Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance) (8 page)

We talk about the book. He asks me about the characters, but not what I expect—who they are, where they came from, facts. He asks how I feel about them, how I feel about Gatsby, whether I think he is good or bad or something in between. I have not made up my mind yet. I don't like Daisy. I think she is vapid and superficial, and I do not know what to make of Nick at all, except it seems pathetic to me that he clings to these people who clearly look down upon him. Jason points out that Gatsby is not one of them either, and I think on that.

"You don't have royalty in America," I observe. "No princesses."

"No, not unless we borrow them from remote Scandinavian islands full of warrior women."

I sit up and jab his arm with my fist. He grins at me, and I start to say something, but my mouth closes. I feel warm all over. My hand has taken on a life of its own and is stroking Jason's arm. I yank it back like I was touching a hot stove and feel myself turn even redder. My clothes suddenly feel too hot and tight around my neck.

"It's late. Almost nine. Can I walk you back?"

"I have armed guards."

"Her Grace's royal person should have the finest protection. Let me walk with you."

I take in a deep breath. It's like sucking ice into my lungs. I hate what I have to say.

"Listen to me, please." I grip his arm in both hands. "I can't date you. I can't be involved with you."

"You want to."

"No. I don't," I lie.

"You're lying to me, Princess. That's not very nice. I thought I was helpful tonight."

"You were, but you have to understand—"

"I know. I'm not good enough. I should have figured."

"No," I blurt out. "No that's not true."

"Then what is true, Princess?"

I swallow, hard. "I have to marry someone else."

"Who?"

I think of Mortimer and my stomach sours.

He blinks. "What, like… arranged?"

The way he says it makes its sounds so barbaric and primitive.

"Yes," I say in a very tiny voice. "Don't you know who I am?"

He looks at me warmly and rests his hand on my shoulder. It curves along to rest on my neck, and his other hand grips mine, lightly squeezing my fingers.

"The prettiest girl in the world."

"I'm a princess. Someday I'm going to be queen. I'm the heir."

"So?"

"So there are laws…."

"I get it," he says, coldly. "Some shitkicker isn't good enough to be king."

I swallow, hard. I feel sick, like I ate something rotten.

"No, please listen. You are not a… shitkicker," I don't know what that word means. "You are a very fine man but…."

"But what? I'm not talking about marriage anyway. I'd rather go on a real date before I propose to you."

"I'd like that, but you have to understand that I can't."

He seizes me by the shoulders.

"Look at me. Look at me. Now."

I swallow to try and wet my dry throat, but I can't. I look him in the eye.

"Don't take your eyes off me. Look me right in the eye and tell me straight up. Tell me if you want me to leave you alone. I will. I'll never bother you again."

My mouth works. I want to tell him, I need to tell him. If he chases me it will only break him. He can't catch me.

I can't. The words won't come out. They stick in my throat and die there, and other words scream at me to be said.

"If you want to be with me and some goddamn rule is the only thing stopping it, then I'm not going to give up. I want you."

"Me?" I squeak.

"You. Not the princess. You. Anastasia."

I shake loose of his hands. "You don't know me."

"I want to. Don't you want to know me?"

I look at him. Study him. He's the most handsome man I've ever seen, and so strong, such power in his arms and hands and yet so gentle. I liked it when I lay on his shoulder and he told me stories. I'd like to know more. I've never felt what I feel now about anyone.

My eyes burn.

"I can't. I have to go."

"Ana."

I gather my things quickly, without thinking, making a mess of my carefully organized bag.

"Ana!"

I throw the door open and hurry out. Thorlief and Bjorn let me get halfway to the elevator before they notice and run to catch up with me.

"Your Grace?" Bjorn asks.

"I do not wish to speak."

He goes silent. Bjorn never says anything anyway. The two of them flank me in the elevator, and I feel their presence like stones about to crash down on my head. I need air. I almost run outside, and drink the cool night in deep gasps, shaking.

I shoulder my bag, and I run. Hard. I make it back to the house in under seven minutes of nonstop, all-out running, slowing only when I reach the front steps. I twist the key in the lock and run upstairs. I neither know nor care if the guards kept up with me. I don't stop until I'm curled on my bed.

A solid five minutes later, there is a knock on the door.

"Princess?" Thorlief asks.

"Go away."

He swings the door open and steps inside anyway. I sit up as he closes it behind him, walks over, and sits on my bed.

Through tear-blurred vision, I look at my longest-serving bodyguard. He's followed me everywhere since I was five. I'm so used to him, I barely notice him. When Mother took him into our service, he was already a grizzled veteran of wars. Now he is older. There is more silver in his hair than blond, and even more in his beard. His stomach has softened, but his massive shoulders have grown no narrower.

"Princess, what hurts you so? Was it the boy? Tell me."

I ignore his impertinence. I try to answer but can only snuff and sniff.

"Tell me when you are ready."

I snatch a tissue from the box by the bed and tear it into shreds blowing my nose and swiping at my eyes. My whole body quivers with effort. I will myself not to weep but tears leak out anyway, burning hot as they slide down my cheeks and itch along my chin.

"He didn't hurt me. That's the problem, Thorlief."

"You have feelings for him."

"I don't know," I whimper. "I want to try. I want…."

I don't know what I want. I can't finish that sentence.

"Princess. I would only wish to see you spared this pain. You should let him go."

I sniff into the tissue. "I can't. I can't stop thinking about him."

"Your mother will never allow it."

I nod and dry my tears on another tissue. "You are right."

"Your mother, also, is not here."

I look up.

"The boy reminds me of myself at that age. That is why I want him to stay away from you."

I smile, but sadly.

"It would only hurt," I sigh. "What if I fell in love with him, but I can never keep him?"

"Surrendering love is a very great pain. Yet there is another, with a deeper sting."

"What is that?"

"Never knowing what might have been."

He looks at something far distant, across the room, beyond the wall. Perhaps beyond the sea, beyond the stars. There is more emotion on his face now than I have ever seen.

"What was her name?"

"It is better that I do not tell you."

"Is she still…?"

"Yes."

"She married someone else?"

"Yes. She has many children. It does not matter. Princess…."

"I have to do my duty. I belong to my people, not myself. A queen never belongs to herself."

"You will not be queen for many years."

"So I hope, but queen I will be, in the end. No matter what. I must think of my home and my people. I must…."

The words die, and I fold my arms around myself.

"I need to rest. I have an early day tomorrow."

"I will see that you are not disturbed, Your Grace. Good night."

"Thorlief. Thank you."

He nods before he pulls the door shut. I fall back on the bed, curl up, and lie on my side. Jason's sweatshirt is still laid out on the bed. I reach out to grab it and throw it away.

Instead I grasp the soft, threadbare fabric in my fingers. I pull it close and breathe in. His scent is familiar now. This morning comes flooding back to my mind, and I can feel him under me, his muscles under my hands, his hips between my legs, his hands on my chest. Only, it is naked flesh I feel under my hands, and there is nothing between his palms and my breasts, and his hardness fills the gripping, throbbing need between my legs.

Stop it, stop it, stop it, I tell myself, but I can't.

I have to.

I can't.

When I finally fall asleep, in my clothes, it seems I have my eyes closed for mere minutes before I hear my phone bleating. Thinking it's the alarm, I press the button to silence it, but it continues to vibrate in my hand.

I sit up and glance at the clock. It's seven thirty in the morning, fifteen minutes ahead of my alarm. I'll never get back to sleep now, and I have a class at nine.

It's a video call from Mother.

When the app opens, her face fills the screen. She sits back and angrily holds up a
Royal Exposé
.

This time I am not confined to the upper corner of the page. The front page is dominated by my picture—more precisely, our picture. Someone was standing at just the right angle to capture the image of Jason as I straddled him, just as we fell and he tried to catch me. In the picture I'm still gripping his shoulders with my hands and he's still cupping my breasts in his hands.

From this angle the photographer didn't capture the look of shock on my face, only the grin on his. Nor did they capture me slapping him a moment later.

The headline screams,
ICE CREAM? PRINCESS ANA'S SHOCKING PUBLIC MAKEOUT SESSION
.

I groan. Loudly.

"Ana!" Mother snarls.

Oh. Lovely.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Mother—"

"Don't 'mother' me, young lady. What possessed you to act like some drunken tart in public with a… a
football player
?" Her voice drips with contempt.

My mouth works silently. I should make some excuse. Instead I sit up straighter.

"I tripped and he caught me. It's not my fault some perverted photographer made it into something it is not."

She scowls. "I will not have you dating some American manslut, do you hear me? You will not ruin yourself."

"I have to go to class soon."

"This is not over, Anastasia. Stay away from that boy."

"Yes, Mother," I sigh.

No sooner do I hang up than my phone chirps for another video call. I answer without thinking, expecting to hear another lecture from Mother. Rarely does she let me have the last word.

It's not her, it's Mortimer.

Mortimer Andrew Karl Victor de Kupp, to be exact. Five years my senior, Mortimer is the eldest son of the de Kupp family, who descend from a brother of the royal family who started his own line some six hundred years ago. That makes him my cousin many, many times removed.

He's been trying to bed me since I was sixteen.

"Ah, my future bride!"

He is not hideous. In fact, he's quiet gorgeous. I'm sure that's helped him bed half the kingdom. Despite his strong chin and thick, dark hair and sharp, gray eyes, I simply can't stand him. It's his eyes that I can't stand. Even on a video call on my phone, they go straight to my chest and try to get a glimpse down my top.

"What do you want?"

He holds up that damned tabloid.

"I learn you are unfaithful to me, and you ask what I want. I am wounded, my lovely Ana. Perhaps I should fly to America and challenge this ape to a duel."

"I can't be unfaithful to you; there is nothing between us."

"Good, I wouldn't want anything to get in the way."

The words twist out of his lips and I shudder, thinking of the first time we met, when he groped me during a formal dance. The thought of his hand on my backside fills me with revulsion.

"If you ever lay a hand on me, you'll lose it," I warn him.

"That's no way to talk to your husband-to-be."

I sneer at him. "I'd rather marry a codfish than marry you. The codfish would be better in bed."

"Oh my princess, you have no idea. Our wedding night will be a garden of sensual delights. I'll make you—"

"Go fuck a narwhal and die."

I cut off the call and block him. He'll figure out a way around it, I'm sure. I'm not surprised he buys that damnable tabloid rag. He probably clips out all the pictures of me and hangs them in his room. I vividly recall the ball Mother held before I came to America. Mortimer was in the upper gallery of the Great Hall, with one of the servants kneeling and sucking on him. He waved to me, the pig. My innards twist in revulsion at the thought.

Ugh. I have to go to class.

J
ason

A
fter Anastasia leaves
, the scent of her hangs in the air like a half-forgotten memory. I touch the spot on the couch where she was sitting curled up against me as we read. It's still warm. The sadness in her beautiful eyes burns in my chest like a knife thrust between my ribs.

Going home is like a dream. I am aware of my actions. I get up. I pack my shit. I walk. I enter the house I share with the Thunder Brothers. I sit in the living room. I stare at the fireplace. I watch day fade fully into night. I do all these things but none of them register. When Akele speaks to me, it's like I've snapped awake from a fitful sleep.

"Jason?" he says, his voice heavy with concern. "Whatsamatter, bro?"

I scowl at him and open my mouth to say something. A jab, a comment, a warning to stay out of it, a plain statement that it's not his business.

Nothing comes out. He sits down on the couch opposite me and puts his huge feet on the coffee table, slightly bowing the oaken top. He leans back, spreads his arms, and his huge wingspan puts his fingertips at either end of the couch cushions.

"Talk when you wanna."

"I don't wanna."

"
Wanna
, wanna."

He doesn't say a word for the next fifteen minutes.

"I talked Anastasia into studying with me. We hung out in the library until about nine. Then I came back here."

"I was born," Akele says, "and I grew up."

"Don't quote books at me."

"I'm ready to listen to the real story. Or not. Up to you."

I scrub my hands over my head and rock in the seat. Nervous energy tightens in my legs. I want to kick something, run, move, anything. Akele is the picture of Zen master calm, waiting.

So I tell him what happened. Slowly, leaving nothing out. Maybe I spend too much time describing her eyes. I don't know.

When I finish he nods and says nothing for a good fifteen minutes. Then he stands, fetches two tall cups of Hawaiian Punch, and offers me one as he resumes his seat.

"I can't believe you drink this shit."

"The irony amuses me."

"Right. Say what you're going to say."

"She don't want you to be hurt."

"I don't need her to protect me."

"Somebody has to. You do a bad job of protecting yourself."

I glare at him. "So that's it, then? Let it go?"

"I can't tell you what to do." He sips the sickly sweet "juice" and takes on a serene, sage expression. "I see that you have before you two choices. You have many options, but only two choices. You can give up or you can try. One of those choices, you'll regret for the rest of your days. Only you know which one that is."

"How do I know?"

He tips his head back, narrows his eyes, and furrows his brows. In a gravelly voice he says, "Only what you take with you."

I glare at him. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I know. Just drink the Hawaiian Punch and go to sleep, cousin. When you rise in the morning, your heart will be true, and you will know what you must do."

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Akele."

I stick the half-empty glass of punch in the fridge and trudge up the stairs. I shove my pants off and throw my jacket aside and sprawl on the bed.

I toss. I turn. I sleep a little, wake, dream of Ana and wake up sweaty with a hard-on the size of the Empire State Building. Even thinking about her is different. I can't close my eyes without seeing hers, so inviting and sharp and sad, her soft lips and the airy sound of her voice, the way her accent picks up when she's excited or upset.

I swore I'd never let myself feel this way again, but it's different now.

I can't stop myself. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. My cock stands straight up against my stomach, and now I can't stop visualizing her with my eyes open either. I flop back and take myself in my hand, thinking of her. Her lips, her eyes.

A guilty feeling washes over me when I remember the feeling of her breasts in my hands. I pulled away quickly and she was wearing a bra, but they were so soft. Her skin must be like silk, warm and silky smooth. When she was lying on top of me, loose strands of hair brushed my face, tickling me.

I'm so fucking hard I can't stand it. My balls throb and tighten as I think about her. When she was on top of me, she gripped my hips with her thighs and I could feel how hot she was between her legs. She wanted me. I want her to ride me like that, rake my chest with her nails and work her hips

I grunt as I come, clenching my teeth, imagining the tightness of my fist is her body clenching around me. I want to see her come so badly, see the flush on her skin and her eyes unfocus, hear her cry out in pleasure because of me, wring my dry.

Panting, I lie on the bed, feeling drained. I certainly am. I sit up and clean up, but I still need a shower; I'm soaked with sweat. I have morning classes, then practice.

Leaning against the shower wall, I let the water scald my back and think. My mind is not made up. To be blunt, I'd hoped jerking off while thinking about Ana would get her out of my mind. I want it to be purely physical. I can be as poetic as I need to be, the truth is she's hot as fuck and even if she was a total bitch it wouldn't matter. I'd be another one of those drooling idiots ogling her while she walks around campus, trying to look down her top in class.

No, it's more than that. It's her smile and her laugh and the sadness in her eyes that cries out for someone to do something. She needs a knight.

Ah damn it, Jason.

M
y first two
classes are a struggle. I try to keep her out of my mind, but I space out during the lectures and think about Anastasia the entire time. I know there's something wrong because I'm not thinking about her breasts or her ass. Well, not exclusively anyway.

When you think about fucking a girl, you're horny. When you're fantasizing about walking with her, it's more. Guilt creeps along behind me like a lurking creature, following me from class to class and then to practice. I told myself those feelings were dead, that I'd never let anybody get to me again. I told myself I don't
want
to. I'm better off alone. Better off taking care of myself.

On the field, I'm unfocused, distracted. I miss throws, fumble the ball, run out of energy too fast in wind sprints. The thought of Ana weighs me down until I sit on the bench and hold my helmet between my hands, staring at it.

"Powell!"

Coach Richter is five feet, eight inches of angry, demanding football coach. He constantly works his jaw like he's chewing on an invisible cigar and carries a clipboard like an infant, always cradled to his chest. He glares at me with the intensity of a betrayed father.

"What's wrong with you? You're off your game today, son."

"Just thinking. Distracted."

"Your academic advisor called me yesterday afternoon. She says you're in danger out of falling out of the program."

"Yeah. Bad grades. Math."

"If you sounded like you gave a shit, I'd be a little mollified. Mollified. You English majors like words like that, right? Am I getting through to you?"

"I'm listening, Coach."

"Listening and hearing aren't the same thing. What is it that's got you out of sorts, Jason?"

"Nothing."

"Girl?"

I shake my head.

"That's one of those yes-nos. You gonna get so twisted up about her that you'll put your whole life on the line? I hope she's special."

"She is."

"That was sarcasm."

"I know."

He rolls his narrow shoulders. "You're the big man on campus, Powell. Do whatever you need to do to forget this girl. There's others. They're lined up around the block pitching panties in your window. Get it out of your system and get ready to get your head in the game. We're playing the Badgers again this weekend."

"I know."

"After that performance last Saturday, I'm wondering if I should just walk out on the field and let them run the ball into the end zone until they get tired. It'd be a more effective defense than we put up. That shit you pulled with the fake pass isn't going to work every time. If you want—"

"I know."

"You're not accomplishing anything here. Get off the field and don't come back until you're ready to focus. Shower up and get lost, Powell. If this keeps up, I'm pulling you off the starting roster."

I stand up, looking through him, and slow-walk to the locker room, and shower again. Afterward I sit on the worn wooden bench in front of my locker in a towel and look through my folded hands into the floor.

Last Tuesday I wouldn't have needed that speech. I'd have been giving it. Last week I had two focal points in my life: my grades and football. There was no room for anything else. I went to the Deerhead on Saturday expecting to dance with some girl, go home, take care of myself, and keep my head in the game.

Now I don't know where my head is and it feels like my heart has been ripped out of my chest.

A
na

M
y phone bleats at me
. Incoming video call.

Now what? I can't stand another salvo from Mother right now. She must be furious if she's awake this late back home, to message me in the middle of the day. I slip my phone out and sigh in relief.

It's Konstantin, my brother. I glance at the time; I have a good hour before my next class. I chew my lip; I can't talk to him with Bjorn and Thorlief following me. Damn it. The call ends, and I send him a text.

C
an't talk now
. Bodyguards.

A
h
. I forget, it's the middle of the day there, yes?

Y
es
, brother.

I
saw The Royal Exposé
.

A
pparently everyone has
. What of it?

A
re you seeing this man
?

I
sigh
. Loudly. Thorlief glances at me.

I
studied with him
.

I
s that a euphemism
?

I
can just picture
my brother hunched over his phone, laughing at me. The image brings a smile to my lips. Konstantin has always been the dearest of brothers to me, the only true family I have. It is him I miss most of all from home. I barely speak with my other siblings; Mother did everything she could, it always seemed, to keep us apart from one another. Perhaps she was afraid we'd gang up on her.

I
t is not
. I studied with him last night.

Y
ou have a crush
.

I
do not
.

Y
es you do
.

I
do not
.

I
saw the paper
. He was touching your boobs and you liked it.

W
hat do
you know about touching boobs?

M
uch
. I have touched many boobs since you left, dear sister. I am a boob touching machine.

I
laugh out loud
, and my bodyguards give me a look. I hold the phone closer to my chest, trying and failing not to appear suspicious.

A
nastasia
: He did more than that, Konstantin. I don't know what's happening. I'm afraid of it.

K
onstantin
: Why?

I
chew my lip
.

A
nastasia
: I can't have a boyfriend. You know this.

K
onstantin
: Can't? Oh I am sure that you can, dearest Ana. I am sure you are beating them off with a stick.

A
nastasia
: I am not beating anyone off.

K
onstantin
: What is his name?

A
nastasia
: Jason Powell.

K
onstantin
: What is the rest of it?

A
nastasia
: That's it. He only has two names. I think. Maybe he has a middle name.

K
onstantin
: What kind of barbarian only has three names? Oh Ana, falling for a peasant, how unlike you.

A
nastasia
: :P

K
onstantin
: :P

I
head
into my next class.

A
nastasia
: Konstantin, I don't know what to do. I just want to have a boyfriend. I'm lonely. I miss home but I don't want to go back. I see all the other girls here with their boys and I just want to be like them.

K
onstantin
: You do?

A
nastasia
: I see them with their boyfriends and wonder what that feels like. To be close to someone. No one is close to me. No one is allowed to be close.

K
onstantin
: Sister, don't lose your head.

A
nastasia
: You don't know what it's like. Mother doesn't care if you carouse. I take one look at a boy that's not on her list and she wants to skin me and wear it for a cloak.