sparks fly between the football player and the princess, and they begin an affair neither of them could’ve imagined.

  Soon, however, duty and self-doubt cause Kyle and Arabella to separate. Can he become the prince she needs? And can Arabella overcome her family’s disapproval? Or will their love transform back into a pumpkin at midnight, leaving them both without a happily ever after?

  Chapter 1

  “Your Highness, is this really necessary?”

  Princess Arabella of Salasia grinned at her bodyguard, as she painted red streaks on his face to match her own. “Yes, Royce. You said you were going to help me blend in with the crowd to ensure my safety. Now hold still.” She bit her lower lip, concentrating hard. If making the most of her time in America meant painting war streaks on cheeks, so be it.

  Recently arrived in New York City, Arabella and Royce were about to attend a New York Knights’ game against the Savannah Bootleggers, Arabella’s all-time favorite team. My first American football game, she thought with glee, even if Kyle Young wouldn’t be playing tonight.

  Badass quarterback, Kyle Young.

  Hot-as-hell Kyle Young.

  Looking-good-in-them-tight-pants Kyle Young.

  He’d been her favorite player for a few years now. She’d followed his career closely on every social media and gossip site possible. Not only was he gorgeous, but he was also a talented, savvy ball player whose skills had strengthened as the years had passed. She hadn’t admitted to anyone, though, that she often thought about the other, hidden skills he might possess. However, nobody had to know such things about a princess.

  She wished she could’ve seen him perform tonight, but he’d suffered a minor injury and was sitting the next two games out. Instead, Brian Murphy, their third-string quarterback, would be getting the action. Good enough for her; she liked him too. Nothing was going to ruin the excitement of her first real adventure in America.

  Born and raised in the small European principality of Salasia twenty-four years ago, Arabella had grown up with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Her father was kind and tolerant, but her mother was much more strict about how a royal princess had to behave. But Mother wasn’t here today, was she? Today, Arabella could do as she pleased. Today, she was her own woman in the City that Never Sleeps, a city she had always dreamed of visiting, as far removed from her parents’ watchful eyes as possible.

  Well, her own woman, as long as her royal watchdog slash bodyguard went along with her plans. Better than nothing.

  Arabella stepped back from Royce to admire her work. “Perfect. Now, all you need is a foam finger…”

  “With all due respect, Your Highness, I don’t like the sound of—”

  “Here.” She reached behind her for the giant red foam hand used at so many American football games and slid it onto his hand. “Now, you’re Number #1.”

  Royce glowered at her with a mix of apathy and annoyance. “Might I inquire again why we are not sitting with Mr. York in his private box? You would be more comfortable there, Your Highness.”

  “I don’t want to be comfortable, Royce. I want to be happy.”

  Royce gave a defenseless sigh.

  Jacques York, family friend and fellow Salasian, happened to own the New York Knights and was partnering with the Salasian royal family in a number of charities, the reason Arabella was in New York in the first place. Tickets for the game had come from him, though she’d declined sitting in his private box on account of her wanting to experience the game first-hand—not as a princess, but as a spectator.

  “Royce, look, I want to experience a football game just like anyone else,” she said. “Being served martinis in an air-conditioned box with the Salasian owner of the New York Knights wouldn’t precisely fit the bill, now would it?”

  Royce sighed. “No, milady, I suppose not.”

  She moved to the hotel mirror—one of many in the lavish hotel suite—making sure her own face paint was perfect and that her long, dark hair was pulled up into a neat ponytail. Normally, she’d wear a suit to any public event, but today she wore jean shorts and a tight red tank with NEW YORK KNIGHTS, as much as it pained her, emblazoned across the chest.

  If Mother could see me now, she thought.

  After a few more finishing touches, they rode to the Knights’ stadium in their rented limo, complete with their own private driver who catered to her and assured her he’d be at her beck and call all night. Same old, same old. Arabella found herself staring out the tinted windows with a longing gaze. Regular New Yorkers paraded the sidewalks, phones in hand, paper coffee cups in the other. What would it be like to walk out of a NYC flat—no, apartment—and just go wherever she wanted?

  Bliss, she thought. Pure bliss.

  Then again, she was well aware of how most people thought growing up with wealth and the best schools and traveling the world would be blissful, but what good was all of that if you were always under a watchful eye? If you had to worry about what you said, what you did, what you bought every moment of the day? If travel was always for business and charity and she had to constantly be around others and could never truly relax?

  Regular people didn’t know how good they had it.

  “Knights’ Stadium,” the driver announced, as the limo crawled along a winding line of cars. Outside, groups of people walked toward the stadium.

  “Drop us off at the private entrance, please,” Royce told the driver, looking glumly out at the masses of spectators trying to get a peek into the limousine.

  “No, I want to get out here,” Arabella said, bouncing with excitement.

  “Your Highness, it’s not safe where the masses are.”

  “Royce, you’re no fun.” Arabella reached for the door handle, and before Royce could protest, stepped out into the crisp September air. New Yorkers all gawked and tried to identify who she was.

  Royce scrambled out of the limo after her. “Your Highness, if you are going to be so reckless, I would advise you to stay close to me and do as I say. Your mother only allowed you to come to New York on the condition that I stay with you at all times. She wasn’t happy about you attending a football game to begin with, let alone blending with the commoners.”

  “I know, I know.” She waved off his concerns and led him through the sparse crowds into the more densely packed areas where eager patrons pooled near the entrance. “But I want to experience this event like any other football fan.” She came to a sudden stop and whirled around. “And if anyone asks, you’re my brother. At least attempt to act like a normal person today. Please, Royce? For me?” She gave him her best girly pout.

  His dark eyebrows furrowed above a stubborn expression. For a middle-aged man, Royce was rather handsome. If only he would smile more often, the lines on his forehead might diminish.

  After purchasing beers, hot dogs, and nachos, she and Royce found their spots in the stands. Arabella sat next to a pimply, blonde-haired teenage boy wearing braces. She smiled at him. “Hello.” When her eyes made contact with his, he looked away shyly. This only made her smile wider.

  “What is so amusing?” Royce looked up from inspecting the goopy cheese of the nachos.

  “Nothing of consequence.” She poked him in the side, like she would her own older brother, Louis. “Liven up, Royce. Everything will be fine. Maybe you’ll even have a little fun tonight.”

  “No, milady, you’re here to have fun. I’m here to work.”

  “Whatever, party pooper.”

  Suddenly, the stadium came to life, as the Knights made their appearance out o
n the field. Arabella waved her red foam finger and pretended to be a fan, even though the Bootleggers held her heart. Her plan had been to blend in, and blend in she would. Still, when the Savannah Bootleggers ran onto the field, their bright blue uniforms in contrast with the red and green on the field, she jumped up and cheered for them too, eliciting strange looks from the pimply teen next to her.

  “Equal love for all players, right?” she said to the boy.

  The boy looked away again.

  Her eyes scanned and scanned the Bootleggers’ sidelines. Even though he wouldn’t be starting tonight, Kyle Young would most likely be here—in the flesh—to cheer his team on, and she couldn’t wait to lay eyes on the real thing.

  As the team prepared for the game with their drills, Arabella sipped her beer and took in the whole ambience. Though the beer tasted like septic water—not that she’d ever tasted septic water before—nothing was going to ruin this experience for her. The cheering crowd, the bite of fall in the air, the electricity buzzing throughout the stadium…it was all—beautiful.

  She closed her eyes to take in the sounds and smells.

  When she opened them, she spotted him. Down below, dressed in team jersey but with jeans on, Bootleggers’ quarterback, Kyle Young, stood waving at the crowd from the sidelines. Like the coaches, he wore a headset to communicate with Murphy.

  There he is… Even from this distance, she appreciated his tall stature, strong build, and commanding presence… Sigh.

  “Your Highness, did you hear what I said?”

  “What?” Arabella turned to Royce. “Sorry, I blipped out for a moment there.”

  “That’s not the only thing you’re blipping.” He pointed to the cheese dripping onto her leg from the nachos.

  “Oh!” She quickly grabbed a napkin and blotted the warm spill on her thigh.

  “Dreadful food product,” Royce mumbled.

  “Actually, it’s not as terrible as I thought.” She bit into her chip dabbed with melted cheese. “So, Royce, have you ever attended a football game?” Rarely did she have the chance to talk to her bodyguard, and now that it was just the two of them, she would try to poke through his taciturn exterior. “An American football game?”

  He glanced at her, his red face paint creasing as he frowned. “No, this is my first visit to America, Your Highness.”

  “Please don’t call me that.” Arabella’s shoulders drooped. “Call me Arabella, or sis—”

  “Your Highness—”

  “Please,” she said more firmly, a sly smile at her lips. “Or I’ll turn into your worst nightmare, screaming for attention at the top of my lungs. You don’t want me having a tantrum here, do you, Royce?”

  “Fine.” He seemed to struggle inwardly before nodding. He ground out her name, “Ara…bella,” as if it pained him.

  She laughed heartily. “There you go. Now, what about sports? Did you play as a child? European football? Basketball? Cricket?”

  He thought for a moment before replying, “Rugby, milady, for a short time in school.”

  “Ah. I can see that.” Royce boasted a wide frame and chest, the very picture of someone who used to play rugby. She waited for him to go on, but getting Royce to talk was like pulling very stubborn, large teeth. “And you enjoyed it? You hated it? You had no feelings about it whatsoever?”

  “It was fine.”

  Fine. Of course it was fine. Arabella looked away. So much for trying to have a friendly conversation with her staff. Why couldn’t Mother have hired a chatty bodyguard? Why couldn’t friendliness toward the princess be a qualification for any royal servant? At least she wouldn’t be having conversations in her head all the time.

  The Knights won the coin toss, and the game began with the blow of the ref’s whistle. Early in the first quarter, the Knights scored a touchdown, and everyone around her went berserk. She loved the cheering, the slapping together of hands, the sheer camaraderie between the fans. When the Knights scored another touchdown early in the second quarter, she cheered right alongside them but began feeling sorry for the Bootleggers.

  “Come on, Murphy,” she mumbled, her eyes volleying between the starting quarterback and Kyle Young pacing nervously on the sidelines. She watched as the Bootleggers advanced on the 20-yard line. It was fourth and down, Murphy kicked back, and went for a Hail Mary pass. “Come on, come on…”

  The Bootleggers’ wide receiver reached up to catch the pass and tumbled into the end zone.

  “YES!” she screamed, joy filling her heart. Score! At least the game wasn’t a complete shut-out anymore. Suddenly, Arabella noticed the silence all around her. Had she really just jumped out of her seat to cheer for the opposite team? Surrounded by New Yorkers, of all people? “Heh, heh…” She laughed meekly. “Silly me, I know nothing about football.”

  Settling back into disgruntled chatter, the crowd forgave her and continued watching the game, as Royce shook his head. “Way to avoid attention, Your Highness.”

  “Oh, stop. It could happen to anybody,” Arabella said. The truth was, she did know a lot about football. Quite more than anyone in her family or even Salasia, she would venture to say. And now she could say she’d seen the Bootleggers play in person, even score against the New York Knights! Even though the touchdown hadn’t been scored by her favorite player, she was loyal to the team nonetheless.

  As the second quarter neared its close, the Bootleggers gained three more points with a field goal, so now the score was 14-10. The buzzer rang, and halftime began, as many fans got up to stretch their legs and use the restrooms.

  “Wasn’t that amazing?” Arabella asked Royce. “I so wish Kyle Young was playing, but then again, it’s wonderful that Murphy is getting his time to shine.”

  “Yes, wonderful, Your—Arabella. Quite amazing.” He golf-clapped to mock the game, and she rolled her eyes at him.

  Just as a beer vendor walked by, Arabella stopped him and purchased another tall, teetering drink. “Here, have something to drink, Royce. You look parched.” She handed him the plastic cup filled with golden liquid, and although he seemed at first like he was going to refuse, he drank it without comment. To her surprise, he polished it off in a few swallows, causing her to widen her eyes as she watched with amusement.

  “What a delicious drink,” he commented. “What is it called again?”

  She pursed her lips. “Bud Light.”

  “Bud Light,” he repeated, as if it were a fine Chardonnay. Royce’s expression seemed lighter already, and Arabella wondered if he’d ever had a beer before. Clearly, he was a bit of a “lightweight,” as the Americans would say, since his shoulders relaxed after drinking the alcoholic beverage, and the permanent scowl he seemed to wear disappeared from his face.

  “You know what?” Arabella stood and stretched, attracting the admiration of several men around her. “I’d like to purchase some souvenirs. And perhaps more Bud Lights?” She winked at Royce.

  “As you wish, milady.” Royce wavered to his feet and followed Arabella out of the row. He wasn’t a terrible bodyguard—she’d had worse—but Royce could definitely stand to crack a smile or two. If she was lucky, maybe she could lose him in the crowd and really be on her own.

  They arrived at a kiosk tended by a bored attendant. Arabella glanced at the bright red Knights’ items—T-shirts, pennants, bobbleheads, trading cards, and water bottles—wondering if she could possibly persuade Royce to carry one of everything back to the limo. As much as she wished this could be a Bootleggers’ home game, any NFL products would do, even of the New York Knights.

  She picked up a T-shirt with a glittery KNIGHTS logo across the front, holding it up to her chest to see how it would look, peering into a tiny mirror affixed to the souvenir stand. “How do you like this, Royce? Would it look good on me?”

  “Your mother would fire me in an instant.”

  She laughed and was about to put it back on the rack when she heard a voice behind her. “Red’s not quite your color. I’d say bright blue, if I
’m honest.”

  Arabella whirled around, wondering who might be so bold as to tell her what looked good on her or not, ready to chastise the haughty random stranger, when she recognized the handsome face underneath the baseball cap pulled down low. It was none other than Kyle Young, leaning against a post. Even wearing street clothes, he seemed unnaturally larger than life.

  “Is that so?” She forced out a breath. Arabella was sure she could see the delineation of his abdominal muscles through his button-down shirt. He exuded masculinity, from his strong jaw to his muscular legs to—oh God, her mind wandered to places it shouldn’t.

  “Yeah. Red’s an angry color. Blue is more heavenly…cool…sublime.” His eyes flashed in admiration, as his gaze roved over her body from head to toe. “But I guess you’re not a Bootleggers’ fan, so it doesn’t matter. Have a great day.” He started off toward the concession stand when something possessed Arabella to go after him.

  “Your Maj—eh, Arabella? Stay here, please,” Royce ordered.

  She ignored him. That’s Kyle Young! Don’t let him walk away… “No, wait,” she called. “Wait. I’m a Bootleggers’ fan. I swear, I am.”

  “Now, now…it’s not polite to swear, and come on, darlin’, you don’t have to play nice with me. This is your home turf after all.” Kyle Young eyed Royce quickly, as if annoyed by the third party bystander.

  Darlin’? That didn’t sound as affectionate as he’d probably meant it to. And why would he start a conversation with her, then walk away, unless she’d caught his eye? She hurried after him. “It’s not. I mean, I’m not from New York. I had no choice but to wear these colors…” God, she sounded pathetic defending her actions.

  “Arabella? It’s time we get back to the seats now,” Royce warned.

  “Just a minute…” She couldn’t tell Royce who this man was without alerting the man himself that she recognized him, and she didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, no matter how cute he was.

  Kyle Young—the Kyle Young—paused at a garbage can to throw away an empty drink cup then whirled to face her, but was met with Royce’s stern expression. He sighed and moved around Royce. “So…you’re telling me…a beautiful girl—not from New York—accidentally wears the Knights’ colors, even though she’s a Bootleggers’ fan?” He laughed to himself, hands on his hips. “You don’t have to change your groupie tune now that you’ve met me, sweetheart. Stay loyal.” He tapped her nose and walked off.