Night Shift 2(40)
As the team readied, Arabella sipped her beer. It tasted awful, and she loved it.
“Have you ever attended a football game?” she asked Royce.
He glanced at her, his blue face paint creasing as he frowned. “No, Your Majesty.”
She shushed him. “Please don’t call me that. Call me Arabella.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Please,” she said more firmly.
He seemed to struggle inwardly before nodding. “As you wish, Arabella.” He ground out her name as if it pained him, and she had to hold back a laugh.
“Did you play sports as a child? European football? Basketball? Cricket?”
He didn’t reply for a moment. “I played rugby briefly in school.”
She waited for him to go on. But getting Royce to talk was like pulling very stubborn, very large teeth. “And you enjoyed it? You hated it? You had no feelings about it whatsoever?”
“It was fine.”
Fine. Of course it was fine. Arabella looked away and sighed. So much for trying to have some kind of conversation. Why couldn’t her mother have hired a chatty bodyguard?
The game started with the blow of the ref’s whistle, the Knights having won the coin toss. They scored a touchdown early in the first quarter and then another early in the second. Then, just when Arabella was beginning to feel sorry for Murphy, he threw a long pass to wide receiver Heath Dawson.
“Touchdown!” the announcer yelled as the stadium erupted. Arabella screamed and shouted, her beer sloshing onto her hand. But she didn’t care—the Bootleggers had scored a touchdown, and even though it hadn’t been scored by her favorite player, she was loyal to the team nonetheless.
The audience continued to cheer as the second quarter wrapped up, the Bootleggers gaining one more point in a field goal.
“Wasn’t that amazing?” Arabella asked Royce. “I so wish Kyle Young was playing, but then again it’s wonderful that Murphy is getting his time to shine.”
“Yes, wonderful, Your—Arabella. Quite.” He golf-clapped, and she rolled her eyes at him.
“Here, have something to drink. You look parched.” She handed him another beer, and although he seemed like he was going to refuse, he drank it without comment. To her surprise, he drank the beer in a few swallows.
“What a delicious drink,” he commented. “What is it called?”
She bit her lip. “Budlight, I think.”
Royce’s expression seemed lighter already, and Arabella wondered if he’d ever drunk a beer before. Clearly he was a bit of a “lightweight,” as the Americans would say, since his shoulders relaxed after drinking the alcoholic beverage.
Halftime began, and many of the fans got up to stretch their legs and use the restrooms. “I’d like to purchase some souvenirs,” she said as she stood up as well. “And perhaps purchase more drinks?”
She and Royce followed the crowd, finally arriving at a kiosk with a bored attendant. Arabella glanced at the blue Bootleggers items—t-shirts and bobbleheads and trading cards and water bottles—wondering if she and Royce could carry one of everything back to the limo. She picked up a t-shirt with a glittery BOOTLEGGERS on the front, holding it up to her chest.
“That’s a good color on you,” a voice said. “Brings out the blue in your face paint.”
She looked up at a tall man who had the bill of his baseball cap pulled down low. When he thumbed up the bill of the cap, giving her a good look at his features, she gasped.
It was Kyle Young, a grin on his handsome face.
Even dressed in street clothes, he seemed unnaturally large. Arabella was sure she could see the delineation of his abdominal muscles through his button-down shirt. He exuded masculinity, from his strong jaw to his muscular legs.
His appearance was so unexpected that her normal, princess-like reserve vanished. “You’re—why are you here?” she blurted.
He grinned wider, pointing to a stand behind him. “Was gonna get some nachos. I like making them myself. They never give me enough jalapenos if I ask an assistant to get ‘em. Plus, I’m tired of eating carrot sticks down below.” He looked at the shirt she was still holding. “You gonna buy that?”
She nodded slowly then shook her head before putting the shirt back. She then looked at Royce, who was frowning so deeply she was afraid he was going to toss Young away from her.
“Royce, this is Kyle Young. The first-string quarterback I was telling you about.”
“A pleasure, sir,” Royce said, shaking Kyle’s hand.
“Likewise,” Kyle said before turning back to her.
“Royce, will you get some more drinks? Please?”
Her bodyguard hesitated and she widened her eyes at him, silently communicating that she was giving him a royal command even if it had sounded like a request.
“I will return shortly,” he finally said, though she could tell he wasn’t pleased.
Young watched as Royce walked a short distance away to the food concession stand, though he continued to watch both of them with an eagle eye. “Who is that? Your bodyguard?”
Arabella froze. Then she saw his smile and realized he was joking. “My brother,” she replied. “He’s not particularly fond of football games.”
“And you? Are you ‘particularly fond of football games?’” As if answering his own question, he lightly swiped her cheek with his finger and held it up. It was tinged with blue paint.
Inwardly, she winced. Not exactly how she’d prefer to meet a handsome man for the first time, but he didn’t seem put off, which just made her like him even more. “I love football,” she responded. “I recognized you, after all.”
“That’s right. You did. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you like football. I mean—um—”
She blinked. “You think I’m more interested in hooking up with football players than the game? Because I’m not. I’ve watched the Bootleggers play since before you joined the team.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really? You aren’t American, though. Where are you from, England?”
Her accent tended toward a proper British tinge, but at the moment, she wished she could speak “American” like a regular girl in New York. “I’m not from England, but Salasia. It’s a small principality in Europe.”
“I know where it is.” At her raised eyebrows, he laughed. “You thought a dumb football player wouldn’t have heard of it, huh?”
She blushed a little. She had assumed that, but only because most people outside of Europe didn’t know Salasia existed.
“Don’t feel bad, Duchess. You’re too pretty to look sad.”
“I’m not merely pretty, Mr. Young.” She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Not only was she speaking with Kyle Young, he’d called her pretty!
“Call me Kyle.”
“Kyle,” she said, testing out the name. Her heart fluttered at the sound. “But as I was saying—I’m not just a pretty face. I’ve studied the Bootleggers’ defense and offense. I know you’re one of the top five players in line for NFL MVP. However, you have a tendency to throw long when there’s little time left in a game.”
His eyebrows rose at her recitation. Then he stepped closer, and her heart pounded. “Duchess, I have to say I love hearing you talk football,” he murmured. “But you haven’t told me your name yet.”
She froze. Should she tell him who she was? But people always treated her differently when she revealed her royal lineage. So instead, she replied, “I’m Bella.”
“Bella. That’s a pretty name. A pretty name for a beautiful woman.”
She could hardly believe what was happening—Kyle Young, star quarterback of the Bootleggers—was flirting with her. She had had her share of suitors, but men didn’t flirt with princesses. They courted them, and they treated them like porcelain dolls. She’d dated so little that she’d only slept with a man once, and it had been so lackluster she’d been afraid something had been wrong with her.
But at Kyle’s nearness, and as her breathing increased and she felt her body tingle all over, she knew she wasn’t broken. She wanted to flirt with him; she wanted to touch him, she wanted him to touch her. And she wanted to cry because chances were none of that was ever going to happen.
“There you are.” A woman with blunt bangs and glasses came walking up, and Arabella jumped away. “You need to get back downstairs.”
Kyle glanced at the woman, then back at Arabella. Once more, he leaned forward, this time to whisper in her ear. “You made me miss my nachos, Duchess. That means you owe me. Meet me after the game in room 586 down the hallway across from the ice cream cart.”
Her eyes widened and though she opened her mouth to respond, he’d rendered her speechless.
With a final wink, he followed the woman and disappeared.
She was still standing there stunned when Royce returned, bearing more beer, his face flushed. “I drank another one of these,” he said, his voice slightly slurred, “and I have to admit, they are delightful. Do you think we can buy them in Salasia?”
“Um, I don’t know, but we’ll certainly have to check.” Arabella led him back to the stands, where she plied him with more beer even as she felt guilty for doing so. But he never left her alone, she reasoned. She was always followed. Always watched.