Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(18)

"You wanted to have some ice cream," she says in a cold, singsong voice. "Without your guards."

"Mother—"

"Your guards are to keep these slime away from you and stop them taking these disgusting pictures. This slander against the dignity of your royal house is intolerable."

"I did not write that article, Mother."

"There would be no article if you would stay where you belong and stop sneaking out."

I sit up and glare at her.

"You sent me here to learn about America. How am I to learn about America if you keep me locked in a cage?"

"Cage? Cage? You have the finest appointments, you willful, ungrateful child. I make sure you lack for nothing."

"I lack for friends," I shout back. "I lack for fun. I lack for—" I cut myself off before I go any further, angrily pressing my lips shut.

"For what?"

"It doesn't matter. If I must remain imprisoned here much longer, I'll go mad."

"If you slip your guards again, I'll show you the meaning of imprisonment, girl. You have no idea what danger you're putting yourself in when you go out there on your own. I should have them all replaced and flogged for this. If you want for ice cream, send your servants that I pay to go get it!"

The stream cuts off. She has the last word. She always has the last word. I want very much to yank the computer off the desk and throw it through the window, but instead I storm angrily back into my bedroom and throw myself onto the bed.

I vent my fury on The Great Gatsby, hurling it into the wall a few times before I scoop it up and turned to the dog-eared page where I must continue, perhaps thirty pages behind where I am supposed to be with the book.

My attempts at reading turn into pure frustration. My eyes slide down the page without touching the words, and when I force myself to process them one at a time, I forget the beginning of every sentence before I reach the end.

I toss it over the side of the bed onto the floor and angrily flop onto my side.

I wonder if Dee is right about him. He's different from everyone else. Many boys on campus look at my chest or my backside or my legs. Many of the professors too. He looks at my eyes.

Right into my eyes.

Anastasia, you fool, it can never happen. He will bring you only pain.

My only husband is duty. I grasp The Great Gatsby. At least, I grasp my copy. I feel like I will never grasp the story.

I roll on my back and crack it open to the page where I left off, flick back to where I actually started, and begin to read.

This is hopeless. I'll never grasp this. My eyes burn, then the world begins to blur. I feel something warm on my cheek. It's a tear, I realize.

I grapple with the damned book all night. I read a page, then read it again, aloud, stopping to repeat the meaning of each paragraph to myself before I move on. It takes hours, and it's well past midnight before I give up without reaching the full length of the assigned pages. I stick dog-ear the page where I left off and rest the book on my nightstand.

I turn off the lights and I close my eyes, but it would be a gross exaggeration to call what happens next sleeping. Hours and hours I lie there in the dark, eyes pressed tightly shut, willing sleep to come. My head feels more and more like wet sand with every passing tick of the clock.

Finally at some point I manage to drift off into a light, restless sleep only to jerk awake when my alarm clock goes off. I resist my desire to open the window and toss it out onto the back porch, and get up.

My morning routine begins with a run. I dress in leggings and a sweatshirt—not Jason's, one that fits me. I lace up my running shoes, grab a squeeze bottle of water from the refrigerator, and start out the door.

My two bodyguards, Thorlief and Bjorn, are right on me, scowling. They dare not reproach my royal self, but I can tell they received a tongue lashing from Mother over my latest escape. I feel a pang of guilt thinking about that, and what she'll do if she learns of Saturday night's outing.

I put that out of my head, and I run.

Since I was a little girl, running has been my relief. The exertion squeezes every other thought out of my head, every stride pushing me deeper into a moving meditation, my focus narrowing to my form and speed.

"On your left," a voice yells.

I swing to the right of the sidewalk, expecting a cyclist to pass me. Instead, Jason Powell lopes around Thorlief and holds pace with me.

"Morning, gorgeous," he says and blows me a kiss.

"You," Thorlief bellows, "keep your distance from the princess!"

"What if I don't?"

"Don't test us," Bjorn growls.

"You'll have to catch me first," he yells before he leans into a sprint and bolts away from me so fast I'd have to struggle to keep up.

I normally pace myself for the benefit of my guards, who must run in dress trousers and button-down shirts. They would be in full suits if I did not insist they dress down to follow me on my exercise.

Gritting my teeth, I cant forward and run full tilt, my entire existence focused on passing Jason Powell. I stare at his back as if I could sink anchors into his bones and drag him behind me. I go all out, whipping my arms forward and back, my teeth bared, a mask of concentration.

He wasn't challenging the guards, he was challenging me. He won't win.

He holds his pace, and I slowly begin to overtake him, my thighs burning from running so hard. Faster, faster, faster.