“I just want to be prepared if I have to head to the palace to bail you out. Do they have a dungeon?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you are going to confront him, just be respectful.”
“Confront who?”
“The crown prince. He always attends opening day.”
Tristan’s body bowed straight like he’d been zapped with a stun gun for hunching over. He’d been so concerned with trying to get ahold of Robert that he hadn’t even considered Jamie. It was true; the crown prince hadn’t missed an opening day since he was a youngster and he would accompany his father. As he was a die-hard Hartesfield United fan, it had become a tradition for the team and the fans. If the prince didn’t attend, Tristan knew the whole of United fandom would consider it a bad omen. And Jamie always came to the changing room to wish the lads luck.
“That’s brilliant, Sheena.”
An odd silence lingered.
“You hadn’t even thought of it.” It was a statement, and he could almost hear the gears in Sheena’s head clicking together, drawing conclusions. He heard an intake of air and braced himself. “You’d better have your bloody head on straight when you step onto the pitch tonight. I told you to be careful, and you refused to listen to me.”
Tristan, mindful of her inability to actually see him, moved his head and mouth, imitating her.
“I’m going to flick your ear off when I see you,” she snapped.
And Tristan laughed. For the first time in days, he actually laughed.
“Sheena, I have to go. See you after the game.”
With a renewed energy and
a smattering of hope, Tristan grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried out the door. On the ride, he plotted. They followed a strict match-day timeline. Stealing some time to track down the prince wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed. He would need help. No way in hell the Skipper would help him. Rowan’s disdain for the monarchy would preclude him from doing anything to allow Tristan such an incredible distraction on opening day. He thought of Caleb, but Caleb came with his own set of risks. Tristan ran scenarios in his head, but he didn’t want to share this particular burden.
As he entered the training center, he was no closer to a solution. The second he walked through the door, Rowan was on him.
“You’re late.”
He was scowling, and normally, Tristan would have wheedled him to snap him out of his funk, but he didn’t have the patience for Grumps today.
“I’m not.”
Rowan was taken aback by his tone, as if he’d been hoping for Tristan’s characteristic shenanigans. As much as he wanted to slip into his role of resident jokester, he needed all of his wits to come up with a master plan. Tristan continued at a brisk pace to the changing room. Dropping his bag into the locker space, he strode to the physiology room, a completely diabolical plan beginning to take shape.
“Brendan,” he said as soon as he crossed the threshold.
“T-Dav!” the training crew chorused.
He fought his smile. Tristan appreciated the support people around him. He liked to leave them funny gifts in appreciation for their work, which made him a favorite. Knowing that, he thought maybe he could just be honest, and they would help him out. But he hastily discarded the notion because he didn’t want them to be blamed for anything.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Brendan’s bushy eyebrows curled up like a caterpillar on his forehead. At Brendan’s questioning look, Tristan reconsidered. He wasn’t shy—about anything. Normally, he would just say what was up.
With an imperceptible nod, he blurted, “I got the shits.”
Brendan didn’t bat an eye, and his furrowed brow returned to its normal position.
“Need to stop you up,” he commented, turning into the mini pharmacy at his command. “Think you can play?”
As much as Tristan was willing to sacrifice some dignity, he didn’t want to give up any playing time. “Think so. Just might need some cover before the game. To get it all out.”
Brendan smirked. “Right. I got that.”