Royally Deep (Going Deep Book 2) Page 9

  He brushed a stray hair from her forehead. “Have a safe trip back to Salasia,” he said then kissed her forehead. Like a child. Like he knew better, and she ought to listen and behave.

  But she didn’t want to behave. She wanted to sob. She wanted to rail at him. She wanted him to sweep her up into his arms, take her away, not give her a choice in the matter. But he was also being a gentleman in letting her go, and she hated him for it as much as she loved it, too.

  “Goodbye, Kyle.” She kissed him one last time. “Thank you for everything.”

  She left the tiny supply closet without another glance his way, tears blurring her vision. Her legs felt shaky, but she kept herself together. Entering the private box, the game had already started again, and no one noticed her tardiness, though Royce did shoot her a suspicious glance from across the room. She went straight to the private bathroom and, sitting on the toilet, covered her face with her hands and forced herself not to start crying.

  She took deep breaths, thinking of calm things: the ocean, a light breeze, puppies. She couldn’t lose it right now, not in front of all of these people. When she got back to the hotel, she could cry into her pillow as long as she wanted. But right now, she was in full princess mode. Why people couldn’t see a princess crying, she had no idea, but it was what it was.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, she wiped the few tears that had trailed down her cheeks, washed her hands, and fixed her hair. As she exited the bathroom, Royce stood outside, waiting for her. “You were gone a long while,” he said suspiciously.

  Arabella smiled up at him. When she took his hand without thinking, his eyes widened in surprise. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bother the past few days. I promise to be on my best behavior for the remainder of the trip. Thank you for working so hard.”

  She took her seat next to Celeste, who filled her in on what had happened while she’d been gone. She barely heard the girl’s words, as her mind whirled and her heart hurt. Kyle had only been a fun diversion, she had to tell herself. Then, why did it hurt so much? Had she fallen in love with him? Her chest contracted so painfully at the thought, she almost gasped.

  I’ve fallen in love with him, she thought to herself. And I can never have him because I’d never be allowed to marry a commoner. What cruel twist of fate is that?

  “When are you returning home?” Celeste asked.

  Arabella flinched at the thought of returning home. “Tomorrow, in fact. Do you think your family will visit soon?”

  “Oh, perhaps later this year. Father thinks Salasia is best during the autumn months, although I will admit that New York has its charms during that time, too.”

  So many charms, Arabella thought glumly as Celeste turned away. So many charms, and I can’t have any of them.

  When she and Royce returned to the hotel after the game, she promptly shut herself in her bedroom and cried for two hours straight. She was almost certain Royce could hear her, but she didn’t care. Afterward, she ate dinner with Royce shadowing her every move, as she vowed to herself that she would try her hardest to let Kyle Young go.

  Chapter Eight

  “Dude. What is up with you, man?”

  Kyle glanced at Heath, staring at him with furrowed brows. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Sure. Except you’ve looked like shit for weeks now and you don’t even come out after games anymore. And if you do, you only do it for a little while before making some excuse. Are you on your period or something?”

  Kyle flipped his friend the bird, but it was halfhearted. He had been testy and depressed, ever since he’d said goodbye to Arabella. Princess Arabella of Salasia, he reminded himself, a woman out of your league, a woman who’d graced you with her presence for exactly one day. The princess who’d returned home to her palace and would probably marry some aristocrat one of these days, while Kyle could only sit around remembering their fun night in New York City while binging on a plate of nachos.

  The day after he last saw Arabella, the team had returned to Savannah and were now practicing for a game coming up next week. It should’ve been enough to distract him, but for the first time in his life, his career seemed unimportant. His talent, wealth, and fame seemed unimportant.

  Yes, he had worked his way up in the ranks and was proud of his success in his career. He’d bought multiple mansions across the country, furnishing each with luxurious couches and beds and tables, expensive artwork hanging on the walls. He drove fancy cars and ate at the best restaurants, and he was well aware of the fact that he could get any woman he wanted with just a wink and a smile.

  But all that seemed insignificant now. Because he only wanted one woman—a damn princess who had fucked him, fucked him over, then left him.

  Of course she’d left him.

  It didn't matter how many cars he had or how many bottles of Chardonnay he bought, he was still a kid who’d grown up in a trailer park. He had no lineage and nothing to recommend him as a prospect for a princess and he was pissed at himself for even caring about such a thing!

  “Young, are you going to be present today or should you go take a nap?” Coach demanded, hands on his hips and a stormy expression on his weathered face. Nearing his mid-fifties, Coach had a tendency to ride his players hard—especially his star players, like Kyle, Heath, and Alec. Heath had gotten an earful last month when he’d been messing around with Camille Pollert, an up and coming NFL photographer, but after Camille had voluntarily quit her position to focus on her own photography—and Heath had gotten his head out of his ass—Coach had given his grumpy blessing to the relationship.

  Now, it was Kyle’s turn to get his ass ridden. “I’m here,” he said, standing up. “Where else would I rather be?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. I know you’ve been moping because your dog died or whatever, but now’s not the time to get soft.” Coach pointed a finger in his face. “We’re frontrunners for the Super Bowl this year, you hear me? We can’t fuck around, and I can’t have my best quarterback fumbling the ball like you’ve done during practice.”

  During their most recent scrimmage, Kyle had fumbled the ball—uncharacteristic of him—and Coach had been so livid that spittle had flown from his mouth. Not a pretty sight.

  This is what happens when you get all hyped up on a girl, Kyle told himself. He mentally shook off the cobwebs, not wanting anyone to suspect the real reason why he was distracted. Heath and Alec both kind of knew, but they were good enough friends not to mention it in front of Coach, who’d probably have an aneurysm if another one of his players allowed a woman to fuck with his performance.

  “Get on the field, boys!” Coach barked. “We need to practice the new play. It’ll be a real winner if y’all do as I tell you. Now, move!”

  Coach blew his whistle, and the team got into position. The play depended on Kyle successfully running the ball in for a touchdown, but if he fumbled it, the entire thing would be ruined. Normally, he’d be exhilarated by playing the lynchpin, but now, he suddenly felt clammy and anxious. Like he was about to go on stage and puke his guts out before he opened his mouth.

  Suddenly, that reminded him of Arabella as she sang the National Anthem. Had she been nervous before she went out there? He hadn’t even congratulated her on how well she did. He’d beaten himself up at least ten times since then over it. He remembered how her voice had peaked and soared and caused his entire body to be on edge. Although physically she seemed young, sweet, and even innocent, her voice had a womanly, sophisticated quality to it. Worldlier, even sensual, as her singing echoed throughout the stadium. Kyle wondered if she’d ever get the chance to tour like she’d mentioned wanting to do. Could princesses tour the world as singers, he wondered? Or was that against the Princess Code of Conduct they probably made them sign when they were born?

  “Young! What the fuck are you doing out there?”

  Kyle was wrested from his reverie when he realized that the play had started and he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t run or moved the ball for first down. J
ust stood there like an idiot.

  Coach kept yelling at him, and the spittle was beginning to fly. “Are you dying? Or are you just stupid? I swear to God, Young, if you’re coming down with something, I’ll come out there and wring your neck myself…”

  Practice deteriorated from there. Kyle played as best he could, but his head wasn’t in the game, and Coach only got angrier. After another dismal play, Coach blew his whistle and ordered the entire team off the field, telling them he couldn’t stand to see them fuck around like little princesses any longer. Hearing that word did nothing to help Kyle’s situation.

  Kyle knew he’d be getting an earful from Coach later that evening, telling him to stop screwing around, but when he entered the locker room to take a shower, he didn’t even care. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he shake this woman?

  Returning to his home on the outskirts of Savannah that evening, Kyle tossed his gear inside the front door and went straight to the kitchen for another whisky. A palatial mansion with a five-car garage, pool, and fountain, Kyle’s house bespoke wealth and fame, but inside, it still managed to exude a hominess that he preferred. He enjoyed his money, but he also liked the simpler things, too. Like a cheap beer cold from the fridge, he thought, changing his mind, as he tipped a can back and sank it down, the cool liquid sliding down his throat. He took out another and went straight to his TV room, decked out with the newest electronics and with every TV station known to man available to watch.

  He drowned his sorrows in a baseball game, but he found himself thinking about other things and not even paying attention as the game progressed. A headache threatened to shut him down for the night. He was tired and was almost ready for bed at 9:00 PM. He rolled his eyes at himself. When had he become such a pansy? What had Arabella done to him? Maybe she had lied about her princess status too and was really a witch, because that was how he felt—bewitched. Under a spell he couldn’t shake. Next he would be signing up for AARP and crying watching The Notebook.

  Annoyed by the ball game, he started flipping channels, unable to find one that could hold his interest. He flipped and flipped, about to turn the TV off entirely, when he saw a familiar face flash across the screen. His heart almost stopped: it was Arabella, her pretty, smiling face in a news story on some entertainment channel. How had he never seen her before? He would’ve fallen for a face like that immediately.

  A voiceover spoke, as images and news clips played. “Princess Arabella of Salasia has been spotted with none other than a Salasian nobleman. You wouldn’t think that was odd, except this was the very eligible bachelor Count Frederic. And they were seen alone yesterday.”

  Kyle watched as photos of Arabella and an older man—some dude in his early 40s—were put on screen. They weren’t holding hands, but they were spotted eating dinner at a restaurant and that would be enough to drive Kyle crazy for days. Maybe even months or years. Kyle’s hackles rose at the images. The thought of her with another man—no matter how platonic—made him want to create a Kyle-shaped hole in the fucking wall.

  “We’ve been speculating about who the princess may marry for a few years now,” the voiceover continued, “but no one seemed to stick. Has that changed with Count Frederic coming to the forefront of suitors? We’ll continue to track this story, and let you know if you should be listening for wedding bells in the future!”

  One last image appeared, with Count Frederic smiling down at Arabella. She wasn’t smiling, per se, but she didn’t look unhappy either. The image flashed by so fast that Kyle couldn’t study her expression. Was she really considering marrying this douchebag, with his receding hairline and thin lips? Ugh!

  If Kyle were fair, he’d admit the count was handsome in a boring, stable, and aristocratic way, but he didn’t feel like being fair right now. He crunched his beer can, tossing it against the wall. “Fuck my life.”

  Resorting to his phone for help, he began searching for images of Arabella and the count, intent on seeing for himself if she were a lost cause. Because if there was even the slightest bit of hope… They popped up immediately, and Kyle zoomed in on each to look at Arabella. He’d become pretty good at analyzing her face when they were together, and he prided himself on being able to tell what she was thinking and feeling.

  In the photos, she had certainly perfected the serene expression, he thought darkly, but as he studied each image, one thing stood out to him—she seemed uncomfortable. She wasn’t touching the count, wasn’t smiling up at him—like she had with Kyle—and she often had her arms crossed or her body angled away from him. Tension drew her mouth into a line, and there was no blush in her cheeks and neck. That had been her telltale sign. She didn’t love the guy. He could see it on her face, underneath that calm exterior. He knew his duchess, and one thing was for sure: she didn’t want any of this.

  Someone was setting her up—her family, most likely.

  But, could Arabella marry a man she didn’t love? He had a feeling she could and most likely would, if it meant making her family happy. At the thought of that, his heart dropped to his stomach.

  She can’t marry this guy. She can’t. She’ll be miserable.

  He remembered her face in that supply closet, the tormented biting of her lip, the agony of not knowing what to do, the expression that begged him to take her far, far away. She hadn’t wanted to leave him, but she’d had to. Out of duty. Deep in his heart, he hadn’t wanted to let her go, either. But how could a football player like him end up with a woman of royalty? It would never work.

  His phone rang just then. As expected, COACH’s name and face flashed on the screen. He winced, but picked up, knowing Coach would go ballistic if he ignored him. “Young!” Coach barked. “You still alive?”

  Kyle could’ve given any sarcastic reply. Instead, he said, “Yep, Coach, still alive and breathing. What’s up?”

  “Well, I should chew your ass off for practice today, but I’m too tired and have had enough beers to take the edge off. But I also just got an interesting phone call from Jacques York, the NY Knights owner. Remember him?”

  Kyle sat up straighter. Jacques York was from Salasia. Bella had told him that. What did that guy want? “What does he want with us?”

  “Well, he invited you on a trip to Salasia, along with a few other players from other teams, to be a part of some charity thing. I can’t remember what it’s for—probably kids with cancer or something—and I said you needed some time to clear your head, so you’d be good for it. You, Dawson, and LeBrun leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? What about our next game?”

  “You’ll be back in time for practice, and next week’s our bye week.” Kyle was stunned. Him, going to Salasia? Where Arabella also happened to live? He stood with renewed energy just then and ran upstairs to his room to start packing. This was fate—he knew it was. It had to be. This was the universe telling him to stop Arabella from getting with some guy she didn’t want and…well, he’d figure out the rest when he got there.

  “Young, you still there?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he replied absently, digging through his closet. He hadn’t even put away his suitcase from his trip to New York. What kind of clothes would be acceptable for meeting a princess on her home turf? “When’s the flight?”

  “Bright and early, 6:00 AM. The driver will be by to pick you up at 4:00. Do us proud, Young, and come back to us a real quarterback again, okay?”

  “Sure, Coach.”

  “And Young?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go get that girl.” He could almost hear the wink in Coach’s voice. Had he been so transparent?

  No matter. He hung up, tossing his phone on the bed. He didn’t care if he had to do some naked auction for charity, he was going to Salasia, and he was going to find Arabella and convince her she was going to ruin her life if she married Count Frederic. Okay, they weren’t even engaged, but the writing was on the wall, and there was no way he could let that happen.

  And what, you’ll offe
r yourself as an alternative? his mind played devil’s advocate.

  He batted away the thought. Just focus on one problem at a time, he told himself. Kyle wasn’t 100% convinced that he was the right man for Arabella, Princess of Salasia, but he knew the count wasn’t the man for her. And if he were going to be in the same country as her, it would be his civic duty to inform her as much.

  Uh, huh, sure. Keep telling yourself that, pal. And I’m sure you don’t want to sleep with her again, either.

  Kyle stuffed clothes into his suitcase with more force than necessary at the memory of making love with Arabella. He’d never had sex with a woman who’d affected him so much, and the memories of that night lingered in his mind like the remnants of a dreamy spell.

  The next morning, as the Bootleggers’ driver drove him, Heath, and Alec to the airport, Kyle could barely contain his anxiety and giddiness. The look on her face when she saw him would be priceless.

  I’m coming for you, Duchess. Ready or not.

  Chapter Nine

  Arabella stared at her plate. Beautifully cooked scallops and the most tender of vegetables graced the fine china, but her stomach twisted at the sight. Or maybe it was the conversation flowing around her that was making her sick, all the talk about her future without anyone asking her for input.

  “Are you unwell?” Count Frederic leaned over and asked in a murmur. In his early forties, the count was still a bachelor, and a prime one at that. Of the Salasian aristocracy, he wasn’t related to the royal family, but his blood was almost as blue as Arabella’s. With his dark eyes and dark hair—albeit somewhat thinning—he presented an appealing, put-together kind of man who was also kind and thoughtful.

  Arabella liked him. She did. He was solicitous, polite, and always wore the neatest of suits, and his mustache was always trimmed to perfection. If he had gray at the temples, so what? It lent a distinguished look—at least that was what her mother said.