by J Santiago
“Close it, big mouth,” Rowan said softly, laughter woven through his words.
Tristan was unable to tear his gaze from her as she stepped up onto the stage.
He’d watched the World Championship Cup, every four years, gathered around his family television. He’d dreamed of this moment, pictured himself standing in line with the members of his team, waiting for the medal to be placed around his neck.
The noise buffeted the proceedings. The speakers muffled rather than amplified, so the disembodied voice was indistinguishable. The individual awards were announced. Tris watched as Ele hugged and spoke to the recipients. Then the officials. She was all princess and it was a gut check for him. He’d never seen her as she was right at this time, and he realized he only understood one tiny facet of her large life. He watched the French team claim their prizes with a more discerning eye. These were the last minutes he would see Princess Eleanor in person.
Rowan was first. Tristan followed behind his Skipper and best friend. He was ever cognizant of making his way toward Ele. He accepted hugs, congratulations, and his medal until he reached her. Her smile shifted when their eyes met. It had been blinding before, but Tristan realized it had been impersonal. The one she graced him with was for him only. He’d seen it the night she snuck out of her room, at Navy Pier, after almost every kiss. As he stared up at her, he remembered and appreciated it. It grounded him.
Then, she leaned toward him, but rather than the stiff, proper hug she’d been dealing out, she embraced him. Her hands rested momentarily on the nape of his neck, her nails digging in hard for a split second before she returned them to his shoulders.
Her voice filtered into his rattled brain. “So proud of you. And happy for you.”
He should have taken into consideration the crowd, the cameras, her fears. But in that moment, he could only think about celebrating this victory with her. Without any thought, his hands slipped to her waist, and he picked her up off the raised stage and spun her around. She must have forgotten about everything around them, too, because she merely laughed. He set her back down. He was allowed one more hug.
“I’m glad you were here,” he told her before the line forced him forward.
As he stepped from the stage, he caught Robert’s penetrating gaze and fierce frown. Tristan was already berating himself for his impulsiveness, but then Robert winked at him. It was so quick and unexpected that Tristan laughed. He joined his team for the party, basking in the win, Robert’s approval, and Ele’s presence.
And suddenly, it was over. The fans exited the stadium, and their contingent gradually dwindled.
“Ready?” Rowan asked. “I’ve got to do some press.”
Tristan indulged in another look around. Confetti littered the pitch, and there were stragglers in the stands. The dignitaries had long exited.
“Don’t you have someone to see?”
Tristan glanced back at Rowan. “No.”
“That’s it then?”
“Yeah,” he said before he turned and headed off the pitch.
Rowan followed. It was difficult to reconcile his overwhelming happiness of their win and the crushing disappointment of Ele’s departure. Made sense. Tomorrow, the team had interviews and TV appearances. They would head home the following day. There was no time and zero opportunity for a final meeting. He’d known it when they said their private good-bye the night before. He’d given it a passing thought this morning, but then he’d had the most important game of his career to prepare for, and he’d shoved the thought of her away. He knew she couldn’t risk an encounter with him in an uncontrolled space. So, yeah, that was it then.
Fuck!
He kept walking to the tunnel. It seemed the party had moved inside. There were cameras and people everywhere. He maneuvered his way through, Rowan on his heels. They reached the media room, and Rowan ducked inside. Tristan lingered in the hall for a few minutes. It felt like the second he entered the changing room, the night would be over, the victory just another to tally in his career. He wasn’t quite ready for that. The clicking of cameras drifted from the interviews, and he listened with half an ear as questions were lobbed in Rowan’s direction. He leaned against the wall just as the door across from him opened. He glanced up and almost jumped in surprise as Robert’s large frame filled the space.
“Took you long enough.”
Tristan pushed away from the wall and darted through the open door with a quickness that would have done his manager proud. Ele was seated in a rickety folding chair. She jumped up as he appeared, and the chair clattered to the floor. Tristan wasted no time in scooping her up into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her forehead against his. His hands moved up and down her back, pulling her closer against him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She leaned away from him, and he felt the loss immediately.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying a proper good-bye.”
“E,” he groaned, looking around the room at Millie and Michael and Robert. “We can’t really have a proper good-bye here.”
She laughed, and he smiled at her. He knew they were surrounded by her people, but he couldn’t resist. His lips met hers in a fierce, hungry kiss. When he came up for air, Ele stepped away from him. A wicked glint appeared in her eyes. The look held a confidence he hadn’t seen from her unless she was in tiara mode.
“Clear the room,” she said. Her eyes didn’t veer from Tristan’s even as her command flew from her mouth.
Tristan didn’t see anyone leave, didn’t detect any movement, because he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. But suddenly, the door clicked shut, and they were alone. He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw. His hold was possessive as he stepped toward her.
“Thank you,” he said. He left space, but his other hand gripped her hip.
Her gaze softened. “For what?”
“For this.”
He’d locked it all away. But with her standing here, he couldn’t hide from it anymore. His feelings for her ran deep. His disappointment in the end of their affair was immense. He would miss her forever. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, and his eyes cataloged her features. He loved his final in-person image of Ele, including her in a football jersey.
“I hated leaving you the other night, knowing it was the end.”
Her hand flew to his mouth, and her fingers landed on his lips, stifling any other words. “None of that,” she whispered. “You have given me so much.”
He cocked a brow at her.
“You have. You’ll never know what these four weeks have meant to me, what your presence in my life has meant. And I’ll never be able to put words to it. But I need you to know, I’ll never forget you or the time we were together.”
She leaned forward, and her fingers left his lips, so her mouth could settle there. One, two gentle touches. Tristan’s hands tightened, nudging her forward until she was flush against him. Then, her kiss changed, becoming frantic, desperate. Tristan gave in to it, pouring all of his latent sorrow into their exchange. If she was trying to communicate to him the importance of their time, he was trying to express his disappointment at their ending. As if every word and feeling had been shared, they began to retreat. When they pulled apart, Tristan dropped his forehead to hers. His hands remained on her jaw, on her hip, reluctant to release their hold.
Then, she pulled away. She walked to the door, opened it, and left.
Tristan remained where he was, his hands dangling, empty.
Just like his heart.
26
4 August
Welston House
Ele awoke earlier than normal, her stomach a riot of rollicking butterflies. She stayed for a moment as she was, tangled up in sheets with a thread count she never actually considered. The drudgery of the morning’s gray sky careened through the openings in the heavy drapes, casting dim light in its wake. She stretched her arm and pulled open the drawer of the Louis XIV nightstand. Nestle
d within easy reach was a clipping from a magazine she had covertly obtained. Already, it was crinkled, showing overuse. But she placed it on her mattress and smoothed it out, studying it from every angle. She fell back on her pillow somewhat dramatically as she replayed the moment immortalized forever by some unknown photographer.
It was these times when she couldn’t hide from her desires. The trappings of her life were all around her. The opulence of her home, the luxuriousness of every single object, the history of her ancestors displayed as easily as some chronicled just two generations. Everything that set her apart from the world surrounded her, and the only thing that grounded her was now merely a memory.
Except tonight, the footballer she’d dreamed about was going to walk into the palace she lived in. Hence, the ridiculous toil in her belly. She’d really just mastered making it through the day without thoughts of Tristan dominating her brain. She couldn’t help what her head got up to at night.
The first week had been pure torture. She stalked every news outlet, every social media site. And even if she hadn’t, Tristan Davenport, the social media prince, was everywhere. Any interview with members of the team included him. Every billboard erected in their honor featured his face in 2-D glory. Even if she wanted to forget about him, she wasn’t able to escape him.
Then, the realization set in. The one where she remembered the only access she had to Tristan would come from a distance. Most likely with screens between them. Her watching him on one or reading about him or longing for him. It was like, the first week, she overdosed on the image of him. And when the rush became too much, she needed a detox.
She spent the next couple of weeks orchestrating a withdrawal from Tristan Davenport. She begged Millie to take the iPad away from her and put some sort of block, so she couldn’t cyberstalk him. With the temptation removed, she was able to carve out some football-free time. If only the rest of her country had cooperated. Ele could escape Tristan in her home, but with her countrymen and women in the throes of football fever, the moment she stepped outside, she was confronted with it.
Apparently, the World Championship Cup hadn’t only been a victory for the footballers. It had been a public relations coup for the palace. Ele was suddenly the darling of the media, the Ice Princess moniker melting to a puddle under the glare of her international success. Even the queen seemed to be impressed by her, and as much as she hated to admit it, Ele hadn’t curried the queen’s favor in so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to bask in it. Her schedule rivaled Jamie’s with appearances, luncheons, ribbon cuttings, and the like. She found keeping busy kept the thoughts at bay, and her newfound confidence with the press made staying occupied so easy to come by. It mostly worked. Except, well, everyone wanted to talk about the Cup.
Twenty days post Cup, the win was still on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Even the philatelic society—the damn stamp collectors—wanted to discuss the victory when she attended their annual meeting.
“That Tristan Davenport,” a man with rheumy eyes and arthritic fingers said, “when he spun you around”—pause for a hacking cough—“I thought, Well, isn’t that just the merriest sight?”
Ele nodded accordingly and offered a bland smile. But she wanted to argue the merriest sight was Tristan with intent in his eyes when he leaned in to kiss her or Tristan as he grabbed her hand and pulled her along Navy Pier or the wicked smile Tristan leveled at her as he slid between her legs. Yes, her merriest memories of Tristan plagued her day and night. And even though that image of Tristan spinning her around on the awards dais had graced magazine covers—and perhaps resided in her nightstand drawer—and had grossed some crazy millions of views on YouTube, she resented the mention of it a bit. Because it should have been their moment—just Tristan and Ele, overjoyed with his accomplishment. But Tristan was a limelight chaser, and if he had been seeking any more notoriety, he’d found it. Instead of cherishing the act of him swinging her up in his arms as he’d celebrated with her, Ele had begun to resent his impulsivity and lack of foresight. And every reminder of it had chipped away at the sweetness with which she’d experienced it.
She shook her head, dispelling the thought. She had other things to worry about. Like the reception tonight.
With the rest of the house still asleep, Ele left her bed, slipped on a fleece robe, and ambled through the deserted halls to the kitchen. Her parents had had their faults, more than most people were aware, but one thing she would always appreciate was their insistence on a residence away from the royal palace. Although Juliana lived with the queen, Ele and Jamie stayed here, in a royal residence but one that seemed more like a home. Yes, they were surround by a staff handpicked and vetted, but it was still their place. The morning, before the hustle and bustle began, was her favorite time.
Ele fixed coffee and took it into the solarium. She wasn’t surprised to find Jamie perusing the headlines. While Ele found politics and policy boring, Jamie thrived in the environment. She sometimes wondered if it was mere conditioning. The map of Jamie’s life was a detailed route, an itinerary planned down to the pit stops. He never veered, and as far as she knew, he never wanted to detour. So, the politics and ins and outs of the government were things he loved. Whether it was the chicken or the egg that had come first never even occurred to him.
“Good morning,” Ele greeted, sliding into the chair across from him.
He glanced up, cast a quick smile, and returned to his reading. She didn’t even think to be offended by his lackluster response. He would talk when he was ready. And Ele was content to drink her coffee and watch as the sun attempted to find a way to bust through the clouds. She hadn’t come to find Jamie for any particular purpose, she thought. But now, with an opportunity to talk to him without anyone around, she realized she had sought him out for a reason.
Ele pulled her gaze from the windows and found Jamie watching her.
He placed his tablet on the table next to him and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Are you excited about tonight?”
Although she was tempted to roll her eyes, Ele held his gaze. “Yes, and no.”
“Do tell.”
She leaned her head back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. “I feel like I’ve just figured out how to not think about him all the time. And now, I’ll have to see him tonight, and all that work will be wasted.”
The room was quiet around them, not a ticking of a clock or an errant clatter of work being done. A ray of sunshine finally penetrated the gray, and the dappled light drew her attention. It was an ill-timed metaphor for her confession. But she’d already started, and suddenly, she wanted to talk to him about it.
“Is there any way, anyplace where I could …” She got stuck, not knowing exactly what she was asking. “I mean, could we be together? Is there any possibility of that?”
Jamie shuffled in his seat. “I didn’t think it was that serious,” he muttered.
Ele looked at him. “What? You date. I could date.”
“Date. Tristan Davenport?”
“Is it dating when you’re almost thirty?” she asked and then snickered.
But Jamie didn’t laugh with her. His lack of a response drew her attention to him.
“Jamie?”
He stood from his chair and walked to the windows that spanned the back wall. He didn’t say anything, and as the silence lengthened, Ele began to get nervous. It wasn’t like Jamie to hold back with her. If he was having trouble telling her what was on his mind, she feared she wouldn’t like what he had to say.
“I didn’t think this through,” Jamie said, although he wasn’t speaking to her.
“Jamie?”
He turned toward her. “It was supposed to be a fling.”
Ele’s brow furrowed. “Yes, it started like that. But he makes me feel okay, Jamie. He grounds me, you know? And makes me laugh and makes me go warm with …” She trailed off. Some things she couldn’t share with her brother.
She blushed, and Jamie stared at her. Strippe
d bare in front of him, Ele rubbed her palms against her thighs.
“You fell in love with him?” he said, his awe and disbelief its own presence.
“No!” she blurted. A reaction more than a thought. “We barely know each other. Which is why I want to explore things between us.”
Jamie was contemplative, casually leaning against the windowpanes, staring at her as if he could use that elusive telepathy to gain access to her most intimate thoughts. “Does he feel the same way? He wants to try to find a way to spend more time with you?”
Ele shifted, uncomfortable. She rubbed her hands against her thighs again, her discomfort morphing into a flare of panic. She tamped it down. This is Jamie. There is no reason to be upset.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “We haven’t spoken since Chicago.”
Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t made any contact with you? Then, how do you know he wants to pursue something more?”
“I don’t.”
“Damn it, Ele. You weren’t supposed to go and fall in love with him. It was a diversion. A whim to get you out of your comfort zone.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, a drawn-out word, and then things began to click. “Jamie, what are you not telling me?” She couldn’t say what had prompted the question, but she knew she’d hit on something when he scratched his brow.
He shuffled to the chair and then slumped in it. Pitching forward, he dropped his elbows to his knees. “When I sent you to America, I thought it would be good for you. You were doing better, and I figured it would be good for you—”
“You already said that.”
“Said what?”
“Good for me. Since when do you decide what’s good for me?”
“Since you witnessed our parents’ assassination,” he whispered.
But it was a verbal slap nonetheless, and Ele flinched.
“Do you think it’s been easy, watching you retreat from the world? You were the vivacious, brave one of the two of us … until you weren’t. And I haven’t seen you smile like that or open yourself up to anyone new in twelve long years. I knew you wouldn’t do anything about it unless an opportunity was made available. So, I convinced the queen to let you go to America in my stead.”
