She nodded.
“Noah and I will be behind you. You will be either on the left or the right of the prime minister, depending on who wins. Losers go first. Individual awards. You will congratulate each player. Whatever is comfortable for you.” Robert stopped abruptly.
The absence of movement highlighted Ele’s constant head nodding. She closed her eyes, took a calming breath, and stopped moving like a bobblehead.
“When the last player comes through, we will depart the stage, back the way we came. We will go directly to the hallway, enter the elevator, and go to the motorcade.”
Ele reached out, her hand landing on his arm, surprising both of them. Robert’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. Ele snatched her hand away.
“What?” he asked gently.
She didn’t really know how to ask for what she wanted. Throwing off a precise timeline was delicate. Her hands landed on her thighs, rubbing away the sudden dampness. “Can I wait for him?” She could have cajoled, told him she didn’t want to walk away without a good-bye, or even cited royal duty to say something to the team. But those five words seemed to be all Robert needed.
He smiled at her like a proud father before he donned his security face. “Plan B timeline is slightly different. Following the awards ceremony, we will head back to the room and wait as the teams exit the field. There is a press room directly across the hall from where we will be. As the postgame interviews take place, you’ll be able to meet with any players you want. After the media departs, we will walk directly to the elevators to the motorcade on our way to the airfield.”
Ele’s eyes welled. She looked away from him and then up, trying to keep the tears of gratitude from falling. Finally, she returned his gaze.
“Thank you, Robert,” she said.
He bowed. “Your Highness.”
Shakily, Ele made her way down the steps. Admitting she wanted to see Tristan after the game hadn’t been a big deal. But it was like she’d handed Robert her heart, and he’d packaged it with the greatest care.
25
15 July
SeatGeek Stadium
The sideline ref held the placard above his head. Plus three. Tristan glanced around the pitch, taking stock. He had passed exhaustion ten minutes ago. With the threat of another thirty minutes hanging over them like a forbidden promise, Tristan summoned his measly reserves. His gaze connected with Rowan’s as France made a substitution. The strategist in him knew the longer the game wore on, their chance at winning diminished. They were good, but France was better. In extra time, the fatigue would showcase the differences. If they didn’t create an opportunity in the next three minutes, they would need a miracle.
He saw movement from their bench and realized Caleb was about to come into the game. The youngest member of the squad, he’d seen limited minutes, mostly because he was more raw talent than seasoned finesse. This might be football’s version of American football’s Hail Mary. Tristan smiled shrewdly. This could work, and when Rowan displayed a similar look, excitement coursed through Tristan, pumping him up.
On the throw in, Tristan stepped with renewed energy. And it wasn’t coming only from him. His teammates challenged every pass, and within three, possession shifted to them.
The greatest challenge when forming a National Team was finding and capitalizing on chemistry. This group didn’t play together year-round. Often, their club teams were great rivals. Knowing where players would show on the pitch took longer to figure out.
When the ball came to Tristan, he immediately looked for Caleb’s run. He knew what Caleb would do and where he would show—the advantage of playing with him for the last year. Tristan slotted the ball through the defenders—a perfect setup for Caleb to do his thing. But Caleb wasn’t in the flow of the game yet, so he took a quick, ill-advised shot on the goal. Tristan tried to keep his frustration locked down. France must have been experiencing the same sense of hurriedness because, off the counter, they forced a shot, too, allowing their keeper to catch the ball and put it into play quickly.
Hastings, the midfielder, carried the ball up the pitch with Caleb and their other winger Josco making runs. Tristan watched the play unfold, trailing the action. Hastings sent the ball forward, through the center and left-backs. Josco, lightning fast, chased the ball. He never stopped his run. Instead, he centered it with his left foot, sending the ball through the air and across the box—in a perfect position for Caleb to slot it in.
Be calm, be calm, be calm.
Like Josco, Caleb never broke stride. He volleyed the ball out of the air. It careened over the keeper’s head in a spotty trajectory, wobbling under the crossbar and dropping into the goal. For one glorious millisecond, silence descended in Tristan’s head. An unbelieving gut check before the chaos of belief settled. Then, he reacted, racing over to the dog pile of his teammates. Tristan disentangled himself from the melee, taking several of his teammates with him. The exhaustion lifted.
Tristan attempted to calculate how much time might be remaining. He exchanged another look with Rowan. There wasn’t much that could draw a smile from their captain. Tristan was among the few, but it seemed being mere moments away from winning the Cup made Rowan seem like an effervescent human being.
“Caption this, Tris!” Rowan said, pushing Tristan on both of his shoulders, sending him a half-step backward.
Tristan smiled broadly, but no words came to mind. He jogged over for the start of the play.
Then, France kicked off, and they attacked, stepping to the ball in an effort to retain the lead, not comfortable giving the other team any room to maneuver. When the whistle blew three times, Tristan had the ball at his feet, having just won it. He bent, scooping it up right before he was tackled to the ground by Rowan.
Later, if asked to describe those first five minutes following the end of the game, he might be blank. He would remember the noise, the slickness of skin, confetti, and lights. The hugs, fist bumps, laughter. Rowan’s teeth, which Tristan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. The hive of activity, the rush of families onto the pitch. He struggled to center himself, to appreciate the moment. When his brain came back online, the stage had been erected, a yellow carpet laid, an archway built.
He waited with his team as the ceremony began. The trophy was marched to its stand amid cheers. Then, the parade of dignitaries commenced. He watched with little interest. He should have been able to name the people or at least their positions, but he never paid attention to those kinds of things. But then he saw Robert standing on the side of the stage, like a bull waiting for the gate to open so he could charge into the arena. It was then Tristan knew his princess would be stepping onto the pitch.
My princess?
It was his first coherent thought since the three whistles had blown. That it was about Ele surprised him. What about achieving one of the most elusive goals for any footballer? It flitted across his mind, fleeting and confusing, before he was shepherded into a line with his team as the awards ceremony began.
Suddenly, she was there, walking with Juliana by her side. He couldn’t help his double take when his gaze tripped down the length of her. The regal carriage she was unable to shake carried her along the uneven ground, her heels causing her to move with care. The white of her pants brought out the colors of her football jersey—his team’s football jersey. She looked so unlike he’d expected that he knew his eyes were wide and his jaw slack. He didn’t need Rowan’s tap on his chin, but it helped all the same.