The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(56)

“Yeah, we can give it a go,” I say, hearing trepidation in my voice.

“Are you scared, Crew?”

Yes.

“Pfft, no. Remember what I said in the hotel? I’m going to destroy you.”

“We do not destroy in fencing,” poor J?rg says.

“Yes, we lunge to death,” Hazel says, fixing her mask back on her head, giving herself a good pat on the top of her head.

I’m pretty sure J?rg is ready for this lesson to be over, so instead of correcting Hazel, he steps between us, and lacking luster, he says, “En garde.”

Hazel and I both raise our foils into position. I can’t see her eyes through the mesh of the mask, but I know if these were clear windows, I’d see utter determination. Hazel has always been tenacious— in everything we’ve done together—especially if she felt as though I had the upper hand. Little does she know, I don’t feel confident in my skills as a fencer at all.

Not when I keep getting flashes of her in a white wedding gown.

“Allez,” J?rg says, and before I know it, Hazel lunges at me, poking me dead-on in the crotch. Thankfully, I’m wearing protective gear, so I don’t crumble in pain. What the hell?

“Oh God, I got you in the manhood. Are you okay?” Hazel asks as J?rg offers her a point.

I hold my hand up and nod. “Yeah, just caught me by surprise is all. Nothing is damaged. Maybe aim higher next time.”

“Sorry.” She chuckles. “You’re just so tall. Your penis is at lunge level.”

“Lucky me.” I stand and shake out my limbs.

“You ready?” J?rg asks. I nod and so does Hazel. “En garde.” We get into position. “Allez.”

Once again, Hazel lunges, and her foil hits my inner thigh with a double jab to my crotch.

“Jesus,” I mutter, bending over.

“Point Miss Hazel.”

“Did I get you in the junk again?”

I’m curled over slightly as I nod at her. “Yeah.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” I shake my head, even though the jab to the inner thigh was definitely surprising. “Just making sure everything is in place.”

“Okay, well, I’m ready when you are.”

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Focus, Smith. Allez means go, that’s when you’re supposed to lunge, not just stand there and let her continue to poke you in the dick.

“En garde.” We get into position, and I swear, I catch a glimpse of a smile on Hazel’s face through all the mesh. “Allez.” Is she planning— She jabs me again, harder this time, and I crumble to the floor.

“Goye . . . my balls.”

“Point Miss Hazel.”

“Yes, we know,” I groan. “Don’t kick a man while he’s down, J?rg.”

Hazel walks up to me, her shoes coming into my view as I kneel on the floor, curled into fetal position.

“Ooops. Did I get you in your precious zone again?”

I slowly turn my head to look up at her. Her mask is off, hanging in her hand, and there’s a sinister smile on her face.

“You . . . wench.”

The corners of her mouth tilt up even higher while her foil presses against my chest. “I hope this serves as a reminder to you to never underestimate me. I might be small in stature, but I’m quick, smart, and I can tear down your behemoth body any day.” She tilts her chin up and walks away.

Talk about being bested.





“You are a cruel, cruel woman.”

I stare at the Pepto-Bismol pink sludge that’s in between two pieces of bread as she laughs.

“You go and stab my testicles multiple times and then order me a herring salad sandwich.” I poke the sandwich with my fork and try not to flinch from the ooze of whatever this thing is made of.

“It sounded so appetizing. And Pops did say I could pick what you eat tonight. Why wouldn’t I pick a sandwich filled with herring, beetroot, gherkins, and mayonnaise? All on a lovely piece of dark rye bread. It was screaming your name.”

I eye her and she tries to hold back her smile, but I can see that it’s impossible.

“You do realize you have to share a bed with me tonight, right?”

“Yes.”

“And if I have any sort of repercussions from my digestive system not being able to suffer through a new type of food, you’re going to have to deal with the consequences.”

Her smile falters. “What kind of digestive repercussions?”

I shrug. “Who knows? Could be a series of ungodly events.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re just trying to make me change my mind about this.”

I eye her pretzel-bun bratwurst, jealousy coursing through me.

“Nah, I’d never do that. I’m a man of my word. I lost, and I’ll eat what you place in front of me. Just wanted to make sure you know what might happen if I do.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and says, “I’m willing to take my chances.”

“Okay.” I shrug and pick up my fork and knife so I can cut into the sandwich. There’s no way in hell I’m going to pick the sloppy thing up and allow whatever pink juice is coming out of it to slide down my hands and arms. The less contact the better. I cut a small piece and spear it with my fork then hold it up to her. “Cheers to your victory.” Without giving it a second thought . . . or smell, I place it in my mouth.