Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(10)

Then Aheahe opens the fridge and the light wakes me up.

Of course brothers have to go to the bathroom. It sounds like a herd of elephants walking around upstairs. Then the girls go. At some point, Dee pukes in the toilet. Back when she was dating Akele, I learned to recognize the unique sonic signature of her vomiting.

By about six o'clock in the morning, I've mostly given up on sleep. I drag my aching body in circles around the living room, replaying last night's game in my head. Trying to, anyway. It turns into a replay of the bar fight. Nothing is so satisfying as the sensation of my fist hitting Ransom Kaye's nose. I smile a little inside every time I look at his face. He never quite healed right after I broke it the last time.

We're not finished.

As I pace, my thoughts go back to Ana grinding on me on the dance floor. She's a nimble little one, she is. Well, not little. She's tall for a girl. Doesn't matter, everybody but the brothers is little to me.

Knowing I shouldn't, I walk softly up the stairs, stopping to skip the step that always creaks. I check my bedroom door and find it unlocked.

The princess is curled up in my bed, hugging my pillow. Her hair is a mess, thick locks pulling free from her thick braid to form a wild tangle around her head. Also she's drooling. On my pillow.

She's f*cking gorgeous.

I step into the room and crouch by the bed. She sniffles and pulls at a lock of hair with her lip, trying to get it out of her face. I gently slip my finger under the hair and tuck it back behind her ear. She shifts, and I freeze until she relaxes again, her eyes darting back and forth under their lids.

I wonder what she's dreaming about.

Shit, if she wakes up now she'll see me, hovering about two inches from her face. I’d leaned down even more as I watched her. Until I was within kissing range. I shouldn't be in here anyway.

As I slip out, I take one last look. It turns into a last stare. I could stare at her a long time. She draws the eye that way. I couldn't stop looking at her from the field either.

It's those eyes of hers. I've never seen eyes like that. Different colors. Moss and sky. Leaf and water. It suits her.

Listen to you, Jason. It suits her. You have a couple of drinks and grind on her butt and suddenly you're losing your head.

I take the stairs slow, skipping the one that always creaks. I consider going for a run but change my mind when I hear the sounds of the brothers rising from their slumber. First the snoring stops, then the floor groans as they stand. Little streams of dust fall from the ceiling when they walk around.

Akele comes downstairs first, and without a word he arranges a half dozen big plastic tubs on the countertop. He's a growing boy and needs his protein. We all do, although I drink my shakes by the quart rather than the gallon. The shaker bottles they both use are big enough for a regular person to drink from them all day.

When Aheahe shows up, he puts on, I shit you not, a chef's toque. It barely fits his head, and the Velcro at the back holds on by maybe a squire millimeter. Then he straps on his XXXL apron and starts getting the skillets and oven hot.

Yes, skillets. Plural.

I walk over, grab my morning shake, and head to the couch. I should be hungover, but "wake up the next day" usually requires "sleep" to take place first.

Once the food gets going, pancakes and French toast and waffles and Texas toast and regular toast and turkey sausage and regular sausage and regular bacon and turkey bacon and… right. Once that gets going, I think the smell wakes out guests. I hear them moving around and jog up the stairs to meet them.

I knock once and Dee opens the door.

Princess Ana is sitting in my bed, swaddled in my hoodie, hugging herself. She has that vacant look that comes from trying to piece together what happened last night, until she looks up at me.

"I puked on you."

"Good morning, gorgeous," I reply. "Get up."

"My head."

"I know, get up. Don't just sit there, it'll make it worse."

I walk over and take her by the arm, and gently bring her to her feet.

I forgot she wasn't wearing pants. My hoodie comes down just enough to cover her butt, but not enough to keep me from seeing that she wears cotton underwear with little blue hearts on them.

"You need pants." I say.

"Where are mine?"

"Downstairs. I need to wash them. Here, you can put mine on until they're done."

"Okay," she says, her voice a little vacant.

I grab a pair of lounge pants from the dresser and hand them to her, awkwardly trying not to stare at her legs, and her ass. She has an incredible ass. I want to use her butt as a pillow forever. She steps into them. I watch her pull them up her long legs, and when she ties them around her waist, baggy as they are, I get a glimpse of her pale, smooth belly.

She gives me a little shove and walks past me.

In the living room, she flops on one of the couches and stares straight ahead. I bring her a glass of cranberry juice and shake it in front of her eyes.

"Here. Drink."

"What is it?"

"Cranberry juice. Headache medicine. Best thing for a hangover. Then you need food and water. Come on."

She takes the glass in both hands and drains it, then shivers.

"Too sweet," she grumbles.

I had her another one. "This one too. Drink it down. Then come on."