by Pippa Grant
“Told you I was on my way.”
Joey’s here. Here. She’s going to fix everything. Like she always does. An overwhelming sense of relief crashes with my indignation. “I have everything under control.” Uh-oh. Crankypants alert. “I can handle this.”
“And I miss you. If you’re not coming down, I’m coming up.”
Shit damn fuck hell. “No. Stay. I’m on my way. Pie sounds amazing.”
I put on my rainbow platform shoes, because courage, and also I’m saving the mermaid boots for that time when maybe Manning and I get to use them because I’m apparently still capable of optimism even in the face of shoving my finger up his brother’s nose.
I act like I have dignity as I sweep through the penthouse on my way to the elevator. Everyone’s staring at me—Willow, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are wide, her mother, the American queen of Stölland, whose lips are parted and cheeks almost as flushed as her daughter’s, King Tor, who looks as though he’s been forced to swallow a royal proclamation, various members of the royal entourage who all have the saw my parents naked look, and Prince Colden.
Prince Colden, who’s standing over the hill of cookies on a platter leftover from last night’s party, holding one particular very familiar cookie as he inspects it front and back.
“Put that away,” Willow hisses at him, though she’s still gaping at me.
Colden doesn’t.
His blue eyes land on me. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown either. “Miss Diamonte, was it?”
A flush creeps over my entire body. “That’s right.”
He uses the Cookie of Shame to point at the platter mounded with my baked goods. “You’re responsible for these?”
I will not stammer. I will not stammer. I will not stammer. “Ares invited me to bake cookies, yes. So I baked a lot of cookies.”
If King Tor’s eyebrows get any lower, they’ll devour his eyeballs and half his nose as well.
“But I don’t know if any of the guests last night brought some too,” I add.
And now I sound like a total country hick, because who brings food to a party hosted by a prince? Potlucks might be the thing in Goat’s Tit, but it was pretty clear last night that showing up with a bundt cake or peach cobbler would’ve been weird. And probably broken some unspoken social rules.
“Please put that away,” Willow repeats.
Colden continues to turn the Dickookie over in his hand. “You baked this one too?”
“Colden,” Queen Sylvie scolds.
I lift my chin. “Do I look like the kind of baker who would be responsible for something like that?”
His gaze briefly drops to my chest, and I belatedly remember I’m wearing another Goat’s Tit T-shirt.
This one advertising Tammy’s auto shop.
Nancy almost had a stroke when Tammy renamed Goat’s Tit Tire and Oil to Boob & Lube, but she’s gotten way more business from people all across the county coming to check out her skills with an air wrench.
Seriously, she could be in a NASCAR pit crew.
And I should’ve taken that time in my closet to change my freaking shirt.
Colden turns the cookie once more—the dick on that one is fairly prize-worthy when compared to some of the other photos I get orders for—and then shrugs and bites into it.
Willow gasps.
Sylvie winces.
King Tor rubs his thumb and fingers into his eyeballs while the staff pretend they’re not watching in abject horror.
Colden’s dark brows lift in appreciation. “Delightful cookie,” he declares when he swallows. “Well done, if it was you.”
“Oh my god,” Willow whispers.
King Tor clears his throat.
Sylvie laughs. It’s an embarrassed laugh, but her eyes are sparkling. “Not the same as eating a sheep, is it?”
“Mom!” Willow gasps.
Colden winks at the queen. “Not nearly, madam. Care for a nibble? It’s remarkably delightful.”
I bite my tongue to keep from blurting out of course it is.
Because I don’t make crappy cookies.
“Enjoy the cookies,” I say instead.
I somehow manage to hold my head high, but not too high, as I finish my trek to the elevator.
I have no idea how my Dickookies ended up in Manning’s kitchen, but they did.
And now his entire family knows.
It could’ve been worse. Better would be if I didn’t have to worry about it at all. But I’m a small-town dyslexic girl who still struggles sometimes. I’m lucky enough to live in a place where I can own my own business—there’s no way that pineapple upside-down cake would’ve worked as a loan application in a city like Copper Valley—and to have found a way to make some extra money on the side.
I don’t need to apologize for anything to these people.
And it bothers the shit out of me that I feel like I should anyway.
I’m really not princess material. And I thought I was okay with that.
Turns out, I’m not okay with it.
I’m not okay with it at all.
30
Manning
When I take the ice with the Thrusters, there’s a new vibe in the arena. I love the roar of the crowd, the music, the booming announcer voice. I feed off it, whether the crowd is friendly or hostile, because either way, I have something to prove, and I’m damn fucking good at proving I belong on the ice no matter the city or arena.
Tonight, though, there’s an added weight.
I’m generally playing for myself, my team, and my team’s fans.
Tonight, I’m playing for my entire family and country.
My father, brother, stepmother, stepsister, Elin, and a half-dozen royal guards are all seated directly behind the bench. We’re separated by plexiglass, and they know my focus will be on the ice, not on them, but I still feel them.
I also feel the one person not with them.
Gracie.
I’ve not seen her since early afternoon. Nor have I heard from her, though Viktor filled me in on her departure, and Ares sent a text that included a roaring lion, which I haven’t translated yet—I’m far better with his grunting than his texting—but it was clearly a text of doom.
“Bro.” Lavoie leans into me on the bench as we wait for the puck drop, which my father has agreed to do after the playing of Stölland’s national anthem. “Why’s the monkey chick sitting with King Dad?”
“Long story.”
“I thought that was a joke about you being engaged to her.”
I smile. Because I bloody always smile. “Doing Boston’s job for them tonight?”
He grins back, except his grin looks like he means it. “You don’t play better when you’re pissed?”
“Nothing to be pissed about.”
“So if you’re marrying monkey-chick, and Ares isn’t into Gracie, you mind if I—”
“Game’s over in two hours, and you look so much better with two black eyes.”
The whistle blows, and I pile out onto the ice with the first string. Lavoie’s grinning while he pulls down his face mask.
He’s right though.
I might be smiling, but I’m a bloody terror when I’m pissed.
Which means I end up in the penalty box twice in the first period.
Coach is eyeballing me like the bench is in my near future, since Boston goes up three-one on us while I’m in the sin bin.
“Problem?” he asks me during intermission as we’re walking back to the dressing room for the break between periods.
I grin. Of bloody course I do. “Not at all, Coach. Family makes the Viking come out.”
“Channel it to putting the biscuit in the basket instead of your stick in Boston’s guts.”
We strip out of our jerseys and pads and grab water bottles. Ares sits beside me while we cool off for a minute.
“Head in the game,” he says.
Not a question.
An order.
“Got it,” I tell him.
He grunts, grabs his phone, and flips it so I can see a picture. “Do it for her.”
My heart stutters, then swells until my entire chest is pulsing.
It’s a picture on the string of text messages between Zeus and Ares. Gracie’s here. Nosebleed section, I gather from the pennant on the wall behind her and Joey.
“For the one who’s going to try to murder me in my sleep, or the one who’s making me lose sleep?” I ask Ares.
He grins. “Read.”
I glance at the message from Zeus below the picture.
Nice goal. Tell the royal pucker to let Kavanaugh do his job and not to fuck up your winning streak.
I eyeball Kavanaugh, our enforcer, across the dressing room. He tips a salute my way as he downs a bottle of Gatorade.
Could mean nice punch—was a bloody good punch, and the Boston fucker deserved it for insulting Willow—or it could mean I got your back, you bloody moron. You score and let me do the fighting. Probably both.
“Zeus is off tonight?” I ask Ares.
“West coast tour.”
“Ah. Nice of Joey to come watch you play.”
Yep, there’s that you’re a dumbass look.
“What do you do when you know there’s bad news on the way?” I ask him.
He grunts again but doesn’t stop there. “Fuck bad news. Eat it.”
Rather insightful. I’ll have to ponder that later. I nod to his phone and Zeus’s message. “’Twas an impressive goal. You’re fucking unstoppable, aren’t you?”
He nods and tosses his phone back in his locker.
I take a glance at my own phone.
Nothing.
Coach walks in for our intermission pep talk and dressing down, and I put all my faculties back on the game at hand. We’re down by two, and I’m not going to bloody well lose while Gracie and my entire family are watching.
31
Gracie
Tonight’s game is only the second I’ve ever seen in person, but I’ve watched so many on cable or streamed them online since the first time I came to watch Manning play that tonight’s game feels different.
And not just because there’s a big deal made over having the king of Stölland sitting in the stands watching his son play.
“How do you deal with this?” I ask Joey after wincing when one of those bastards from Boston body-slams Manning into the plexiglass surrounding the rink. Of course, he comes away smiling, but that’s not his I’m so happy to see you smile or his That was fun, let’s do it again smile or even his I’ll kill you for that later smile.
It was more like a That bloody hurt but I’m going to smile through the pain because I’m a man who likes sports that involve pain and I can handle more pain than you can smile.
Which is way more of a turn-on than it should be, but apparently I have a thing for the bloodthirsty part of his Viking heritage.
“You remember how there are some things we’ve agreed to not talk about?” Joey says.
I wrinkle my nose, because now I’m picturing Joey kissing Zeus’s booboos, and while I’m happy for her, ew.
Not that Zeus is a bad guy. He’s actually one of the nicest guys I know, but like Joey, he hides it under a few layers of Big tough men don’t have feelings.
I really don’t understand how men can possibly rule so much of the world. They’re such Neanderthals. Yet it’s impossible to not be enthralled at the game. If I got out there on the ice, I’d fall flat on my ass. But there’s Manning and Ares and the rest of the Thrusters zipping across it as though their feet have wings, all while dodging Boston’s players and handling a tiny puck that they’re trying to get into a goal. It’s all so captivating.
I’m chewing on my fingernails as the clock ticks down the final seconds of the game, and I’m not a fingernail chewer.
Usually.
Unfortunately, all the stress of the game—especially the part where it’s tied five-five—is also giving me the hiccups.
Again.
And Mink Arena security wouldn’t let me bring in that tub of peanut butter from Manning’s place. Even Joey’s Jedi mind tricks didn’t work to convince them.
I still can’t make any sense of who’s playing what positions and what sort of strategy either team is using. The players are all blurs of maroon or black, flying over the ice, chasing a puck so small I can barely see it from our seats. “In case they totally blow it and I forget to say it later, thank you for the tickets. This has been really fun.”
She squeezes my hand, which is something she’s rarely done in public. See again, men don’t have feelings.
Which is really utter horseshit. All the best men have feelings.
From this high up, we can only see the players’ faces when they’re flashed over the gigantic screens on the scoreboard. But I’m tracking Manning and Ares by their posture as well as their numbers, and the two of them, along with Duncan Lavoie, have been battling the Boston defenders to get close to the goal for the last minute. Every time Boston hits the puck toward the center line, one of the three of them swoop in and drive it back toward the goal.
This final minute feels like it’s lasting six hours.
My knees are bouncing. My hiccups are coming faster, and something isn’t sitting right in my belly. Possibly the popcorn.
The morning sickness so far has stuck to mornings, but it seems determined to make me miserable at the moment.
Because I refuse to admit this could be nerves. About the royal family at Manning’s penthouse. About sitting here feeling like I’m spying on his hockey life. About wondering if last night in his Lego room actually meant something to him, or if I’ve become easy by being there for him when I’m supposed to remember my purpose isn’t for me, but for my baby to have the opportunity to know both her parents.
Joey has a hotel room for the night. I could stay with her. Escape the weird tension at Manning’s place. Sit up late giggling over boys—no, I mean sit up late eating protein bars and debating which planet we’d want to visit first if we could make it there and back in a single year, because that’s really what happens on a girls’ night with Joey, unless Ten Things I Hate About You is on TV.
Or I can woman up and push past feeling like an ignorant, dirty-minded country bumpkin-slash-hockey groupie when I’m surrounded by all the testosterone and royal pedigree back at Manning’s place.
All that royal pedigree doesn’t feel like it fits him at all.
He’s not posh. Sure, his clothes are fancy, and he has that sexy as sin accent, but he’s more. He’s fun and thoughtful and way more attentive than he gets credit for and—ohmydog, he’s scoring. Ares has passed him the puck right by the net and he’s scoring!
I shoot out of my seat, fists in the air, screaming as the puck disappears between the goalie’s legs half a second before the buzzer sounds. Lights flash all around the arena, the crowd is screaming along with me, confetti billows out of somewhere behind us, and on the ice, Manning disappears in a pile of teammates clapping him on the helmet and swallowing him in one of those team hugs.
It might just be a hockey game, but it’s a victory.
And I’ll take every single victory we can get.
I decline a late dinner with Joey, who’s promised Ares four hamburgers tonight, partly because I’m tired, and partly because I’d rather celebrate with Manning.
He might be busy with his family. Or he might be busy with interviews or team meetings or whatever physical therapy or training his coaches think he needs after the game.
Or he might escape it all and sneak into my bedroom and lock the door and do delicious things to my body while making plans for the two of us to run away together to some obscure tropical island without television, radio, or internet, because at the moment, faking his death is seeming like a better way of getting him out of his betrothal.
But I have this weird sensation in the pit of my stomach telling me that faking his death would cause more problems for his family, and while his family isn’t at the top of
my favorite people list, they are half the ruling force—along with the Parliament—of an entire nation.
When they suffer, I imagine their people suffer too.
Look at all the joy clearly visible on everyone’s faces when the king married Sylvie Honeycutt.
I doubt the people would be thrilled about a royal wedding if they knew it would make both Manning and Elin miserable, but then, I doubt the majority of the world will ever know they’ll be miserable, because it’s their duty to look happy no matter what.
And isn’t the thrill of a wedding more exciting than the reality of marriage? Back home, Nancy talks about George never helping with the dishes and leaving his dirty socks in the living room. Ginny Jo’s forever complaining that her husband has left the toilet seat up or not replaced the toilet paper. Which makes me wonder if while weddings are all joy and celebration and optimism, marriage is smelly bathrooms and a larger chore list.
It’s after eleven when I stumble into the bedroom I’m sharing with Ares. I flop onto the bed, planning on taking just a minute off my feet before brushing my teeth and changing into sweats and a T-shirt, but the next thing I know, the lights are off, there’s a mountain breathing softly beside me, a monkey staring at me, and the clock on the bedside table reads 3:32 AM.
Also?
I’m hungry. And if I don’t eat when I’m hungry, the morning sickness will only be worse.
I pad down the hall in my jeans and the Thrusters hoodie I got for the game last night, along with my mismatched poomoji and unicorn socks, because they make me happy and I don’t care if they’re not royal family approved. In fact, I hope they aren’t. I hope my socks would shock and appall the royals just as much as my Dickookies.
Who are they to judge my life? I didn’t ask for their approval. Or their acceptance. I’m not here for anything other than helping Manning get out of the royal disaster they got him into.
Who does that to the people they love?
I’m getting myself worked up with righteous—and probably unnecessary—indignation when I realize the lights are on in the kitchen.
Manning’s up.