Page 69 of How to Date a Prince

ChapterTwenty-Three

The next day, I’m awake in time to catch the end of breakfast, which Thomas misses. I push cold porridge around my bowl and barely touch my tea, reliving last night over and over in my head. Not the hot parts. The parts where I’m a terrible person.

He’s right. Plus, this would never have worked out anyway.

I clear my porridge and my thoughts because, after all, there’s a competition on the line.

My team’s agreed to meet right after breakfast to talk strategy. Rose stops by to tell us that we’re getting a proper footballer to join us for our match. Meng joins us at half an hour before the match, and we go over strategy again.

I warm up with my teammates, work through some stretches. And at noon, everyone’s on the field, taking up their positions and waiting for the start. Thomas is in gold, standing in the net, a silhouette I would recognize everywhere. He’s too far away to see his expression. He tugs on his gloves. Behind me, I glance at Connor, who is hyperfocused in head-to-toe black, deadly serious. I’ve been voted striker, apparently based on my sporting from school days.

Already sweating, I run a hand across my brow. The temperature had already hit 30 C by 11:00 a.m., which is unusual for England, and the heat wave is blistering. There’s plenty of water on the sidelines, but that doesn’t help me at the moment. I’ve remembered the sun cream, at least. Behind me is Martin, who I think should actually be the striker, but he said that I have the advantage of youth and speed over his skills. We’ve put Meng and Colin on defense.

Sauntering up to the center is Wilson, who looks more inclined to spit on me rather than shake my hand. Travis is behind him, followed by their defensemen, including their guest, Mac, and Jax. The ref brings us together. I win the coin toss and take the kickoff while Wilson’s eyes promise a storm. And then it’s on.

Very quickly, it’s apparent people are willing to pull dirty tricks when the official’s head is turned. And it’s a vicious game.

Time flies. There’s a point where I get a brilliant shot in at Thomas, which is cut short when I’m fouled, and Travis lands a yellow card for his troubles. It earns me a free kick, and after a hard-fought scrabble, I kick the ball in the air, and it sails past Thomas, who leaps across the net in an effort to stop it, to no avail.

I get mobbed by my teammates for the first point, and then it’s on. Wilson and Travis find their rhythm, and it’s vicious, all elbows and kicks that make me grateful for my shin guards. Even Meng has his work cut out for him. But Connor is brilliant in goal, and he keeps the ball out despite Wilson and Travis’ efforts. When halftime comes, we’ve been on the defensive for a while. I pour some water over myself, well overheated. I down a sports drink, drag my forearm across my damp brow, and sweat some more. Out of the corner of my eye, at the opposition bench, I see Thomas pull off his jersey to soak it in water before putting it back on. He’s a feast for the eyes under the midday sun. For a moment in my mind, we’re back in my bed, skin to skin. I quickly look away, a lump in my throat.

The start of the second half continues in the same vein, till Wilson finally defeats Connor with a point earned on something we felt should have been offside, but it’s to no avail: we’re tied up. And we’re desperately playing all out, and Thomas’ Blue Team has the advantage of youth, as Martin predicted, with David and Martin both older. We decide to switch Meng’s and Martin’s positions when there’s yet another foul. Everyone’s frustrated with the stop-start pace.

And then, before the end of extra time, the opposition scores a point that sailed past Connor’s reach to stop it. Then, we spend the rest of the match frantically trying to get another point. I get fouled yet again, and I’m going to ache with bruises from the number of times I’ve hit the ground or have gotten kicked in the guise of going for the ball.

Finally, it’s over. I rub my eyes, exhausted. I down some water before we shake hands with the other team.

Thomas’ handshake is firm, his gaze cool. “Shame you lost.”

“Shame you won,” I retort without missing a beat.

Wilson’s grip is as intense as he was on the field, and he frowns at me when we shake hands. “Too bad you’re a cheat.”

“Speak for yourself.” I give him a cutting look.

After some posturing and grumbling, he moves on. Everyone helps themselves to cool water and sport drinks before seeking shade. Thomas peels off his shirt and flops on the grass at center field, spread-eagle on his back. One of my favorite positions to see him in. It takes all my resolve to walk past like nothing’s happened. He looks totally wrecked. Which, fair, he’s not a chronic insomniac with the advantage of getting by without enough kip.

The camera crew comes by for my take on the post-game confessional. “We did our best” is the sound bite I give them with a broad shrug. “They were the better team today in the end.”

Even I’m fading, though, despite years of sleep-deprivation experience. Soon, we all disperse for showers, and some people head for lunch. The thought makes me nauseous at the minute. Instead, I crawl into bed and pass out in a nap. I’ll need all the rest I can get because tomorrow will probably be the most grueling of the three events with the triathlon. In a heat wave, no less. Later, we all get kitted up with bikes, gear, and running shoes. I have a long soak in the bath before bed for my aching muscles, carefully not thinking of Thomas.

* * *

Today, it’s 31 C by 9:00 a.m., which is when we’re due to start. I went light on breakfast, which seemed to be a strategy of a lot of the men. We’ve been driven to the seaside in Brighton for the swimming portion.

“Remember, gentlemen, each stage gives a point. The person with the most points wins this challenge. Which, in case you’re not so hot at maths, is a possible total of three points for the stages and one point for the overall winner for our standings. And so far, Thomas remains in first place, defending his lead in the league table.” Colin’s gaze falls on me. “And our Prince is in second. And do remember, if you don’t finish an event, you can’t go on to the next one in the triathlon. Good luck to all of you.” He gives us a final overview of the course.

We stand on the pebble beach, waiting for the whistle. Then, we’re off into the cold sea, and it’s brilliantly refreshing.

I’m a strong swimmer, but so are the others. My biceps and lungs are aching by the time we come down to the finish line. I give it my all but come in third, after Thomas and Wilson, who takes the event with a respectable lead. It turns out Wilson’s been a competitive swimmer in the past. Naturally, he gloats shamelessly.

By the time we’re ready to cycle back to the estate, we’re in 33 C heat. There’s a health and safety reminder to stay hydrated and to stop if we feel overheated. Honestly, we’re all overheated before we begin, but everyone wants to win. We take our bikes on the outskirts of Brighton, and then we’re off once more.

I keep up a good pace, but I don’t push myself to take the lead here. At least not yet. I know cycling isn’t my strong suit. We navigate hills and bends in the road, which has been closed to traffic for us. There are water stations along the way, which also conveniently give us a chance to find out who’s in the lead. By the midpoint, I’ve learned that Martin and David have pulled out due to overexertion. By the three-quarters mark, I’m only a few minutes behind the leaders, Thomas and Wilson. We hear that Jax blew a tire and is out of the competition. Travis and Connor come up beside me. We gulp down sports drinks before heading off, neck and neck for third place.

On the backstretch, we’re catching up to Thomas and Wilson, who are going flat out. And we race, the world whipping past in green as we ride. Every muscle in my body screams with fatigue and pain, especially after yesterday. But I start to pull away from Travis, going head-to-head with Connor. We come up to the leaders, but it’s not enough—Thomas crosses half a bike length ahead of Wilson, followed by me, then Connor, and Travis.

The remaining five get to move on to the running, which means I’m also facing Thomas, Wilson, Travis, and Connor, with the other three out. Ordinarily, I’d be all over running. But with the heat and aching muscles, it’s hard to know how this will go down. Travis pulls up midway through the 10 km, claiming a pulled muscle. And by some miracle, I pull off a victory over Thomas and Wilson and Connor.

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