Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance) (14 page)

Perhaps if I search for Jason.

Jason Powell
nets more results. I scroll down the page. It is not an uncommon name, so there are many unrelated news items, not about him.

It is a long shot, but I try
Jason Powell Ransom Kaye
.

Nothing. The results are even more jumbled.

I am about to give up on this silly idea when I realize I haven't tried an image search. I click the little tab, and the page fills with pictures.

Jason is younger and smiling in the top result. I click his image. It's a yearbook photo, from when he was in high school. It seems he and Ransom were on the same team and played together. Or rather, Jason was the starting quarterback and Ransom was his second stringer, his backup.

There's a picture of the two of them together. Jason's yearbook photo comes up more than once because it is on many pages.

The old news page is brief, and offers me little information, but what I read scours me like a whip nevertheless.

D
elaware State Police
this morning investigated an accident on State Rt. 15 north of Hartly. Lauren Powell (37) and Henry Powell (37) of Dover and a juvenile (name withheld) were driving in a 1999 Plymouth minivan when a 2011 Ford Mustang crossed the center line and struck their vehicle, which overturned and caught fire. The driver of the Mustang was a juvenile and his name has been withheld.

Henry Powell and the juvenile were pronounced dead at the scene. Lauren Powell was transported by helicopter to Christiana Hospital, where she remains in critical condition.

The state police have confirmed that they believe alcohol to be involved.

M
y fingers feel numb
. I try to flex them and gather the feeling back. My hands tremble.

His whole family. Gone.

My phone buzzes on the table. I snatch it.

Y
ou home okay
, Princess?

Y
es
. I am well. Thank you. Are you hurt?

I
'll live
.

S
ee you tomorrow
?

W
ouldn't miss
it for the world.

W
hen
? Where?

Q
uad by the library
. Text me when you're leaving. Early.

I
will
.

I
wonder what "early" means
.

The feeling of dread I felt as I read the newspaper article does not leave me as I brush my teeth and return to my bedroom to brush out my hair. It takes the better part of an hour, and by the end the motions are mechanical as my mind drifts to other places.

J
ason

T
he bus ride
home is a perfect opportunity for some much-needed sleep. I curl up at the back. Chester "Cheesy" Caulfield—no, really—one of the smaller players on the team, sits next to me and gives me plenty of room. I lean away from him, and my head ends up resting on the window.

I could sleep for a week, but then I'd miss Ana. All I can think about is being with her. The loss this afternoon feels like a small thing, inconsequential. They're not going to pull me from the starting quarterback position over one game that we barely lost against the best team in the division. Coach will give us a rant about our best, and that'll be that.

As I drift between waking and the fitful half sleep that comes from your head gently thumping against glass, I get that feeling I always get after a game. The world is made of paper. It's flat and smooth and there's no place for me to grip it.

Ever since I lost my family, it's been like that. I go through motions. I lived with my uncle, but I didn't care about him. I went to school and excelled in my classes because I had nothing better to do. I played football because I was big, and I was good at it because there was nothing much else to occupy my time. I had a couple girlfriends, but fucking them didn't feel any different from using my hand.

I feel like I was born and grew and lived all in darkness, and then suddenly Ana burst in, this living light that warms everything she touches. When I'm with her, even if I can only see her, it brings meaning back into this world. I feel alive in a way that I haven't in years.

Sleep gets me after a while, but only halfway. It's more like a trance than sleep, but dreams come easily. There's a little house, not a huge mansion but not small, a warm, cozy house with a fireplace in the living room and another one in the bedroom, and I come home from a day of work teaching ninth grade English. I’ll need to have my master’s first, but that’s only another year.

It's spring and the sun is shining, birds are chirping. I have a dog, a beagle like I had when I was a kid. He runs up to the back gate and won't let me get in the house without some running and a game of fetch first.

I don't have to get inside. The kids run out and throw themselves at me. Back in the real world, I can feel myself smiling a little. I can't see their faces. They're only ideas, half-formed ideals.

Ana is real though. She stands at the back door, filling the frame with her beauty like an oil painting. In my dream she's cut her hair a little shorter and wears it loose, held back from her eyes with a headband I somehow know I bought her, and she's ravishing in a simple cardigan and mom jeans. I want to rip them off her and give her another baby.

I snort awake for a moment. Jason, what the hell is the matter with you?

Sleep pulls me back. Half the guys on the bus are probably having dreams about fucking their girlfriends or the cheerleader squad. I'm dreaming about eating cinnamon buns Ana baked just for me. She probably doesn't know how to cook, but that doesn't matter. I like the Pillsbury kind. I'm a man of simple tastes.

That's my dream.

I want to go home. With her.

As the bulls pulls up to let us off, I rise, my sleep only halfway satisfying. As I stand up, I feel like I'm walking through a door from a warm place into the cold outside, where the snow wants to swallow me and chill me to the bone.

Once I'm off the bus, Aheahe and Akele quickly fall in around me, along with a cluster of the other guys.

"We're going to the Deerhead," Akele announces.

Part of me wants to break off and head home, but I end up walking with them in silence, hands in my pockets, head down, hood up. It's me, Akele, Aheahe, Izzy, Cheesy, and a couple of the other guys, all offensive players.

When we walk into the bar, the bartender looks up, horrified.

"Not again," he moans.

"It was away game," Akele says.

"Oh thank God. Just get drunk and get out."

Honestly, the bar fight didn't make much of a difference for the decor. The big stuffed deer head is back in place, and you could probably hit some of the furniture in here with a freight train and it wouldn't hurt it. As if summoned by the thought, a big train rumbles right past outside.

I don't know who built a bar next to train tracks—or maybe train tracks next to a bar; this place has been here so long that Edgar Allan Poe supposedly frequented it a few times—but it was an exceptionally bad idea.

After we get our drinks, all cheap beers, we sit down in one corner of the bar, huddled together like there's a play coming up. I sink back against the ever-greasy-feeling booth seat and nurse my drink, without really tasting it. I don't get much of a buzz.

"We're still 5–2," Akele says.

Cheesy fidgets in his seat, swigging a giant twenty-ouncer of Foster's in between stuffing mozzarella sticks in his mouth. He'll go through about fifty of them before the night is over. Hence the name.

A few more people show up, then some more players. They give us nods and we nod back. A few cheerleaders arrive, and the place starts to fill up. The music and the sound of voices gets louder, and the dancing starts. After a while, you'd forget we lost.

I sit in the corner, on my third beer, wondering what I'm doing here. I'm so excited to see Ana again that I can barely think. The alcohol is nothing compared to the high I felt when I saw her at the game. She's more addicting than any drug.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her. I'll never lose the image of her I carry from a few nights ago when she was spread-eagled on her bed, naked and sweating and panting and pleading with me to fuck her. Just the thought makes my cock want to rip through my pants. I shift awkwardly in my seat, swirling half a beer around in its bottle. I'm not walking up to get another with a stiffy.

God, I can't wait. It feels like my skin is going to burst.

A
na

M
orning comes
. I wake before the sun even rises. That gives me plenty of time to get ready. When I told Dee I was going to date Jason, she insisted I buy all sorts of things. I scrub my face and brush my face, and smear lotion on my skin, though I am not sure why I need it. All the scrubs and cleanses take me an hour.

I apply the perfume I chose last, dabbing a little behind my ears and around my neck. Despite all that, I pull on a hoodie and jeans, though I pick the tightest jeans I own, worn and molded to my body from frequent wear. I still have to almost jump up and down to pull them over my butt.

It's his hoodie I put on, letting the long hem fall down to my knees. I slip on my sunglasses, open my window, and climb out onto the porch roof. There I pause, crouched on all fours, and listen. There is no sound but birds and cars on the street. It is Sunday morning, and the town is still sleeping.

Once I'm over the fence and walking down the sidewalk, I text Jason and let him know I'm on my way. It takes me ten minutes to reach the quad at a leisurely pace, but by then I am so anxious that I tremble as I walk.

Jason is sitting on the grass, leaning nonchalantly up against a brick wall. He looks over and rises slowly, then walks toward me as if we are merely passing each other by.

He falls in beside me, hands tucked in his pockets.

"Good morning, Princess."

I smirk under my hood. "You're so reserved this morning."

"If I tackle you onto the grass and kiss you until you forget your name, someone might notice. I like the look, by the way. Very Unabomber."

"Unawhat?"

"Never mind. The hoodie and sunglasses. My hoodie, I believe."

"Yes. I kept it."

"Maybe I want it back."

"You just want an excuse to take it off me."

"Could be. You wearing anything under it?"

"Of course. It's chilly this morning."

"So what's under there?"

"A blouse. A bra."

"What color bra?"

I look at him side-eyed. "Black."

"Lace?"

"Yes."

"Oh fuck that's sexy. Tell me you're wearing a thong."

"I don't own any thongs."

"You need some. You have an ass made for thongs."

I snort. "Did you invite me out to do something, or tell me about my rump all day?"

"I have to admit, I think about your ass a lot."

"I'm sure you do."

He smirks. "So, whatever shall we do today?"

"You had best think of something. I am growing bored with you."

"Liar. Let's get some breakfast."

"What sort of breakfast?"

"I know a place. This way."

We walk away from campus, up Academy Street, until we are almost out of town. I tug my hood down when a municipal bus pulls up. Jason pays the fare for us both, and we take seats in the back row. They're narrow, and my hip bumps up against him as we sit together.

He slips his arms around me, and my head falls on his shoulder. I breathe in his scent from the source.

"I don't know anything about you," he says.

"Then you should ask me."

"What's it like? Your home. This is our stop, by the way."

We exit from the rear door of the bus and walk together at an easy pace. We are outside of town now, and there is open space, and greenery. A goose walks out in front of us and glares at us as if she owns the sidewalk. Jason skirts around her, pushing me behind him as if she will bite me.

He takes my hand as we cross the road. It means nothing to me at first. I hold hands with all my friends—which means Dee, really—when we cross, but this is different. His grip is sure, possessive. I find myself staying close, and I thread my fingers through his and squeeze.

When we arrive at the restaurant, Jason gets us a booth in the corner, and we sit together.

"Buffet," he tells the waitress. "For two."

"Buffet?" I ask.

"Load up." He nods.

The food is in trays set up in another room. I am expected to serve myself. It feels awkward, and I keep looking at him, expecting to commit some faux pas, but no one pays me any mind, except Jason.

By the time we're done, my plate is so heavy with food that I have to carry it with both hands. We sit together again.

"Even at the castle, people don't sit at their own tables," I explain. "There are benches and people sit where they please, where there is room. There is a pub in the old town outside the castle walls with trestle tables and a shelf on the wall with keyed boxes. Patrons bring their own stein for beer and lock it up on the shelves for when they come back."

"What's the castle like? Is it really a castle?"

"It's three hundred years old, but my ancestors began building it a hundred years before that. The Old Keep is smaller and at the foot of the mountain. It is bigger than this building, but not by much, and it is square. The New Keep is on the mountain slope. It is more what you would think of as a castle. It has five towers and a curtain wall thirty feet high, but it is more of a palace than a castle."

"Wow, must be really posh."

I shake my head. "No. It's cold and drafty. The walls are stone with tapestries to hold in the heat from hearths in winter, and it is hot in the summer when the sun heats the stones."