“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.”
He handed Tristan some medicine, sure to put a lock on his stomach. Tristan nodded his thanks and strode away. He made his way back to the changing room and got into his gear. The place rocked with the giddy excitement of the first game of the long season. They exclaimed over their new kits, made predictions about the score, and maybe added some lamentations about the short off-season. When the door sprang open, the crown prince strode into the room with his security detail.
As he spoke to each of the players and worked the room, Tristan took note of the men with him. Then, he clutched his stomach, only for Rowan to see, and ducked out of the room. They would head out to the pitch for pregame shortly, and Tristan needed to be indisposed. He stepped into one of the restrooms and locked the door.
It wasn’t long until Jamie’s delegation departed. Tristan peeked out from the loo, and noting the empty hallway, he followed at a respectable distance. When they stepped to the elevator heading to the box, Tristan darted in between the closing doors.
As he’d expected, he had a guard encircling each of his biceps before he could even utter a word. But he had already locked gazes with Jamie. It was hard to stare into those ice-blue eyes without thinking of Ele.
“Your Highness,” he said, inclining his head.
He didn’t fight the hold of Jamie’s security detail, but he did flex, just once, for effect. Their grips tightened.
“Mr. Davenport. What a surprise,” Jamie greeted.
“I’m sure. Got a minute?”
The corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched, an indication of a reluctant smile, and Tristan knew he would get to have the conversation he needed.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jamie asked.
“As you know. But I’m finding it a bit hard to concentrate with all these questions.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Jamie muttered, clear enough for Tristan to hear.
The prince’s PPO nodded, and the vise grips on Tristan’s arms disappeared. The elevator came to a halt, and three guards stepped out.
Tristan tilted his head. “Here?”
Jamie leaned against the back of the elevator and crossed his arms. “Unless you want someone to see.”
“Right, of course.” Now that he had the audience he wanted, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. There were so many different questions he wanted to ask. “How is she?” he decided to ask because it was what he needed to know most.
Tristan assumed Jamie had anticipated the first one and would have a ready answer, but instead, he shifted his gaze and then his feet.
His hand left its position on his chest and crept up to the back of his neck. “I think, okay.”
“Think?” Tristan’s annoyance couldn’t be disguised.
“She’s not really talking to me at the moment.”
“But surely, Robert is keeping you informed.”
Jamie’s gaze landed back on Tristan. “Robert was removed from her detail.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Perhaps he should have shown some deference, some respect, but he found himself pissed on Ele’s behalf.
“It was the right thing to do.”
“You did it? How could you do that to her?”
“What is it you are expecting from this conversation? You want to know she’s okay? Or that you didn’t completely devastate her when you shoved her into the limelight?”
Tristan recognized the deflection for what it was, but his guilt over what had happened precluded him from pressing more.
“Yeah,” Tristan answered, “that’s what I want to know.” He’d tried every way possible to exonerate himself from the fiasco, but he should have done more to protect her.
Jamie studied him, and Tristan squirmed. It was almost as if he were in an interrogation room and Jamie were the bad cop. He wished they were in a graphic novel, and he could read Jamie’s thoughts. But all he could make out was a lingering anguish swirling in the icy depths.
“She told you about our parents.”
“Aye.”
“I’m quite certain she left out more details than she shared.” At Tristan’s shrug, Jamie continued, “Ele used to be the fearless one of the two of us. I think it vexed the hell out of my father. But that’s neither here nor there. It was supposed to be me on that trip. Not her.