Hard Tackle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  “Sounds like we both want to ski.”

  “I’ll take you,” I promised. “Once all this is over, I’ll pay for a skiing holiday. Or I’ll pay for you to go with your friends if you’d prefer.”

  “No, we can go together. It’ll be fun. A celebration of tricking everyone with a fake marriage.”

  The marriage didn’t feel all that fake at the moment. We were living under the same roof, sleeping together, and planning holidays. If we started arguing over the chores and stopped having sex, then it would be a completely bona fide marriage.

  “How long until room service arrives?” Sophia asked. “I’m starving.”

  “About twenty minutes,” I replied. “That’s just about time for—”

  “Uh-uh. I don’t have the energy for that. Food first, then sex.”

  “It’s good to work up an appetite.”

  “We worked up an appetite an hour ago. We’re just still waiting for the food to arrive.”

  “You know, it’s not often women turn me down.”

  “Better get used to it, buster; we’re married now.”

  “I could have you right now if I wanted you,” I said with a smile.

  Sophia legs fidgeted under the covers, giving me all the confirmation I needed. This hotel had better hurry up with the food.

  “Stop being a cocky git and pass me the remote.”

  “A cocky git?” I asked.

  “Yeah. That’s what you people say isn’t it?”

  “I have never been more proud of you.” I threw Sophia the remote and just prayed that she wasn’t into reality television. How crazy was that? I didn’t even know what types of television shows my wife watched.

  Sophia flicked through the channels aimlessly, barely stopping on each one for a second before moving onto the next.

  “How can you even tell what the show is?” I asked.

  “I can tell,” she replied. “Ah, here we go. Let’s watch the fight.”

  “What fight?”

  “It’s the big UFC championship match. How have you not heard of it; It’s been hyped for weeks. US versus the UK. England versus America. Batman versus… no, wait, that’s something different.”

  “You like this rubbish?” I asked.

  I liked boxing, and I’d always thought of UFC as being a less disciplined, more bloodthirsty version of that. The UFC crowds bayed for blood in much the same way as an audience at a wrestling match. It didn’t really do anything for me.

  “Ellie, Dani, and I always watch it when we can. It’s quite entertaining after a few bottles of wine.”

  I glanced up at the television as the British fighter—Elliot Michaels—was introduced to the home crowd.

  “I think I’ve just figured out why you like watching this,” I said, as I watched Elliot stroll up towards the cage.

  “Touch jealous, are we?” Sophia teased.

  “Not likely. I have all the muscles they do, and my tattoos are better.”

  “You sound jealous.”

  “Actually, I am,” I admitted. Elliot’s team gathered around him before the fight, which included a young woman holding a medical bag. “My doctor is nowhere near that attractive.”

  “Yeah, well, unfortunately for you, she isn’t about to get half-naked and work up a sweat on television. This will be my little treat before dinner.”

  A phone call from Harry gave me a decent excuse not to watch this crap.

  “What’s up Harry?”

  “I’ve got good news—the public is loving that little walking tour you did of London earlier. I’ll give you your dues, that was a damn good play. Visiting all those independent shops makes you look like a real ‘community values’ kind of guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hated it when Harry made this all sound so artificial. I knew it was, but I didn’t like hearing it from others. Sophia and I could talk that way about it, but no one else.

  “The palace visit also went down well. You’re coming across as mature and sensible, which is quite remarkable for you.”

  “Thanks again, Harry.”

  “You’re welcome. Anyway, I want you to do another event in the public eye. Something to really make you look like a prince and heir to the throne.”

  “I don’t want to look like a prince,” I insisted. “We need to look like a couple, but I’m never going to become a prince, and I’m sure as hell never going to be king.”

  I’d let Harry in on the secret, because he started getting his hopes up about being a full-time PR person for the royal family. I’d done my best to let him down gently, but he hadn’t taken the news well.

  “I was hoping you’d changed your mind about that.”

  “Nope. This is not about me becoming a prince. It’s about me getting the inheritance I’m entitled to.”

  “Alright, alright, you win. But you should do another appearance anyway. One more won’t hurt.”

  Harry was right. We needed to look like a couple or the trustees wouldn’t be convinced by the marriage. We could buy a house, or make some other grand commitment, but a few public appearances were a lot easier and quicker. The sooner I got the money, the sooner we could go back to our normal lives.

  That would be a mixed blessing. I’d have money, but I wouldn’t have Sophia. There was always the skiing holiday to look forward to, though. If that’s how things had to end between us, then it would be a fun way to go out.

  “Okay, one more event,” I agreed. “But nothing with the royal family. That would send a mixed message.”

  “Deal.”

  “Thanks Harry.”

  I hung up and looked back at Sophia. I’d been hoping she was too transfixed by the fight to have paid attention to my conversation, but she’d clearly picked up the gist of it.

  “What are we doing next?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Nothing major.”

  “Okay, well that’s fine with me. We might need pictures of us together when applying for my visa. Helps to prove the relationship is real.”

  “You know, if you wanted to prove we have a genuine relationship, then we could take some photos that would be conclusive proof—”

  “No,” Sophia snapped immediately. “Not happening, mister.”

  “Shame. You look so damn good when you’re down on your knees sucking my—”

  “Room service,” came a call from the door.

  I grabbed our food and presented Sophia with her tray since she didn’t look like she had any intention on getting out of bed.

  “I should have ordered more,” she said. “I’m famished.”

  “You have a burger, fries, Oreo cookie milkshake, and a chocolate tart for dessert. Surely you can’t eat all that?”

  “I’m always hungry after sex,” she replied, shoving fries into her mouth.

  “Guess I’d better start leaving snacks by the bed.”

  “It’d be wise.” She paused to eat, and then stopped to drink some of her milkshake. “You haven’t changed your mind about becoming a prince?”

  “Nope. Not at all. Why’d you ask?”

  I knew the answer. She wanted to be a princess, and god damn it, she deserved to be one. I wished I could give her that, but I couldn’t. That’s not what this was about.

  “You just shouldn’t be so quick to write it off. You could do a lot of good as a prince, and you’d still have loads of money.”

  “But I need the money for Tabitha; you know that.”

  “Yes, but I’ve heard rumors that princes are actually quite well off.”

  “I won’t be able to spend taxpayer funds on my sister.”

  “As long as you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure,” I insisted, as Sophia went back to eating.

  I watched as she took a large bite from the burger and piled a few more fries into her mouth. I had to shove food into my own mouth just to stop myself from laughing. I had no idea how anyone so petite could eat so much and not put on weight. Even stranger, I found the sight of her eating on
e of the sexiest things I’d ever seen. There was nothing this girl could possibly do to put me off.

  Then Sophia belched.

  She quickly covered her mouth with her hand and gasped, but didn’t look round at me. I bit my lip hard, but in the end the laugh slipped out anyway. Once I laughed Sophia went bright red and tried to hide her face in her hands.

  I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and brought her gently towards me, being careful not to knock any of the trays over.

  “You’re absolutely adorable, you know that?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sophia

  One day soon, we’d have to leave this place, and I’d have to go back to college, but for now I didn’t intend to move an inch more than I had to.

  I woke up to a message on my phone from George. Be back soon. Need to see a man about a dog. Keep the bed warm for me.

  I’ll be in the shower when you get back. Come in and join me.

  We’d been screwing all day, and the day before that, so I seemed to be constantly sweaty and sticky no matter how many times we shared a shower. Actually, sharing a shower often led to us getting sweaty and sticky again.

  My phone vibrated on the marble surface next to the sink and then fell to the floor before I could grab it. I should have known George would reply to that message. Probably something filthy.

  There was no text message, but an email had come through. I’d turned all email notifications off after George and I went public, but I’d forgotten about an old Gmail account that I didn’t use any more.

  I’d switched to a new account after splitting with Stan, and everyone had my new email address. Everyone except Stan.

  Hi gorgeous,

  Long time no see.

  Blood drained from my face, and I felt dizzy and sick at the same time. The urge to vomit kept me in the bathroom, but I sat down on the cold marble floor before I fainted.

  Seems you’ve come into money. Or rather your new husband has.

  I guess this is where I say congratulations. Congratulations! I’m happy for you, I really am. And I’m happy for myself too. I didn’t think you’d ever be able to repay me for the pain, and emotional distress I went through after you ran out on our wedding, but now it looks like you can.

  That wedding wasn’t cheap, plus you embarrassed me in front of my friends and family. $1,000,000 should cover it.

  Don’t even think about showing this to the police or pretending you can’t afford it. I want the money and if you can’t give it to me, I’ll just have to find some other way to profit from this mess.

  Hmm… whatever could I sell to make some money…

  I frowned at the cryptic ending to the email, and read it again. What would he sell? Stories about us? I suppose he could say I was shit in bed, but there would likely be men coming out and saying the opposite. If they didn’t, I might give them a nudge. The public deserved to hear both sides of every story after all.

  It wasn’t until I closed the email that I spotted the paperclip next to it, showing that there was an attachment. Not just one attachment—twenty-two. Photos, short video clips, and a few screenshots of text messages.

  The messages were from me and they were graphic. Nowhere near as graphic as the photos and video clips though. Some of them were just body shots, but there were plenty containing my face in varying stages of excitement. One picture even showed my face with evidence of Stan’s excitement all over it. The videos were all of me touching myself waiting for Stan to join me at home. I’d been bored and—much to my continued amazement—I used to desire him.

  Now the entire country was about to see its princess—and possible future queen—in a way that only her boyfriend of the time was ever supposed to see.

  I closed my eyes and prayed for the floor to open up and swallow me. I couldn’t handle this. There was a reason Princes and Princesses were kept in a bubble from birth. It was so they didn’t do anything foolish like sending nude photos to their partners or making homemade sex tapes.

  There had to be a way out of this. If George never officially accepted his role as a prince, then as far as Stan knew, he wouldn’t have any money. We didn’t have to make the inheritance public knowledge. Stan might still release the photos out of spite, but he wouldn’t be able to blackmail me.

  George didn’t want to be a prince anyway, and I sure as hell didn’t want to become a princess if it meant that videos of me touching myself, slick and wet with excitement, ended up all over the Internet. I’d go down in history with one of those awful nicknames like Slutty Sophia, or The Randy Princess.

  “Everything okay?” George asked.

  I opened my eyes and looked up from my position still sat on the cold bathroom floor. I hadn’t even noticed him come in. How long had I been here for? I still felt sick to my stomach. Stan could release those photos and videos at any minute. How long would it take that information to get out online? Three, maybe four seconds?

  “Yeah,” I said, pushing myself up to my feet. “I’m fine. Just figured I’d wait for you before getting in the shower. Is that man’s dog okay?”

  George frowned, but then laughed. “I wasn’t actually seeing… Nevermind. God, you’re adorable. Come here.”

  George wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly. His hands were freezing cold on my back, but I didn’t flinch away.

  I should tell him. If he changed his mind and decided to become a prince, this would be as much an issue for him as it would for me. Not to mention, it would be a national embarrassment.

  I felt dirty, and not in a good way. What had I been thinking? I’d been in love with Stan at the time, but I should have known better than to do something so permanent.

  “So, uh, why were you sat on the bathroom floor?” George asked.

  “Just thinking.”

  “About?”

  “About whether I want to be a princess after all. I’m coming around to your way of thinking. Perhaps it’s just best if claim the inheritance, and then… you know.”

  “Go our separate ways?

  “Yeah. After spending an appropriate amount of time together of course.”

  “Of course,” George agreed. “Wouldn’t want to risk it looking fake. Maybe we should be together a little longer than we initially planned?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Still want a shower?” George asked.

  “Why don’t we see if this bath is big enough for two?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  George

  “I feel like a right tit.”

  “Well I think you look absolutely adorable,” Sophia said, as she looked me up and down.

  “You’re not allowed to call me that,” I insisted. “That’s my word for you.”

  “Okay, then you look handsome,” Sophia said.

  “I’d be a lot more convinced if you weren’t covering your mouth with your hand to stifle a laugh.”

  I never in a million years thought I would be seen dead with tight white trousers, knee high leather boots, and a whip.

  “You two ready?” Harry asked, before looking me up and down. “Um, George, you don’t need a whip for polo.”

  “Someone told me I did,” I said tersely, staring at Sophia, who was still trying not to laugh.

  “You just need this stick,” Harry said, taking the whip from me and passing Sophia and me long sticks with a club at the end. “Simple game really. You just need to use this to hit the ball in the hole.”

  “Simple,” Sophia said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “except we’ll be doing it on horses.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Sophia said. “It’s easy. Like riding a bike. Kind of.”

  “You’ve ridden before?” Harry asked.

  “Yeah, she’s used to riding a horse,” I joked.

  “A few times,” Sophia replied, after elbowing me in the ribs. “A friend from school used to own a horse, and she let me ride it occasionally.”

  “But you
haven’t, George?”

  “No,” I replied. “We weren’t really the horse riding type growing up.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

  I didn’t.

  * * *

  “Remind me why we’re doing this again?” I yelled to Sophia as she rode past me chasing after the ball. I tried to turn the horse around, but by the time I had done so, the ball was heading back in the other direction. I should just play goalkeeper. Did they have goalkeepers in this sport?

  “It’s for charity,” she yelled back.

  So this is what the nobility did in its spare time—faffed around on horses for other rich people to watch. My schoolmates were going to have a great fucking laugh when these pictures came out.

  I had no hope of making any contribution to the team, so I just watched Sophia riding gracefully around the field as if she’d been doing this sort of thing her entire life. She dangled so far over the side of the horse in an effort to reach the ball, it was a miracle she didn’t fall off. I, on the other hand, could barely stay on the horse even though I was making no effort to play the ball.

  As usual, Sophia looked perfect. I never could keep my eyes off her when she wore tight trousers, and right now the trousers were so tight I could see her thighs tensing as she fought to stay in control of the horse between her legs.

  Men like me were not meant to ride horses. I was way too fucking big for one thing. I should be playing rugby, or, at a push, football. I’d rather play cricket than this shit, and that was really saying something given my general hatred for that ‘sport.’

  People on my team started shouting my name while horses from the opposing team sped towards me. I looked down and saw the ball lying still next to my horse. I should probably do something.

  I leant over and swung the big club-thing in my hand. I made contact with the ball and sent it somewhere in Sophia’s general direction. Then the momentum of my swing brought my club all the way round, and made me lose balance.

  Turns out losing balance while riding a horse—badly—is not a good combination. I fell. Frankly, I was amazed it took so long. I hadn’t been particularly high up, but I still managed to hit the ground with an almighty thud.