by J Santiago
Robert bustled over once everyone was in place and took his position in front of the two of them. Noah—Juliana’s head of security—fell to their side, deferring to Robert’s lead. Two other men closed ranks around them, and they all began to move forward. When they reached the welcoming committee, security fell away. Princess Eleanor led, as she technically ranked above Princess Juliana. Millie appeared seemingly out of thin air to usher them through the introductions.
“Michael Strafford, Minister of Sport,” Millie said from Ele’s right.
“Your Highness,” Mr. Strafford said, “we are delighted to have you here today.”
In the next three minutes, Ele and Juliana met the chairman of the board of St. Peter’s Training Ground, the coordinator of international football, the director of St. Peter’s, and the director of the National Football Federation.
The normalcy of it calmed Ele considerably, so she was ready when they stepped through the doors to the facility. No one waited for them; instead, they were ushered to the side of the pitch, and they watched the team run through a well-directed routine. She had no idea what they were doing other than they looked good while doing it. Ele liked things ordered, and there was no doubt that what she was watching was a disciplined display of football. When a direction was spoken, every player moved into a new drill without any confusion. And Ele’s eyes were drawn to the man who had spoken.
She recognized him only because of the location. Had she seen him at an appearance, she wouldn’t have been able to make the connection, but here on the pitch, she knew she was looking at Sir Nicolas Ramsey. Even non-football lovers had gotten caught up in the fervor sixteen years ago when they won the World Championship Cup. And twenty-four-year-old Nico Ramsey had been at the center of it.
“He’s dreamy, right?” Juliana said matter-of-factly.
Ele shrugged her agreement. Sure, she could admit Sir Nico, with his model-like looks, was an attractive man, and she supposed he knew it. Footballers were gossip fodder in her country and had the appeal of American movie stars. The stories of their exploits and their women were prevalent. Ele rarely paid attention, but you couldn’t escape it altogether.
“He and his American wife divorced not too long ago. Very hush-hush apparently.”
“Then, how do you know about it?” Ele asked drolly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Juliana grin. “If you want to know something, information is easy to come by.”
Ele’s head snapped to the right to glare at her sister. Then, remembering she was in public, she donned her stoic mask and returned her attention to the practice session.
Juliana got more outrageous every day. First social media, then men bowing before her, and now bartering for information. As much as she hated to even contemplate it, she thought she might have to speak to the queen about this—Jamie first though.
“Is this all we are going to do?” she whispered to Millie. The ten minutes of watching dragged on—about as engaging as watching a tree grow.
Millie, still situated behind her, responded, “Prince James requested this when they were setting up the visit. You know his fanatical obsession with football.”
The three women smiled. If their lives weren’t dictated by the family they had been born into, Ele would have been in the Peace Corps, tromping through jungles, trying to bring clean water to children all over the world. But Jamie, he would have done anything to play, coach, equip, or train footballers. The world knew about his little obsession—he never tried to hide it—and they loved him for it.
Just when Ele thought she would go mad, Sir Nico and two players peeled away from the practice and strolled toward them. Juliana vibrated with palpable excitement. From the brief conversation in the car, Ele was convinced one of the men walking to them had to be T-Dav—ridiculous name. But she had no idea if it was the broody, larger man or the one sporting a guileless smile. Regardless of who was who, they painted a picture of masculine attractiveness. That was her first thought. Her second wasn’t as innocuous. The men in front of her had been chosen for a reason. Both, she was fairly certain, could trace their background to Nava, one of the four island countries that were part of the Federation of Island States. The political machinations of the palace’s public relations office never ceased. With the vote for independence less than a year away, it made perfect sense to take advantage of the royal princesses with these two footballers. She kept her smile firmly in place even though she wanted to roll her eyes at the obvious setup.
When they were a few feet away, the introductions began.
“Your Highness, Princess Eleanor, may I present Sir Nicolas Ramsey?”
Ele nodded as Nico did the same. Based on his bestowed rank, he didn’t need to bow.
“Rowan Beckwith, captain of the National Team, and Tristan Davenport.”
Both Rowan and Tristan bowed but not before she caught the look of derision in Rowan’s eyes.
Oh, yes, you realize this selection was not random.
She tried to communicate her understanding but knew she’d failed when his expression didn’t change. There was no opportunity to connect with Tristan before they were introducing the men to Juliana.
Rowan and Tristan each turned away when they were handed something. Tristan stepped up to Ele, and for the first time, their gazes collided. Ele experienced a second of disassociation, as if she were separate from everything around her. Then, warmth started in her belly and suffused every limb while goose bumps pebbled her body. His light-brown eyes were warm and filled with mirth, like he never stopped laughing and the sentiment was alive inside. The slight upward tilt of his eyes, framed in long and curly lashes, was striking and drew attention away from a nose a tad too large and a mouth a bit too lush.
“So you can support us in style,” he said, his accent common.
Ele startled, making her heart beat double time. Tristan held something out to her, and Ele robotically reached for it. A pair of trainers and a pile of clothes landed in her hands. Under the cover of gear, Tristan’s right hand clasped her left, and he held on as her pulse slowed. He shot her a knowing wink and released her. She wasn’t used to being touched. But instead of the instinctive flinch she braced for, something in her eased.
Millie stepped up, taking the items from her. Ele knew the shaking was going to come momentarily, the physical onset of her panic, which she couldn’t disguise without anything in her arms. Before she could dissolve into a complete mess, Tristan looped his arm through hers and nodded to Millie.
“This way then. Gotta get you suited up for training.”
Ele cast a frantic look to Millie, but then Tristan’s opposite hand closed over hers and squeezed. Everything about this moment went against the staid protocol they’d operated under for the last decade, but instead of everyone rushing forward and forming a barrier between her and Tristan, they seemed to melt into the background.
Ele looked back at Juliana, who was locked in a stare-down with Rowan Beckwith, and then at Robert, who merely shrugged. Her last hope to rescue her, Millie, just smiled indulgently as she prepared to follow them.
“The dressing room is right down the hall. I’ll keep watch, so none of the lads can get in.”
Ele didn’t have a chance to process going into a men’s changing room before she was inside. Tristan turned to Millie and took the clothes from her, placing them in Ele’s hands.
“Specially ordered to the palace’s specifications. You’ll look like a footballer.” His eyes tracked down her body. “A very beautiful footballer.”
Ele audibly gulped, and her face flushed.
“Then, we’ll have some fun.”
He turned and left the room. Ele looked to Millie, whose smile was so bright, it could have blinded someone.
“What are you so happy about?” Ele snapped.
Impervious, Millie said, “Get changed, Your Highness.”
Tristan leaned against the wall, guarding the changing room from everyone else. This had not been
part of the plan. All he’d had to do was hand Princess Eleanor her gear and pose for a couple of photos.
At first, when Nico had given them the predetermined signal, his gaze had been drawn to Princess Juliana, like most of the penis-toting world. Her banging body seemed to have marquee lights around it, pulling his attention. She was probably one of the most photographed women in the world. But all of the glancing looks he’d taken at her magazine photos did little to really capture her allure. She was beautiful, sure, but there was this otherworldliness about her that made her freckled face spectacular. When he handed Eleanor her gear though, everything changed. Her rising panic rumbled through him like an earthquake before a tsunami. All he could think about was getting her to higher ground. So, he’d improvised.
He was sure Nico and Rowan were wondering where the fuck he had gone and what he was up to. He hoped no one asked him straight up because he wouldn’t have any idea how to respond. He closed his eyes, properly chagrined by his actions.
“I hope this isn’t how you are going to guard my charge.”
Tristan’s eyes snapped open. In front of him was the scary motherfucker who was Princess Eleanor’s shadow. He had to be six and a half feet—or maybe he just seemed that big against Tristan’s own average height. His frame was double that of a normal man, but he moved as swiftly as Tristan did with a ball at his feet, except this dude was probably packing two guns and six knives.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Just a quick blink,” he quipped.
The princess’s personal protection officer’s brow inched up his forehead. “That’s what I was afraid of. I’ve been standing here since you came out of the door.”
“Blaming a guy for being starstruck?” Tristan should have quit while he was ahead, but it wasn’t in his nature to admit defeat or weakness or momentary insanity.
“Looking at Princess Eleanor the way you were could get you on the watch list.”
Tristan couldn’t stop his smile. He supposed a man who had been trained to observe had caught his dumbstruck ogling. Thankfully, his teammates had been otherwise engaged. The bodyguard’s assessing gaze never left him, and Tristan struggled to determine his best response.
“She’s special,” he said quietly, as if Tristan didn’t get that. “And not any man would be able to handle her.”
Tristan wanted to beat his chest and proclaim he was just the man to do it, but then he caught himself. What the actual fuck?
The personal protection officer looked like he wanted to laugh but was too damn professional to actually show emotion.
“You’re fucked,” he said instead, and Tristan thought the dude knew exactly what he was talking about.
He shook it off when the door opened to the right of him. Princess Eleanor stepped out of the changing room, outfitted in national team gear. He liked the casual sophisticate she’d presented when she watched them practice, but wrapped up tight in joggers and a hoodie, wearing the same colors as he was, blew his appreciation into the stratosphere. She glanced hesitantly at her PPO, who signaled his approval with a nod. Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned her attention to Tristan. The icy blue of her eyes warmed him all the way to his toes.
He shot her a half-smile and then held out his hand to her. “Shall we?” he asked.
He expected her hesitation, but her hand slipped into his like it was a foregone conclusion.
He led her away from the changing room toward the heart of the building. “First time here, right?”
“Yes.”
The clipped response could have been nerves or just her natural reticence. He couldn’t be sure one way or another, but he didn’t let it deter him.
“The most interesting place is the physio room.” One of the more incredible aspects of playing at a high level was the technology used for evaluating players and dealing with injuries. He wasn’t sure, but he figured Princess Eleanor would appreciate something in this building other than football. “When we first got here, we had to do a strength and conditioning profile. We ran through a series of exercises, and the results were analyzed.”
She glanced over at him, her first spark of interest.
“In this room”—he pulled the door open—“we do joint testing, gait analysis, strength training. But they also have hydrotherapy pools, an altitude chamber, and an antigravity treadmill.”
Eleanor’s face lit up. Tristan let go of her hand, so she could look around without him hindering her. He sat on a nearby weight bench while she weaved among the machines. It was eerily quiet in a room normally full of staff and players alike. She paused when she got to one of the machines and looked over at him.
“Body composition analysis,” he answered her unasked question. She waited, another question in her gaze. “Body fat, water in your body.”
“Body fat?”
If he didn’t know who she was, her proper diction and accent might have given her away.
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I would like that.”
Tristan couldn’t stop his gaze from licking up and down her body, like he could measure her body composition with just a look. When his eyes met hers, a blush stained her neck and cheeks.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Her gaze darted away. When she got to the next apparatus, she paused in front of it. “And this?”
“The Batak test. It tests your reflexes.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? Wanna give it a go then?”
Her head was shaking from side to side before he could even finish his question.
“Why not?” he pressed. “I think I can operate this one. Get it started for you.”
Her gaze shot back and forth between him and the machine. “What do I have to do?”
“There’re lights on each of these buttons. When it flashes, you have to touch it.”
“Why does it sound so simple when I know it’s not?”
He grinned. “Kind of like life then.” He set up the test and moved her into position. “Just tap on the button when it flashes.” He looked around, noting the silence again. The emptiness of the room registered.
“My security detail cleared the whole building when you offered a tour,” she remarked, apparently noting his surprise.
“Of course,” he said.
The quiet hit him like a buckshot. His life was loud and full and cramped with people. Hers was quiet and cluttered but devoid of crowds. He wondered if she ever got to experience anything as it was supposed to be and not merely as they set it up for her.
The test started, and she moved to respond. She laughed when she touched the first light. Then, she met the test with a fierce determination. The Batak test didn’t know it was challenging a royal; it had no expectations of who she was, and it made no excuses for her. It was real and honest and straightforward. She finished and turned to him expectantly, her eyes alight with some sense of victory. Little wisps of hair escaped the confines of her braid and softened the angles of her face.
“Can I do it again?” she asked on a rush.
“Of course.” Tristan started it again.
When her next test was faster than the first, she shot him a look like a kid begging for a second helping of dessert.
“Again?”
She nodded. Again, her time improved. Her face flush with accomplishment, she turned to him. He held his hand out to her, and when she clasped his, he pulled her in for his standard bro hug. All reticence evaporated, Princess Eleanor willingly came into his arms.
“Nice.”
When he stepped away, she followed naturally. Then, her delicate, finely boned hands reached out. Elegant fingers smoothed along the line of his jaw, and he froze. Her thumbs rubbed against his bottom lip. His tongue flicked out and licked the tip of one of them. Her quick inhale relayed her surprise; the curve of her mouth telegraphed her delight.
Her lips met his in a move so unanticipated that he froze. The first tender drag of her mouth against his shot lust throu
gh his whole body. The caveman who lived just beneath his skin wanted to drag her down onto the floor and take control. But he knew she needed to be in charge of the situation, so he parted his lips infinitesimally, letting her know this was up to her.
She tilted her head back, and they locked eyes. Her hands trembled against his face, and he knew she needed some sign from him. He placed his hand on her hip and gently nudged her forward. Her thumbs moved against his mouth again, and like Pavlov’s dog, his lips parted. When her mouth landed on his, it was not the gentle nip he’d expected but rather a headlong dive into the rawest, most hedonistic kiss of his life.
She rose on her tiptoes for more leverage, and her tongue dipped inside, tasting, stripping him. He’d never been so exposed. He gave her a moment of exploration, enjoying every second of her flavor, her desire, her abandon. Then, he shifted closer, and his hands found their way to her face. He cradled her jaw for a brief second, savoring the smooth texture of her skin, the sharp angle of her chin. Then, for his own self-preservation, he slowly withdrew. He knew this wasn’t something she did, and his desire to protect her feelings made him cautiously move away. Their lips met in a closed-mouth brush.
He gently dropped his forehead to hers, keeping his hands on her face. They shared a few gasps of air, an exchange of scent, a possessive touch. He was content to stand there with her but sensed her need to get control. Like synchronized swimmers, they released their grips on each other, their hands a perfect dance of accord as they fell away. Their foreheads separated, and then their feet moved back a half-pace before following with a full step.
Tristan watched, seeking some affirmation of the past moments. But Eleanor’s eyes remained closed, providing a barrier to the tension between them. When they fluttered open, he saw the mortification first before her hands flew to her flushed cheeks, and she stutter-stepped farther away.
