“How do we do this? Should you go first and I wait five minutes?”
Ele moved her hands to her hair, fussing with it. She shook her head. “You go first. I need to straighten up.”
“Should I find someone for you? Millie or Robert?”
She walked toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m fine.”
He knew he needed to walk away, but he didn’t want to leave her. The ambiguous “soon” didn’t sound confident or definitive enough for him. And he didn’t like the idea of leaving her here alone. “Are you sure you will be okay?”
Tiara mode engaged.
“I grew up in this house.”
He smirked. “Okay, Princess.”
Ele scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue. And Tristan laughed.
Then, he turned from her and walked to the door. He pulled it open and barreled through, firmly closing it behind him. One step later, a reporter sidled up to him.
“T-Dav, quite the celebration tonight.”
Tristan jumped a little, caught off guard by both the presence of another person and the statement. He looked over at the woman on his right. He recognized her. She was one of the reporters associated with the league. A striking, statuesque blonde who actually knew what she was talking about. He’d always been impressed with her questions and her skill for research. Although she had the looks, she never relied on them. He was momentarily relieved it wasn’t some pap lurking around. Then, he was horrified because the public could choose not to believe something in a tabloid, but if it came out of this woman’s mouth, he was screwed.
“Miss Brinley-Smith”—he placed his hand on his heart for effect—“you scared me.”
He kept walking, knowing he needed to get her out of this particular hallway.
“I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions.” She waved her hand, and out of nowhere—or so it seemed to Tristan—a man appeared with a camera perched on his shoulder.
Tristan tried to shake off the lovesick boyfriend to don the cloak of the carefree athlete. He was usually so good at it. He smiled bright, but it was brittle. “Sure,” he said, but he kept his pace, slow and resolute, moving from the door. “Fire away,” he instructed.
The entrance to the ballroom was close, and once he rounded the corner, he thought he might be able to breathe. He was so focused on diverting their attention from Ele’s presence in the room he’d recently vacated that he missed the first question.
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” One more step.
“I asked if you were excited to renew your friendship with Princess Eleanor.”
He faltered. It was enough that Miss Brinley-Smith stopped walking altogether. She motioned for her cameraman to stop too. Tristan looked around. They’d made the turn, meaning Ele could get out. He didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t text her. He couldn’t shake the reporter. He positioned himself so that he faced the way Ele would come if she came directly to the ballroom, so Brinley-Smith’s back would be to her. He prayed it would work. Then, he prayed for divine intervention in the form of Rowan or Sheena or Caleb—or hell, anyone who could help keep the wolves at bay.
“Of course. It was great to see Princess Eleanor, Princess Juliana, and the whole delegation. The best part though was seeing my teammates and the crowd at the ceremony.”
Nice deflection.
“Right,” she agreed. “That was the crown prince’s idea.”
“I was told. A lottery. Brilliant
.”
She went on to ask questions about what the last month had been like and if he would be ready for the season to start with all of the distractions of the summer.
“Of course. I’m a footballer.”
“Thanks for your time,” she said.
“Anytime,” he replied as he breathed a sigh of relief.
“One more question.”