Arrogant Devil(107)

Those first fourteen years were a real struggle. My mother had insisted I stay in dance but I’d insisted on playing soccer. It wasn’t until I earned a spot on the U-17 National Team at only fifteen years old that she let me tear down the dance posters in my room. Throughout high school, I’d replaced them with soccer stars like Ashlynn Harris, Hope Solo, and Cristiano Ronaldo. Admittedly, Cristiano was there mostly for eye-candy. Also, I liked to rub his abs like Buddha’s belly for luck before a big game.

“Andie, are you using that hand sanitizer I packed in the front left pocket of your bag?” my mom asked as soon as the call connected.

That was the first question she asked. Not, how the hell is Rio? The Olympics? Practice?

“Yes.” I sighed. “But did you honestly have to pack a sixty-eight ounce bottle in my carryon? I had to shove it in my checked luggage and it spilled on half of my underwear.”

“Brazil is different.” She whispered ‘different’ like it was derogatory. “Besides, it can’t hurt to have extra clean underwear.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah Mom, that is priority number one as I, y’know, compete for a gold medal.”

She mm-hmmed cheerily, accepting my sarcasm as truth.

“Well, just let me know if you need any more underwear.”

I edged closer to the balcony, embarrassed by the conversation. “No Mom, don’t send me more underwear.” I tried to change the subject. “The condos are fun. I’m sharing a space with Kinsley and Becca.”

“They’ve put you all in a condo? How can that be safe?”

“Security only allows athletes and coaches to enter. Guests have limited visiting hours and they—”

“Oh! Sweetie, guess what I watched this morning while I was walking on the treadmill!” She didn’t even notice she’d cut me off.

“What?”

“I try to walk at least a mile or two every morning. I even put on some Taylor Swift sometimes, but don’t tell your dad because he thinks her music is just—”

“MOM. What’d you watch this morning?”

“Oh! It was this little special on the CBS.”

She loved saying “the CBS” like it was a thing.

“Have you heard of Frederick Archibald? They did a feature about his upbringing and his special path to the Olympics.”

My stomach dropped at the mention of his name. Was there no escaping his celebrity?

“Apparently he’s a prince or something in England!”

I laughed and shook my head. “Mom, he’s not a prince. He’s just on the swim team.”

She shushed me. “No no, believe me. Hold on, let me open up the Google.”

Oh Jesus.

Ten minutes later—after she’d accidentally restarted her computer and updated her antivirus software twice—she pulled up the article.

“All right! It says here—” She paused and shuffled around, and I knew she was finding her tortoise shell reading glasses. “His father was the Duke of Farlington and before he passed away, Freddie was just called Lord Frederick Archibald, but now he is His Grace, Frederick Archibald, Earl of Norhill and Duke of Farlington!”

Wait. What? I laughed. That couldn’t possibly be right. She made it sound like Freddie was living in Middle Earth. I didn’t even know dukes were still a thing that existed.

I turned away from the window and pressed the phone closer to my ear. She kept rambling on about the CBS special, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what she was saying. Freddie was a DUKE? He’d touched my hand! He’d touched my butt! He’d basically knighted me and I’d tossed my panties at his face like a commoner. Jesus.

“Mom, I have to go,” I said, overwhelmed by the discovery.

“Oh? So soon? All right, okay. Just use that hand sanitizer and try to find Frederick. I’d love to show your meemaw a photo of you with British royalty.”

Oh my god. “Okay Mom. Sounds good.”

“Oh wait! It’s also says here that three weeks ago—”

I hung up before she could continue to ramble. I loved her, truly I did, but once she got going, there was no stopping her. It was either cut her off midsentence or turn into a mummified corpse out on that balcony.

By the time I made it back inside, Kinsley and Becca had exchanged their unicorn onesies for jean shorts and t-shirts. We started making our way down to the food court, and though my stomach was rumbling nonstop, I couldn’t help but focus on what my mother had just told me. If Freddie really was British royalty—wait, are dukes royal? Who cares. If Freddie really was a duke, the chances of him and I ever getting another moment alone were slim to none. He probably wouldn’t be hanging out around the Olympic village like other athletes. He’d be off sipping tea with baby George.

“Are you thinking about Freddie?” Kinsley asked as we stepped out of the elevator on the first floor.

I shrugged and lied. “No.”

“Because there really is something you should know before—”

I held up my hand. “Honestly, could everyone please stop talking about him?”

Between my mom and Kinsley, I’d never get him out of my head. I was in Rio to play the field, not get hung up on a guy after day one.



I’D GROWN USED to Kinsley’s popularity back in Los Angeles, but walking around with her in the village felt like accompanying Taylor Swift to the Grammys. When we stepped into the food court, heads snapped in our direction. Athletes, families, friends, coaches—it didn’t matter what country they were from—they all knew who Kinsley Bryant was, thanks to her marriage to Liam Wilder and her meteoric rise to soccer fame.