The Princess and the Player

by J Santiago

  “Tris, ready?” Caleb’s words pulled him from his reverie.

  Glancing down, he completed his post and stowed his phone in his pants pocket. “Where to, Skip?”

  “Magnificent Mile,” Rowan answered with a knowing gleam.

  It was no accident Rowan had thrown out the “your princess” phrase. Bless him, he’d tried to get Tristan to talk about the crazy day when Ele had walked into his life. But Tristan had refused.

  “Let’s go then,” Caleb said, ever eager.

  “You sure you don’t want to go out on the Ledge?” Tristan couldn’t help but tease his friend.

  Caleb, who had been standing in the middle of the Skydeck the whole time, was deathly afraid of heights.

  “Nope, I’m good.”

  Caleb was the first to start toward the exit. There were very few people around, and it made the area cavernous. Rowan threw his arm around Tristan’s neck and quickly got him in a headlock. He rubbed his knuckled fist against Tristan’s head before pushing him away.

  “This hair is ridiculous,” Rowan said, laughing.

  “Needed a championship cut,” Tristan defended, running his hand over the newly dyed tips of his kinky hair. He patted it back into place, smoothing it out from Rowan’s noogie.

  “Still,” Rowan remarked.

  Tristan shrugged. Rowan was his best mate, but he could be uptight. His conservative stoicism sometimes pushed Tristan to do crazy things just to watch Rowan react. The hair, for example. He had gone to get a trim before leaving for Chicago. But when Caleb kidded about dyeing the top of his hair blond, he imagined Rowan’s annoyance and went for it. Rowan’s scowl and shaking head had made Tristan’s day.

  It’s the little things.

  As they waited with the attendant by the elevator, the ribbing continued. The door opened, and the three of them, along with the attendant, stared slack-jawed at the occupants of the elevator. After a split second of awe, Tristan focused in enough to recognize the men standing in their midst. Tristan had only spent ninety minutes with Princess Eleanor, but he would remember the faces of her security team for the rest of his life. He met Robert’s gaze and somehow knew his life was about to go off the rails.

  “Mr. Davenport, a moment of your time,” Robert said like it was a request even though everyone present knew it wasn’t.

  Tristan quickly glanced around and noticed the rest of the room was empty. He’d noted a lack of people up in the Skydeck, but he’d been with his mates and not paying attention as it emptied. The men in the elevator fanned out and waited patiently as the attendant and Caleb stepped into the waiting elevator.

  But Rowan crossed his arms over his chest. Ever the Skipper, looking out for one of his charges, he simply stood, a sentinel, next to Tristan.

  Robert assessed him and then nodded like he’d decided. “Mr. Beckwith,” he acknowledged, “it’s merely a conversation.”

  Rowan and Robert remained locked in a stare-down. Tristan’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. He couldn’t help it when he snickered, drawing the two men’s glares.

  “Ro,” he said, meeting his friend’s eyes, “it’s cool. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Although Tristan could sense Rowan’s reluctance, he nodded and stepped in next to a rather clueless Caleb.

  The elevator doors shut, and the other three men who accompanied Robert fanned out. Robert tucked his hands into his pockets and studied Tristan. Familiar with the scrutiny, Tristan waited patiently for Robert to get to the point.

  “Not sure about the hair,” Robert remarked.

  Tristan laughed. “You’re not the only one.”

  Robert grinned. “Of course,” he answered, like he knew Rowan had given him plenty of shit about it. “How’s the left foot?”

  Tristan smirked, remembering their last encounter in great detail. “If you had just let me in the bloody door, you could have saved your shin a nasty bruise.”

  “Nasty is right,” Robert agreed. “Hurt like a bitch for days.”

  “It’s why we wear shin pads.” Tristan found a place along the wall and leaned against it. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied Robert. “Are you here to get your revenge finally?”

  Robert’s lip quirked, fighting a smile. Then, he shook his head. “No. As much as I hate to admit I was bested by a skinny footballer, I’m forgiving when the intentions are honorable.”

  Tristan lifted a shoulder. “They were.”

  “Yes, they were. Are they still?”

  “I don’t have any intentions,” Tristan answered with a surety that shocked him.

  Princess Eleanor’s little power play at the end of their day together had been more hurtful than Tristan was willing to admit. Maybe the finality of his statement registered on Robert because he seemed both put off and determined.

  “She wants to see you.”

  Tristan had figured, but he hadn’t been sure. “What, was my signature not binding in the NDA?”

  Robert fought another smile. “The NDA is ironclad. Although I doubt there would be any legal action taken if you spoke about it. Palace politics being what they are.”

  “No legal action but the possibility of being thrown in prison for treason or some shit is on the table?”

  “Not prison. The dungeon maybe.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes while Robert chuckled. Robert sobered eventually.

  “She’s here in Chicago. She would really like the opportunity to apologize. Face-to-face.”

  Tristan considered this. The machinations required to empty the Skydeck, to ensure witnesses were ushered away, had to be astronomical. But he couldn’t know what good it would do for her to apologize because he wasn’t sure he cared now. The truth was, he was oddly flattered she’d gone through all of this to merely orchestrate a meeting, but couldn’t she have just called him and said she was sorry?

  “Is the phone not good enough for her?” Tristan said, clinging tightly to his sense of indignation.

  Vaguely, he worried if giving in to this request would change something. He had a sense it would. It reminded him of the feeling he’d experienced when he was offered his first contract by his favorite club—equally a sense of awe and accomplishment, trepidation and oh fuck.

  Robert scrutinized him. “What, if anything, do you know about Princess Eleanor?”

  “I suppose what everyone else knows. What the palace lets us know.” He paused like he was thinking, even as he knew he was going to be an ass with his next statement. “Oh, and that she suffers from some nasty panic attacks.”

  Robert shook his head like he was disappointed in Tristan. It was reminiscent of an action Rowan would employ. Like two weeks ago, when Tristan had taken a woman home with him from a mate’s party.

  Robert held out his hand, and a folder was placed into it. Robert tapped the folder against his opposite hand, obviously studying Tristan. Robert was a big guy, bigger even than Rowan. Tristan knew Robert could kill him with one well-placed hit. But he also sensed that Robert liked him for some crazy reason, even with the shin kick.

  “It’s been going on for a number of years,” Robert began. “But the day at St. Peter’s was especially horrible. It hit her quick, and I think she didn’t have time for the normal calming techniques she’d learned. Maybe her defenses were down, or she was embarrassed about her greatest weakness being exposed to you. I have theories.” He shrugged. “Millie told me later she was afraid it was the worst one she’d experienced, and even Millie was helpless. But then you walked in, and you teased her out of it. She let you put your hands on her—which she never allows—and she immediately calmed. It was a miraculous recovery really.”

  Tristan took in all of what Robert had said. He’d never been a royal-watcher. But he was pretty damn certain Princess Eleanor’s panic attacks were a well-kept secret.

  “No one knows, except her immediate family and her staff. I’m sure Prince James’s staff knows something is going on, but they have no idea what. I share this o
nly to give you some context for the way she acted that day.”

  Robert shuffled the folder to his other hand, drawing Tristan’s gaze. He was curious about her even though he pretended disinterest with Robert and with Rowan when he asked. Ele seemed like a distant memory most days. But some days, his fingertips itched to smooth over the soft skin of her face, to tangle in and mess up the prissy braid in her hair, to rub up and down the nape of her neck. His lips craved the warmth of hers, and his tongue wanted to dip back into the depths of her mouth, to taste every single part of her. He wanted to muss up her perfect clothes. He longed to kneel before her as a subject before his queen and then to worship her as a man would a woman. And holy fuck, did he want her to kneel before him. He shifted, uncomfortable with the nefarious thoughts of Ele while in the presence of her bodyguard. He would like to survive to play in the World Championship Cup.

  “I guessed most of that on my own,” Tristan said.

  “Of course,” Robert responded. “I figured as much. But what you probably have no idea about is, her immediate comfort with you is rare. And maybe more helpful than any of us imagined. She’d been quite the loner for years. But since then, she’s allowed herself to get out more.”

  Tristan had noticed. Because the magazines he’d inadvertently looked at now showed her more than they had previously, and the press seemed to be warming to her, if the headlines were any indication.

  “THE ICE PRINCESS THAWS!”

  “IS GLOBAL WARMING RESPONSIBLE FOR THE THAW?”

  “THE ICE MELTS!”

  He’d seen them all. And the pictures of her out and looking happy had pissed him off. But now, with Robert’s explanation ringing in his ears, his ire faded. If he’d helped her in any way, he was glad.

  “She’s also become somewhat of a Hartesfield United fan.”

  Tristan couldn’t contain his smile. “Really?”

  “Yes, but if you tell her that, I will hurt you. And since I owe you one, it won’t be pleasant.”

  Tristan laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “Will you see her?” The timing of the question was impeccable.

  When the conversation had begun, Tristan had been sure he would refuse. But now, he didn’t want to fight the urge to spend some more time with her—whatever that meant.

  He nodded. “How’s it going to work?”

  “We’ll be staying at the same hotel. We have the penthouse suite with private access. At the designated time, you’ll take the elevator from your floor to the lobby. There is another elevator that goes to the parking garage. You’ll take that to the valet floor, which is marked with a V. Michael, my second-in-command”—Robert stopped and pointed to his right, where Michael had stepped into the open—“will meet you and take you up the private elevator to the penthouse.”

  Tristan felt like he was being briefed for a mission. He nodded because it was expected.

  “Do not bring your cell phone. Do not share with your mates. You’ll have to figure that part out on your own.”

  Tristan nodded again but knew ditching Rowan and Caleb would present problems. It wasn’t like they didn’t leave each other’s side, but their schedule was tight, and it would be difficult to disappear.

  “Are you up for this, Mr. Davenport?” The question was asked casually, that how’s the weather vibe, but Tristan sensed the weight of it and the implications of his answer.

  “I am.” It wasn’t the promise he thought Robert wanted, but it was the best he could do.

  Robert scrutinized him. He made some internal decision and held the folder out for Tristan. “You should read this.”

  “Will it self-destruct afterward?”

  “No, but the ink will disappear in twenty-four hours.” He was stone-faced and serious.

  “Really, Mr. Bond?” Tristan asked, his voice incredulous, even as he tried to modulate it.

  Robert nodded and said, “No,” at the same time.

  Tristan cackled. “Good one.”

  Robert smiled. “Seriously, nothing in there is top-secret, but it’s all condensed for you. Take care of our girl, Mr. Davenport.”

  As quick as Ele’s security detail had appeared, they cleared out of the room. But Tristan stayed where he was, leaning up against the wall, wondering what the hell he had just agreed to.

  6

  9 June

  The Michigan Inn

  Ele gazed out at the vastness of Lake Michigan. Although the hotel didn’t boast the opulence Ele was accustomed to, the view and beach below were spectacular. The isolation of the location allowed for easy security, which Robert liked. But it was also close enough to the major airports to make travel to and from convenient. The delegation for the National Football Federation had chosen wisely. The setting was ideal for the meeting Ele had requested, but her nerves were shot. From the moment she’d asked Robert to arrange this meeting, she’d fought both her nervous anticipation and her fascinated dread.

  Ele could hold her own in a room full of dignitaries. She engaged in conversations with kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers. She traveled much of the world, albeit on private planes and with escorts, but she’d seen a lot. She’d also experienced a heartbreak most people would struggle to live through. What she didn’t have much experience with were the ordinary rites of passage. She’d never been on a first date. She’d never entered a clothing store to find the perfect outfit. Her car had never broken down, and she’d never been caught in the rain.

  Since Tristan Davenport had charmed her into the national team training gear, the predictability of her life had changed. For weeks after her visit to St. Peter’s, she’d been in a bit of a daze, at once elated and surprised by her comfort and boldness with Tristan. He made her feel safe and brave. Although she had destroyed the camaraderie between them with her awkward and rude behavior, she couldn’t help but long for a return to the person she had been in his presence.

  Despite the queen’s heavy-handed decrees, Ele was determined to run with the opportunity she’d been given. The queen did nothing without forethought and deliberation, and while Ele wanted to second-guess the orders that had brought her to America, she refused. There was something else at play, she was sure, but for once, she was going to use it to her advantage.

  A practiced knock sounded from the door, and Ele sucked in a breath.

  This is it.

  Smoothing her hands down her legs, she practically ran to let him in. As her hand landed on the elaborate knob, she let herself hope for something she was too afraid to name and then turned the handle.

  Her cyberstalking had prepared her for the blond-tipped hair, the slim-fitting jeans, the classic Adidas, and the gray hoodie. What she was unprepared for was the pleasant disassociation, the familiar warmth, the unearned happiness she experienced. Like a heliotropic flower turning toward the sun, Ele blossomed right there. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what attracted her to Tristan Davenport—his normally infectious smile, the mischievous gleam in his eye, the aura of confidence surrounding him. But even now, as he stood before her, unsmiling, Ele was so happy to see him that it was like someone had shoved sunshine up her ass.

  Robert cleared his throat. Ele snapped out of her stupor.

  “Hello,” she managed.

  “Your Highness,” Tristan answered stiffly.

  Disappointed in his unenthusiastic and stoic greeting, Ele stepped back, giving him room to enter the suite.

  He trod lightly, all athletic grace and sinuous movement. She just watched him, still a little surprised he was here. Robert nudged her forward before grabbing the handle and gently shutting the door.

  Tristan continued through the small foyer into the living room, making a direct line to the windows. He stared straight ahead, presumably struck by the vast lake spread out before them.

  Ele crept closer, leaving plenty of space. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she remarked.

  He practically snorted. Glancing briefly over his shoulder at her, he smirked. “You asked me here
to talk about Lake Michigan?”

  Embarrassed, she felt the heat of a blush break out on her neck. “No … of course not,” she stammered, suddenly unsure of what to say.

  When something like sympathy flashed in Tristan’s eyes, Ele looked away, needing to regroup. Tristan had seen Ele at her absolute worst, and the last thing she wanted from him was sympathy. She’d spent years hiding her greatest weakness from the world. She hated Tristan’s intimate knowledge of her panic attacks. Of all the people in the world she wished to keep it from, he topped the list. Yet, somehow, his knowing opened up all sorts of possibilities.

  Instead of shirking away, Ele approached Tristan. She’d imagined this meeting hundreds of times over the last two months. She had no idea it would take place in America. In some of her more wild imaginings, she’d envisioned sending Robert for him in the middle of the night and bringing him to Coventry Castle, an isolated holding in the wilds of the mountains. Ingress and egress were difficult, so you didn’t go there unless you had time to spare. And she would want time to spend with him. She blinked away the thought and tried to focus on the fact that he was right here, a mere twelve inches between them.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she began. She wanted to turn him toward her, so she could look at him, but he seemed content to face the window, so she went with it. “I owe you an apology for the way we parted at St. Peter’s.” The script in her head directed her to lay it all out there, to tell him everything. But the thought of exposure proved too much. “Not many people have seen me experience a panic attack, and I didn’t handle the revelation well.”