by J Santiago
“Ramsey request.”
“Skipper talk already?”
Rowan shook his head. “Doubt it. He wants to see you too.”
It didn’t matter that Nicolas Ramsey had chosen Tristan from thousands of other footballers or that Tristan had now had numerous conversations with him or even that he’d participated in three of Ramsey’s training sessions; Tristan continued to have a small case of hero worship. There were ballers you could claim were the best. But Nico Ramsey had set the bar for his generation. If Tristan looked at the National Team gaffer with a bit of awe and incredulity, it was only natural.
“What about?”
“Not sure.” Rowan started walking with Tristan toward the dressing room. “Why are you here so early?”
“Taking it in.”
“Keep it like that, Tris,” Rowan said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Tristan smiled. Rowan’s approval was almost as good as playing for Nicolas Ramsey.
“Shall we?”
Tristan nodded. “Do you still feel it, playing for your country?”
Tristan didn’t think he would be disappointed with any answer. But when Rowan didn’t speak for a moment, Tristan realized that wasn’t quite true.
“Of course,” he finally said. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t play. Plenty of younger players—Caleb, for instance—are waiting to take my spot.”
“True. And I think you might have a couple of caps left in you, Skip,” Tristan said with a smack on his captain’s stomach.
They reached Ramsey’s office, and Tristan rapped on the door before Rowan could retaliate.
Nico came forward and embraced Rowan first before turning and welcoming Tristan with a more formal handshake. Sir Nicolas Ramsey was just a little bit taller than the average footballer. Nico had become a fashion icon off the pitch when he was a player. As a manager, he took his look to a new level. GQ’d as a rule, he was dressed in charcoal-gray slim-fit pants, a light-gray undershirt, and a black cashmere V-neck sweater. As much as Tristan liked to look good, he couldn’t quite match Ramsey’s style. His dark hair had gone to gray on the sides. It was slicked back and only out of place on the few occasions he lost his shit on the field.
He stepped away, inviting them to enter his office. The space was as impressive as every room at the training center. Nico’s glass-topped L-shaped desk looked out over one of the indoor fields. A conference table, surrounded by plush chairs, was situated on the opposite side. A big screen TV adorned the wall.
“Let’s sit at the table,” he instructed.
Rowan led the way and took a seat on the right while Tristan plopped down on the left. Nico pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat. He leaned forward, completely engaged in the coming conversation.
“We start in two days. Are you ready?” he asked the question to both of them, but Tristan knew it was directed at him. Of course Rowan was ready. This wasn’t new for him, but it would be the first cap for Tristan, and the expectation was already heavy.
“I am.” He found himself sitting straighter, his body responding to the unspoken demand for respect.
Nico nodded. “As you know—or maybe you don’t—we are a favorite of the prince. He isn’t shy about coming to watch. And it’s tradition for him to attend our first practice. Part ceremony, part patriotism. Even when I was a player, he came with his father.”
Tristan merely nodded. There were people who were interested in the royal family—his mother and sisters—but Tristan didn’t pay the palace much attention. To be fair, if it didn’t happen on the pitch, Tristan didn’t give many things too much thought.
“I was prepared to welcome him. However, we received word from the palace that Prince James will be unable to attend, so they are sending the princesses.”
Rowan stiffened, but Tristan merely waited, trying to figure out why this conversation even involved him.
“And?” Rowan intoned.
Rowan could question. In fact, as captain, it was his job. Tristan withheld his delighted laughter. Rowan had it in him to be a total asshole. No one would dare defy him, except the team collectively calling him Grumps.
“Your lucky day. You have been chosen to represent the National Team by escorting Princess Eleanor and Princess Juliana.”
Rowan rolled his eyes, and Tristan snickered.
Instead of Ramsey giving Rowan a hard time, he turned his glare on Tristan. “Think you can handle it?”
“Pfft,” he blew out, waving a hand. “Of course.”
Rowan and Nico exchanged knowing glances.
Tristan caught the look. “Am I missing something?”
Rowan shrugged. “Ulterior motive. Palace doesn’t do anything if there’s nothing in it for them.”
“Cynical much?” Tristan wasn’t surprised by Rowan’s assessment. He just wasn’t sure it mattered.
What did he care? So, he had to hang with the Ice Princess for a spell. There were worse things than entertaining a pretty woman.
“What? Poor kid makes good? Why do they want you?”
Nico chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but Rowan is the reigning face of football in our country.”
“Hide your crown, Grumps. I’m coming for it,” Tristan teased.
“You can have the bloody thing. Do all my damn interviews too. You play nice after losing to the worst team in the league. See how much you like it,” he grumbled, his back stiffening more than usual as he shouldered Tristan’s ribbing.
Tristan leaned back in his chair, silent laughter shaking his frame, while Nico smiled indulgently at the two of them.
“And that’s probably not why they want you, if I had to guess,” Rowan continued. “I might be king of the pitch right now, but you, my friend, are the social media prince.”
“Enough with the royal references already,” Nico chided.
“Yes, Sir Nicolas,” Rowan responded, using Nico’s official title.
Nico dropped his head to the table. Tristan couldn’t contain his mirth as even Rowan’s stuffy countenance was broken up by a crooked smile.
“All kidding aside,” Nico began when Tristan finally gained control, “I suspect Rowan is right. Your constant chronicling of your every thought has earned you a place in the public eye. It’s not an impulse I understand, nor am I especially fond of some of the details you like to share. In my time, the name of the game was privacy. It hasn’t affected your play thus far, but if I had my wish, I’d issue you a gag order.”
Tristan let the words bounce off of him. He’d grown a thick skin over the course of his life. There were always haters. But he’d be lying to himself if he pretended Nicolas Ramsey’s opinion of his posting habit didn’t make him feel some sort of way. He couldn’t deny the endorphin rush he experienced when people responded to him, be it on the pitch or to his posts. Maybe that said something about him that he wasn’t ready to admit. His phone, which he had stashed in his pants pocket, burned against his leg like the heat of a blush in an embarrassing moment.
Ramsey gazed turned contemplative, his focus far away. “Given the current political dynamics, I think this is purely a palace ploy to cast the royal family in a good light. Supporting a combined national team helps everyone. The specific request for the two of you is ample evidence.” He let his statement linger.
Maybe Tristan should have paid more attention to the climate in his country, but his sister was the family activist.
Ramsey folded his hands in front of him, drawing Tristan’s attention back to him. “I don’t think it changes anything about our plan for their visit. Our public relations department is scurrying to find trainers for each of them. We’ll also present them with the team jacket. It’s two hours of your time.”
Rowan and Tristan nodded.
“On your way out, there is a folder for you that details protocol and the itinerary. Make sure you study it.”
Nico stood, and Rowan and Tristan followed. Leaving the manager’s office, Tristan picked up the two folders with
the House of Altamirano crest. He passed the top one to Rowan and tucked one under his arm. Rowan walked directly to the garbage bin and dropped the folder into it. Tristan paused mid-step.
“What’d you do that for?” he asked.
“Don’t need to read that shit.”
Tristan’s brows drew together, but Rowan hadn’t stopped his pace.
“Fancy a lift?” Rowan asked as he lengthened the space between them.
Tristan, still frozen, snapped out of it. “Sure,” he answered as he hurried to catch up.
The training center was a four-hundred-acre facility, recently reopened after a massive overhaul. There were six regulation football fields, two of which were indoors. A state-of-the-art physiology room, a decompression chamber, four dressing rooms, and a recreation center for the players that housed a number of video game consoles, big screen televisions, a pool table, a soccer tennis net, and a basketball hoop. It was a veritable playground. Tristan thought he could happily live in the facility. He might have to sneak in a king-size mattress and stow it away, but it was a sacrifice he would be willing to make. Aside from the spectacular amenities, he got to play with two of his best mates. The days he spent here were literally a dream come true.
They made their way to the strength and conditioning room. A couple of their teammates were already there, and Tristan realized his quiet early morning stroll through the facility had been upended by his meeting. He didn’t get an opportunity to dwell on the loss.
“Ah, look, Caleb, your boy is here.”
Caleb completed his set before he made his way over to Tristan and Rowan. After a regular handshake with Rowan, Caleb turned to Tristan to perform their complicated greeting, which consisted of some clasps, a slap, a few fist bumps, and a man hug, completed with a resounding slap to the back.
“Where ya been?”
“Meeting,” Tristan responded.
He didn’t want to get into the purpose of the meeting in front of everyone. He knew they would find out, but he was content to leave it at that. Caleb knew him well enough to know there was more and to wait for it.
Rowan moved toward a machine, and Tristan followed. They worked out in silence until the room emptied. With only Caleb remaining, Tristan turned to Rowan.
“What was that about?”
Rowan replaced the bar and sat up. “What?”
“You were crankier than normal during the meeting.”
“What meeting?” Caleb asked.
Rowan grunted, clearly shutting down the conversation.
With the window closed on Rowan’s cooperation, Tristan directed his attention to Caleb. “You know the time blocked off on our schedule in a couple of days?” At Caleb’s nod, Tristan continued, “Apparently, we are getting a visit from the palace.”
“The prince is coming here? My ma will freak when I tell her.”
“Not the prince. His sisters.”
“Even better. Princess Juliana is a looker.” Caleb’s kid-in-a-candy-store enthusiasm directly counterbalanced Rowan’s look of disgust.
With a grunt, Rowan complained, “Can we get back to lifting, or are we going to stand around and royal-watch all day? I’m sure there’s a copy of The Star lying around here somewhere. But I’d like to finish this before practice.”
Caleb side-eyed Tristan. “What’s got him grumpier than usual?”
“Babysit … stupid princess … more important … fucking royal …” Rowan muttered, only every other word notable.
Tristan and Caleb howled with laughter, which only seemed to make Rowan angrier. While Rowan bitched, Tristan explained the assignment. With each word, Caleb’s eyes got wider. Tristan resisted the urge to take a picture of Caleb’s incredulous face.
“Your sisters are going to freak out.”
“Truth,” Tristan agreed.
“Right brilliant.”
“We’ve just wasted fifteen minutes talking about this shit,” Rowan complained.
Even with the grumbling grumpy man next to him, Tristan couldn’t imagine being any happier. Life just didn’t get much better.
3
2 April
St. Peter’s Training Ground
Ele shifted in her seat as the Range Rover motorcade sped along the country highway.
Over the last couple of days, she had thought Jamie both diabolical and brilliant. The short time between when she had been informed of the trip and when it’d happened left only small moments for her to fret over the coming adventure. Between her already-scheduled duties and the shuffling of her calendar, she had been almost too occupied to even decide what she wanted to wear. It kept her from building up her defenses or being paralyzed by her anxiety—an always-precarious balance. She found that knowing exactly what was coming enabled her to deal with it, nerves and all. But it also allowed her time to imagine worst-case scenarios.
Juliana moved beside her, drawing Ele from her musings. “You look nice today. Not your normal staid affair.”
“Thank you, Juliana.” Often, Ele had to remember that her sister didn’t really mean to pay her backhanded compliments.
“Did Beatrix pick that out?”
Ele looked up, catching Millie’s crooked smile and wink. “No, it was all me,” she lied with an indulgent smile.
“Bravo, Ele. Maybe you can kick that nasty moniker. You look too hot to be referred to as the Ice Princess.”
Ele suppressed a scoff at Juliana’s insensitive remark and the nickname Ele hated.
“How lucky are you that Jamie couldn’t come today? I have been looking forward to this for such a long time. I mean, have you seen these guys? Some of them are so hot.”
Ele tried to remember a time she had been as carefree as her younger sister. Had she ever described a guy as hot, out loud, in front of the staff?
“Do you follow T-Dav?”
“No! And how do you follow anyone? You have social media?”
Juliana had the grace to blush. “No.” Her gaze darted from Ele’s—Jules’s tell. “I have fake accounts.”
“Fake?”
“Fake in that they aren’t in my name.”
There were so many things wrong with Juliana’s statement. Ele was tempted to call her sister on it but realized the futility of engaging with her about it, as she wouldn’t win. Jules operated by her own set of rules. Of all the things Ele could envy, it was her sister’s devil-may-care attitude she craved.
She went with, “Who is T-Dav? Is that a nickname?”
“Tristan Davenport. He plays for Hartesfield United. Jamie’s favorite team—if he could have a favorite team.”
“Right.” Ele shook her head.
Juliana was like a tween about to go see her favorite boy band, and Ele perfectly portrayed the frumpy middle-aged mother trailing behind in mom jeans.
Jamie, you owe me for this.
“Five minutes, Your Highness,” Robert intoned from the front. “We are on time. Nine fifty-five.”
“Thank you, Robert,” Ele responded as she mentally synced her watch with Robert’s. It was their routine, and he never failed to uphold his side of it.
The reminder of their proximity to the destination silenced Juliana. They drove into the gates of St. Peter’s Training Ground. Despite her relative calm before, as they sped past the entry, the first inkling of anxiety started in Ele’s belly. Her fingers began tapping of their own accord. The trap on Juliana’s mouth sprang free, and she began to chatter inanely, drawing Ele’s attention.
“Sir Nicolas Ramsey was named coach approximately three months ago, and he’s shaken things up. The majority of the players invited to the pool had very few international caps.”
“Are you speaking English?” Ele asked, trying to figure out what her sister was talking about.
“Caps is the number of international appearances. Anyway, although he is a national icon—a beautiful national icon, if you didn’t know—there is already talk of him being on the chopping block for his bold selections.”
Ele
couldn’t have been more surprised by her sister’s dissertation on the state of their national football team. “How do you know this?”
There was no answer forthcoming, but as the motorcade began to slow down, Juliana’s hand clamped on Ele’s arm. “We’re here,” Juliana sighed.
The Range Rovers came to a stop. Protocol demanded Ele and Juliana remain in the SUV, as Robert and Michael—Robert’s second-in-command—exited the car. When the door opened, Juliana stepped out, and Ele slid over the seat, following her. Ele got her first real opportunity to see Juliana in all of her casual-chic glory. Although Ele’s outfit had half-boosted her confidence when she put it on, compared to her sister, she appeared dowdy.
Juliana’s coltish legs seemed even longer in the slim navy-blue pants. Paired with a lightweight gold down jacket and navy flats, she managed to look patriotic and stylish. Her light-brown hair was swept back in a simple knot, highlighting her elegant neck. Jules’s face had graced magazine covers from the time she was a toddler. Her catlike green eyes, full lips, and button nose would have deemed her beautiful, but covered in freckles—some big, some small—she was both exotic and common. What had plagued her as a child made her memorable as a teenager and adult. In a world that loved porcelain-skinned beauties, Juliana had become the unofficial spokeswoman for perceived imperfections.
While they waited for the signal to move forward, Ele ran her hands down her hips, wiping the dampness away. She also wore a lightweight gold down jacket paired with skinny black pants, making her think of a bumblebee. Her hair—painstakingly straightened—was elegantly braided to the side, but compared to Juliana’s, it looked like she was trying too hard.
As her fidgeting increased, Juliana shifted closer. Ele looked up and noticed a line of men making their way through the doors where they would soon enter.
“I can’t wait to see those men bow before me,” Juliana whispered.
Ele struggled to keep her expression impassive. She had twenty-nine years of experience with schooling her responses, but in the face of Juliana’s outrageous declaration, Ele thought she might not be able to maintain her placid smile. She couldn’t decide which impulse was stronger—wanting to double over with laughter or wanting to box her sister’s ears. Unable to give in to either, she stood statue-like and waited for the all clear.
