”I don’t care about any of that.”
“You will.”
“I am not Melissa Rathborn!” she cried vehemently. “Don’t compare me to her. From now on, her ghost in our relationship is exorcised.”
“You are one crazy lady,” Nic whispered in bemusement.
“I know it’s not going to be easy with you traveling all the time on your tournaments. But I will work out my engagements in Seirenada so I can spend time with you.”
His heart had long been convinced she was his, but his mind took more persuading.
“I’m even happy to be called a WAG,” she said in a small voice.
“A wag?” What the hell? She wanted to be a comedian?
“It stands for Wives and Girlfriends of athletes,” she explained sheepishly. “They hang out at the games, follow their boyfriends around, and cheer for them all the time.”
Oh, that WAG. He chuckled weakly, not wanting to pull on his bruised ribs. “You’ll be the hottest WAG of all time, rojita.”
She blushed, her color competing with the titian strands that had escaped her ponytail. “You better get better really, really soon, Señor Fernandez. I think I’ll make a very good WAG.” She linked her hand with his.
“You’re going to cheer for me, win or lose?” Nic felt the tears pricking his eyes.
“I’m going to cheer for you, period.” Her cat eyes were brimming with tears, too. “I might be even convinced to wear a cheerleader outfit with the right kind of persuasion,” the minx teased.
Images of Lexie in a short skirt and tight top, her hair in pigtails bouncing around, executing somersaults and splits, made him hard and tight again. He groaned. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s wrong?” Her eyes scanned his body in a frantic search and skittered to a stop on the exact spot that was giving him the utmost trouble. “Oh,” she uttered blankly, then her eyes grew wide. “Oh!” she exclaimed with more feeling.
Nic gave a pained laugh at the embarrassed expression on her face.
“Is it very uncomfortable?”
“Not really,” he lied.
She looked at him steadily, but Nic could see the wheels turning in her mind. “The nurse said we can’t have you getting too excited,” she wondered out loud, “but is there anything,” she cleared her throat, “I could do to help?” She glanced again at the body part in question. “Maybe kissing it to make it better?”
Nic grew even harder and bigger than was possible. “I’m fine,” he ground out, sounding like he was being strangled.
“Hhmm,” she said, rising from the chair and heading towards the door. She grasped the doorknob and locked it with a firm, metallic click. She then stalked towards him with a determined glint in her hazel eyes. “This may hurt a little, but it will help you relax after.”
There was a rustle of sheets and a draft of air on his thighs. “Lexie, I don’t think it’s a good idea−gah!” was all he could articulate as her lips descended on him and he was enveloped by her warm, moist mouth. Several expletives and ragged breathing was all he could manage as he raked his good hand through her hair while she gave him pleasure. Nearing his peak, he cupped her jaw to meet his eyes. The love shining in them broke his control, and he came with such force he swore he blacked out for a few seconds.
She cleaned him up, kissed him on the forehead, and whispered, “How was it?”
He gave her a sated, sleepy smile. “Now it’s all better. Te quiero mucho”
“Yes, Nic. From this day on, I know it will all be better.” She patted him gently on the cheek. “Rest now, my love. Te quiero mucho. “
He had drifted off to sleep even before she had finished her sentence.
Epilogue
The 40,000-strong crowd that attended the Argentine Open in Palermo cheered wildly when the commentator announced the name of the player streaking across the field for the pre-match line-up roll call. Clad in a Black Cavalier jersey with the number 3 emblazoned on it, he waved his mallet to acknowledge the fans as he took his place beside his team. Argentina’s--and in all likelihood the world’s−greatest polo player was back.
There was an almost palpable excitement in the stands. The circus-like and festive atmosphere in and out of the stadium never got old. Players and horses alike were subjected to this collective, energizing rush.
“Nervous?” A dark blond eyebrow belonging to player number two coolly rose in query.
As hell, Nic thought, but not for the reason the man beside him suspected. He just flashed his arrogant teammate and new patron his most superior stare.
Another deafening cheer erupted in the stadium and prevented him from making a stinging comeback. Craning his neck, he searched for the source of the crowd’s adulation.
Player number two cocked his head imperially at the direction of the giant screen across the field. “Your number one fan is cheering for you,” Walkden said, mildly amused.
And though he wanted to play it cool in front of the arrogant Duke, an involuntary grin escaped his lips as he caught sight of the hottest WAG in the whole tournament, fuck, even the whole universe, up on the VIP stands, wearing a sea green dress, wildly applauding. Realizing she was on the screen, she gave a small, self-conscious start of surprise but recovered beautifully by smiling and waving merrily. She then blew a kiss in the general direction of the Black Cavalier line-up, and a hearty roar of approval boomed from the predominantly romantic Argentine crowd.
Nic’s heart almost burst with fierce, intense pride and wonder at the miracle of having found this woman. Throughout the long recovery process, she had unwaveringly stuck by his side and warded off the depression that hovered like a black thundercloud, ready to dump buckets of regret, missed opportunities, and blame on his head.
She had stayed in Los Angeles with him and helped him out during the most difficult weeks following the surgery when he had to be helped even with some of his daily activities. Unused to being idle, Nic spent the time in Los Angeles networking and had met with a designer who wanted to collaborate with him as a consultant to an equestrian-inspired collection featuring clothes, footwear and gear, that aside from being fashionable and of high-quality was also wearable. Nic and Princess Charlotte of Monaco would be the faces of the campaign.
And as a big surprise, he received a call from his father, who thankfully had been kept in the dark for the real reason behind his injuries. As a former polo player, his father received the news with concern but not any overt anxiety. His mother, however, was more difficult to convince and had only been prevented from flying over when Lexie had commandeered the phone and sweetly reassured her she was taking care of her son. His mother had been won over and Nic showed Lexie later, one-armed or not, he could take care of her in other ways, too.
“A package has arrived for you at the estancia,” his father had told him, bemused.
“Package?”
“The papers say his name is Pygmalion.”
There was stunned silence. Nic had asked Lexie if she had anything to do with it, and the equally puzzled look on her face was proof of her ignorance. He called the Prince, who was almost curt in his dismissal of his thanks as with any other expression of emotions.
Due to the news of the addition of the famous Pygmalion in his breeding farm, an Arabian sheikh had contacted him to discuss the possibility of a partnership in cloning his famous champion polo ponies. Cloning polo ponies would lessen the cost of playing the game since the clones could be stabled in every country the player chose to play his tournaments.
Butler was currently on trial for corporate espionage against another mining company, and Tansy had divorced him at the first whiff of scandal. The alledramite contract had long ago been awarded to another American mining company after a thorough investigation from the Council of Seirenada.
The fight was brutal against the reigning champion of the Palermo Open, Team Estrella del Sur, but Nic was a man possessed. He was fearless and driven. In the 26-goal championship match played by the be
st amongst the world, Nicolas Fernandez had reclaimed his title as the reigning king of the game. And of course, he was showing off to the woman he loved.
“Bloody show-off,” Walkden said between sips of water during the half-time break, but there was really no rancor in his tone. He was lounging on a folding chair inside the Black Cavalier tent, looking for all the world like the lord of the manor surveying the peasants who were stomping the divots on his orders.
Nic looked at the smug, self-satisfied countenance of the Duke and was glad Lexie had never harbored romantic feelings towards the man. “I just hope I’ll be around to see it,” Nic said.
“See what, mate?”
“You, unseated from your high horse,” Nic added,”by a woman.”
The Duke just raised his eyebrows. “That will be the bloody day.”
Blood was drawn as the match reached the 7th chukker. A player from Team Estrella del Sur was thrown off as a mallet from one of the Black Cavalier players accidentally struck the head of his horse. The final score ended at 19−17 in favor of Nic’s team.
The press had descended on the team immediately after the game, and there had been no opportunity for Nic to be with Lexie. He was reassured that she was safe by the knowledge of the ever-present bodyguards, and he knew his parents would also be looking after her. He would see her in a few moments.
The awarding ceremony started after fifteen minutes, and the Black Cavalier team was called on stage. A visiting VIP was given the honor of awarding the Palermo Cup.
As the VIP handed him his miniature silver cup, congratulated him on a job well done, and shook his hand, Nic said in a tone he didn’t bother to subdue, ”Have we met, Your Highness?”
Chuckles erupted from the other team members who were near enough to have heard the question.
Laughing hazel cat eyes looked up at him from beneath auburn lashes. “I believe we have, Mr. Fernandez,” the minx replied cheekily, but there was a blush on her cheeks and the brightest of stars in her eyes. She stood on her toes, reached up, and drew his head down so that their lips could meet. Flash bulbs popped in frenzy and people started clapping, whistling, and cheering. But Nic and Lexie didn’t register any of it. In each other’s arms, they had found love and they were home. It was all that ever really mattered.
THE END
About the Author
Suzette de Borja hasn’t recovered from the childhood trauma of not qualifying for the spelling bee quiz during a school contest. You can often find her with a handheld gadget or a laptop trying not to be socially (media) awkward on the Internet. She lives in an urban jungle in Manila with her supportive husband and daughter, who remains convinced she is half-girl, half-unicorn.
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The Princess Finds Her Match Page 17