by J Santiago
She followed the path with her eyes and felt herself flush with embarrassment.
He lifted her chin with his hand, so their eyes locked.
“Make yourself come,” he demanded softly.
She clenched around him, his words heating her more. He hissed, his eyes fluttered, and then he purposely looked between them, waiting for her. She wanted to prolong the moment, but she couldn’t resist him. In two strokes, she was clenching around him, her orgasm fast and hard. Her vision got hazy, and her hand clenched on his shoulder, hanging on. Tristan watched her, reveling in her release.
Then, he took over. He turned them and laid her on her back, never leaving her body. He hooked his hand under her knee, positioning her leg out wide. He moved between her thighs, driving into her.
“Wanted this so bad,” he muttered. “It wasn’t complete”—he shifted, hitting her clit, making her cry out—“wasn’t complete without this,” he gasped.
Then, he came with his eyes closed, his head back, his neck straining. Ele hung on, milking the last of his orgasm.
24
15 July
SeatGeek Stadium
Ele fastened the pin to her shirt and glanced back to the mirror. Second-guessing her choice for the tenth time. She shook her head in chagrin—at herself mostly.
Ele never got the opportunity to be the People’s Princess. That moniker always belonged to Juliana with her ready smile, unusual but gorgeous features, and no hint of anxiety with the press.
But as she’d contemplated her outfit the night before, she’d remembered Jamie climbing onto the chair in the royal box after the semifinal match. She read the articles the next day about his instinctive ability to connect with the masses. The headlines around the world extolled his charisma and manner. When Millie came at her with a staid navy suit, Ele had to hold herself back from physically recoiling. She hadn’t wanted to appear in front of the world in an outfit her grandmother would wear.
Again, her gaze returned to the mirror.
Her hair fell in waves down her back. Normally, she wore it up, a French twist or a sophisticated bun. In her ears, she wore small gold studs, hardly visible. Her white pants were tailored and tapered. Millie had cautioned her about wearing heels, but she was outfitting herself in armor today, and she needed to be fully dressed. Flats might have been more practical, but she found herself in heels nonetheless. She would walk on her toes as she made her way to the dais. Finally, her eyes landed on her choice of top. Beatrix had worked wonders with the jersey, tucking it at the waist. Truly, she thought the design was a bit ridiculous. Blue, white, and yellow gingham for a football jersey? But it actually didn’t look too bad with her pants.
She smoothed her hands down her thighs and finally turned to Millie and Beatrix. “Well?” she said, her voice laden with both hope and nerves.
Millie’s face broke into a wide smile. “It’s perfect.”
Beatrix, whose poker face was for shit, grinned. “Brilliant.”
A tiny bit more confident, she picked up her purse from the table and laced it over her shoulder.
“Robert is ready to brief you,” Millie said.
Ele nodded. Today would be a feat. Allowing herself to get caught up in her wardrobe had taken her mind off the game and her responsibilities after the game. It’d also allowed her to pretend that her last glimpse of Tristan wouldn’t be when she either congratulated or consoled him. Curfews and schedules wreaked havoc on their plans to see each other again. The ache of his departure from her life threatened, but she chose to focus on today. If she didn’t get a chance to say a proper good-bye, at least her last memory of him would be of him doing what he loved.
Caption that.
She stepped into the sitting room, the one with the love seat, two chairs, and an oval coffee table. This little room had been her home for the last four weeks. The love seat was brand-new, probably purchased right before their arrival so they would only have good things to say about it. But the flower patterns along with the solid chairs were just a bit off. Still, she would miss this room and the time she’d spent in it.
Robert stood by the chair. His eyes widened when he saw her, and she knew by the way he rolled the side of his lips between his teeth that he was holding back a smile.
“Okay?” she couldn’t help asking.
Probably noticing her need for reinforcement, Robert judiciously allowed his smile to spread across his face. Immediately, every taut nerve in her body eased. Robert possessed a far better stoic expression than anyone, even the queen.
He gave her a thumbs-up.
Robert ran Ele through the expectations for the stadium and the postgame ceremony. Then, because the game allowed them enough time to take an overnight flight home, they were scheduled to depart Chicago. When Ele and Robert concluded their briefing, there was a flurry of activity as the royal entourage packed everything. Ele returned to the bedroom and sat with Millie as she folded, sorted, and packed.
“What shall I do with this?” Millie asked, holding up the Cubs hat Ele had worn on her royal day off.
Ele grinned at the hat as Millie placed it in her hand. She ran her hand along the brim, remembering snippets of the day with Tristan. She didn’t want to part with the hat. She was about to shove it into the suitcase when she thought better of it. There wasn’t any token she could give to Tristan as a memento of their time together. He had one picture on his phone. Anything of hers would be conspicuous. But only she, Tristan, Robert, Millie, and Michael knew about the hat.
She went to the desk, tucked into the corner of the sitting room. She sat down, pulled out a piece of paper, and began to write. When she was done, she moved into the kitchenette and rummaged around for a bag. She located a discarded brown paper bag under the sink. Placing the hat and note in the bottom, she rolled the top down and folded it over.
“Robert,” she said as she came back into the sitting room, “can you see that he gets this?”
Their eyes met—hers heavy with a plea, his light with a promise.
“Of course, ma’am.” He took the bag from her and turned to leave the suite. “Five minutes.”
Ele nodded.
The next few hours flew. The drive to the stadium, the entry from the depths of the underground parking garage and through the corridors under the street, and finally into the royal box. The photo ops of her with the French prime minister. The carefully plotted seating arrangement that allowed Ele and Jean-Pierre Babbineaux maximum exposure to the crowd during the game. The sea of people surrounding them, already chanting and cheering. She should have been overwhelmed. But Juliana’s presence and Robert’s absolute attention to detail allowed her to be Princess Eleanor Ann-Juliet Josephine in a way she hadn’t been able to manage in over a decade.
It was the game. Her calm was edged with excitement for the match. She still didn’t understand offsides, and anytime two men went up for headers, her breath caught. But somewhere along the way, she’d caught football fever.
Next to her, Juliana practically vibrated in her seat. “This is so amazing.”
Ele didn’t even try to hide her smile. It was thrilling to be here. The atmosphere was electric. Seeing her country’s colors flying in the air as people waved scarves and flags filled her with pride. Then, the pageantry began. The two lines of players with their tiny child escorts walked onto the pitch. The flags were unfurled. When their anthem was announced, it seemed as if the whole stadium turned toward the royal box, honoring them. At the end of the song, both Juliana and Ele raised their hands and waved, prompting another roar. Then, suddenly, the game started.
And her calm fled. But it had nothing to do with her fear of being in public or the press. It was all about wanting to win. She wasn’t a competitor, but she didn’t want to have come this far and not win it all. It made the game more stressful than the rest. It also seemed to be the most competitive game they’d played. And at the end of the first period, they were deadlocked, zero to zero.
Millie s
lipped in behind Ele and tapped her on the shoulder. She leaned close and whispered, “You’re trending on social media.”
Ele’s eyes widened. “Uh, how?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the jersey and maybe your complete attention on the game. When we almost scored, you jumped up, and people caught it. It’s kind of viral.”
Ele swallowed hard and pulled lightly on the collar of the shirt. Millie handed her the iPad, and Ele tucked it into her lap, inconspicuous. One perk of the life she led was there were very few candid photos of her. She managed to escape the wandering eye of the press, which meant there were no pictures floating in cyberspace or printed anywhere with black boxes covering parts of her body or the word don’t captioned above her. The other side was that she rarely saw herself through someone else’s lens. In just the last couple of weeks, she’d taken a picture with Annalise and with Tristan, but she’d been prepared for both of those. The finished product merely an immortalized memory from her head. The picture she stared down at though was anything but. In fact, she had no recollection of the fanatic who was clearly a fan, jumping out of her seat, a zealous look in her eyes. Then, the crushing defeat etched onto her face when the outcome she had cheered for didn’t come to pass.
A discreet chuckle drew her eye. Robert stood behind them, peering over her shoulder. Ele’s gaze met his, and he wiped all expression from his face but not before she read the amusement there.
“Made a football fan out of ya,” Robert said low.
But she heard the unspoken part too—the, Didn’t he?
She glanced up and she rolled her eyes. Robert smirked.
Then, he nodded his head to an open space at the top of the box. Ele stood and followed them.
“At the end of the game, we’ll take the elevator down to the field level. The stage will take twelve and a half minutes to assemble. There is a room right off the hallway where we will wait. Michael will lead you and Juliana out as part of the delegation. As we discussed, you will help with the presentation—win or lose.” He paused, letting Ele digest this part of the plan, which they’d reviewed on the way to the stadium earlier. Multiple verbal run-throughs helped.
She nodded.
“Noah and I will be behind you. You will be either on the left or the right of the prime minister, depending on who wins. Losers go first. Individual awards. You will congratulate each player. Whatever is comfortable for you.” Robert stopped abruptly.
The absence of movement highlighted Ele’s constant head nodding. She closed her eyes, took a calming breath, and stopped moving like a bobblehead.
“When the last player comes through, we will depart the stage, back the way we came. We will go directly to the hallway, enter the elevator, and go to the motorcade.”
Ele reached out, her hand landing on his arm, surprising both of them. Robert’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. Ele snatched her hand away.
“What?” he asked gently.
She didn’t really know how to ask for what she wanted. Throwing off a precise timeline was delicate. Her hands landed on her thighs, rubbing away the sudden dampness. “Can I wait for him?” She could have cajoled, told him she didn’t want to walk away without a good-bye, or even cited royal duty to say something to the team. But those five words seemed to be all Robert needed.
He smiled at her like a proud father before he donned his security face. “Plan B timeline is slightly different. Following the awards ceremony, we will head back to the room and wait as the teams exit the field. There is a press room directly across the hall from where we will be. As the postgame interviews take place, you’ll be able to meet with any players you want. After the media departs, we will walk directly to the elevators to the motorcade on our way to the airfield.”
Ele’s eyes welled. She looked away from him and then up, trying to keep the tears of gratitude from falling. Finally, she returned his gaze.
“Thank you, Robert,” she said.
He bowed. “Your Highness.”
Shakily, Ele made her way down the steps. Admitting she wanted to see Tristan after the game hadn’t been a big deal. But it was like she’d handed Robert her heart, and he’d packaged it with the greatest care.
25
15 July
SeatGeek Stadium
The sideline ref held the placard above his head. Plus three. Tristan glanced around the pitch, taking stock. He had passed exhaustion ten minutes ago. With the threat of another thirty minutes hanging over them like a forbidden promise, Tristan summoned his measly reserves. His gaze connected with Rowan’s as France made a substitution. The strategist in him knew the longer the game wore on, their chance at winning diminished. They were good, but France was better. In extra time, the fatigue would showcase the differences. If they didn’t create an opportunity in the next three minutes, they would need a miracle.
He saw movement from their bench and realized Caleb was about to come into the game. The youngest member of the squad, he’d seen limited minutes, mostly because he was more raw talent than seasoned finesse. This might be football’s version of American football’s Hail Mary. Tristan smiled shrewdly. This could work, and when Rowan displayed a similar look, excitement coursed through Tristan, pumping him up.
On the throw in, Tristan stepped with renewed energy. And it wasn’t coming only from him. His teammates challenged every pass, and within three, possession shifted to them.
The greatest challenge when forming a National Team was finding and capitalizing on chemistry. This group didn’t play together year-round. Often, their club teams were great rivals. Knowing where players would show on the pitch took longer to figure out.
When the ball came to Tristan, he immediately looked for Caleb’s run. He knew what Caleb would do and where he would show—the advantage of playing with him for the last year. Tristan slotted the ball through the defenders—a perfect setup for Caleb to do his thing. But Caleb wasn’t in the flow of the game yet, so he took a quick, ill-advised shot on the goal. Tristan tried to keep his frustration locked down. France must have been experiencing the same sense of hurriedness because, off the counter, they forced a shot, too, allowing their keeper to catch the ball and put it into play quickly.
Hastings, the midfielder, carried the ball up the pitch with Caleb and their other winger Josco making runs. Tristan watched the play unfold, trailing the action. Hastings sent the ball forward, through the center and left-backs. Josco, lightning fast, chased the ball. He never stopped his run. Instead, he centered it with his left foot, sending the ball through the air and across the box—in a perfect position for Caleb to slot it in.
Be calm, be calm, be calm.
Like Josco, Caleb never broke stride. He volleyed the ball out of the air. It careened over the keeper’s head in a spotty trajectory, wobbling under the crossbar and dropping into the goal. For one glorious millisecond, silence descended in Tristan’s head. An unbelieving gut check before the chaos of belief settled. Then, he reacted, racing over to the dog pile of his teammates. Tristan disentangled himself from the melee, taking several of his teammates with him. The exhaustion lifted.
Tristan attempted to calculate how much time might be remaining. He exchanged another look with Rowan. There wasn’t much that could draw a smile from their captain. Tristan was among the few, but it seemed being mere moments away from winning the Cup made Rowan seem like an effervescent human being.
“Caption this, Tris!” Rowan said, pushing Tristan on both of his shoulders, sending him a half-step backward.
Tristan smiled broadly, but no words came to mind. He jogged over for the start of the play.
Then, France kicked off, and they attacked, stepping to the ball in an effort to retain the lead, not comfortable giving the other team any room to maneuver. When the whistle blew three times, Tristan had the ball at his feet, having just won it. He bent, scooping it up right before he was tackled to the ground by Rowan.
Later, if asked to describe those first five minutes following the end
of the game, he might be blank. He would remember the noise, the slickness of skin, confetti, and lights. The hugs, fist bumps, laughter. Rowan’s teeth, which Tristan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. The hive of activity, the rush of families onto the pitch. He struggled to center himself, to appreciate the moment. When his brain came back online, the stage had been erected, a yellow carpet laid, an archway built.
He waited with his team as the ceremony began. The trophy was marched to its stand amid cheers. Then, the parade of dignitaries commenced. He watched with little interest. He should have been able to name the people or at least their positions, but he never paid attention to those kinds of things. But then he saw Robert standing on the side of the stage, like a bull waiting for the gate to open so he could charge into the arena. It was then Tristan knew his princess would be stepping onto the pitch.
My princess?
It was his first coherent thought since the three whistles had blown. That it was about Ele surprised him. What about achieving one of the most elusive goals for any footballer? It flitted across his mind, fleeting and confusing, before he was shepherded into a line with his team as the awards ceremony began.
Suddenly, she was there, walking with Juliana by her side. He couldn’t help his double take when his gaze tripped down the length of her. The regal carriage she was unable to shake carried her along the uneven ground, her heels causing her to move with care. The white of her pants brought out the colors of her football jersey—his team’s football jersey. She looked so unlike he’d expected that he knew his eyes were wide and his jaw slack. He didn’t need Rowan’s tap on his chin, but it helped all the same.
