Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(79)

I want to go home.

Less than seven hours ago, I was standing in my room at my house in Newark, and I was screaming. When I saw The Royal Exposé, it was like a spear thrust through my heart, like a terrible iron fist smashed through my ribs, grabbed it, and ripped it free, still beating.

Now there is only a dull, raw ache, like an open wound in my soul. Nothing feels real anymore. Nothing matters. I am wearing the same clothes I was, sitting here on this different bed so far from the place where I left my soul behind. I vaguely remember tearing the paper crown to pieces in my anguished rage.

I gave him everything. All of me. How could he do this? Not only sleep with another woman, but sleep with her, that repulsive harridan that hounded me from when I first set foot on campus. The betrayal is crushing, but the insult is salt on the wounds, and these wounds run deep.

They will never heal, only scab over. My skin is unbroken, but my soul is bleeding to death, and soon there will be nothing but a bitter shell, an echo of the person I always wished I was. I am my own grave.

I hate him.

That is what I repeat to myself, over and over and over. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I try to make it true. Hate would be sweet now, like a bitter draught to cleanse the palate after a heavy meal that turned greasy and cold in my mouth.

I cannot make myself hate him. I can think only of his love and tenderness and gentleness and joy in me and wonder, is all such love a lie? Can there be any truth to any of it anywhere? If something so sweet can be so false, what hope is there in happiness?

Not for the first time since I arrived, I lean my hands on the worn rail of the parapet and think of vaulting over it to throw myself onto the jagged rocks below and let the sea lap up my broken body. How can I survive this, being alive and yet dead in my soul?

I begin to weep, and my door opens.



Jason



Two weeks ago, if you told me I'd be standing on an airport tarmac surrounded by a football team, cheerleading squad, marching band, and a guy in a foam-rubber knight suit, I'd believe everything but the airport part.

When Prince Konstantin said he had a plane, I sort of facetiously pictured the kind of little prop plane Reggie Macintosh flies as part of his skywriting business. This thing is a jet, big enough to hold all of us with room to spare.

"How are we going to get into the country?"

"I'm invited to the wedding," Konstantin says. "I'll get us in."

He shifts on his feet and sighs. "Mother has commanded Anastasia to marry Mortimer Andrew Karl Victor de Kupp and take him as her prince consort when she ascends to the crown."

I stare at him. Akele and Aheahe stare at him. Dee checks her phone.

"Wow, Grandolf has her relationship status marked 'it's complicated' on Facebook."

Everyone turns to her.

"What?" I say.

"Nothing. Guess she got in trouble for trying to step out on her hubby. Poor guy."

"Really," I groan.

"When we are arriving," Prince Konstantin says, sharply, "I will be doing the talking. We cannot all of you just walk into the castle."

"Has anyone ever told you that you talk like the Swedish Chef?" Izzy says.

Akele elbows him, which almost knocks him on his ass.

Konstantin gives this all a blank look. "Moving on. We will be sneaking in."

"Sneaking. Sneaking into a castle." I sigh, hard, and pinch my nose.

"Yes. Am I saying the English wrong?"

"No, I understand. You want to sneak all of these people into a castle."

He looks around. "Bringing them was not my idea."

"It's a great idea," Akele says, clapping Konstantin on the shoulder. The slender prince's knees buckle from the impact.

He looks at Akele's ham-hand and smiles awkwardly, then gently lifts it away. Or tries to, anyway.

"Hurry," the prince orders. "Following me."

He jogs up the stairs, and I follow. The plane is fueling up while everyone else gets on board. All of the seats are big, like first-class. After I sit down, the rest of the team clambers on board, filling up the seats. Aheahe and Akele wedge themselves into the set of seats behind mine, and Izzy drops in beside me.

"Is there going to be a movie?" Aheahe says. "In-flight snack? I need a snack."

Dee sits next to Konstantin.

"This is actually happening," she says.

"Yeah," I agree.

The fuel truck disconnects and rolls away. The flight attendant closes the door, and I wonder if that's the right term, flight attendant.

Thorlief steps up and looks at Izzy.

"Switch seats."

"Hey man—" Izzy starts.

Thorlief folds his giant arms over his chest and flexes them. He's abandoned his usual suit coat and his massive muscles bulge in his dress shirt, bunching up the seams.

"Now."

"Okay," Izzy squeaks.

After Izzy climbs over me, Thorlief grabs the overhead bins and levers himself into the seat.

"Uh, hi."

He glances at me and leans back in the seat. "The princess loves you."

"Yeah," I say in a thick voice. "I know. She deserves better."

He gives me a side-eyed glance but says nothing.

"You're supposed to argue with me."