Page 13 of Risky Match
Their first suggestion was for me to employ the extra staff they no longer needed. My parents explained that these people could manage my tennis engagements and travel while my current assistant could manage my royal duties.
I didn’t want those people to lose their jobs, so I agreed. The side effect of this arrangement is that my parents now hear about my schedule from their loyal staff and worry every time I’m off to a crowded event.
Mum shakes her head, saying, “That’s not it. There are a couple of conditions on the invitation.”
“What do you mean? Wild cards don’t come with conditions.”
“Your mother is referring to the fact that you’ll be playing mixed doubles, not singles.”
My eyes narrow and I twirl my ring, considering what my dad just said. It’s disappointing, but it also doesn’t make any sense. Sure, I’ve played doubles quite a bit over the years, but this year my focus was on singles.
And even if they invited me to play doubles, why mixed doubles? I’ve usually played doubles with Sara as my partner. I can’t remember the last time I played doubles with a guy. So, why in the world would Wimbledon give me a wild card in mixed doubles? Something doesn’t ring true, but it’s not like I can challenge their decision. They might realize their mistake and withdraw the invitation entirely.
That thought sends a chill through me, so I resolve to accept the situation, saying, “That’s unexpected and disappointing, but if that’s my only option, it’ll be okay. It’s still Wimbledon, and I’m a strong doubles player. Wait—something doesn’t add up. I don’t have a regular, mixed-doubles partner. It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s not a problem. You’re partnering with Blake Knight. It’s all set,” Dad says.
I shake my head. I can’t have heard him right.
“Did you say Blake Knight?”
“Yes. You know him, don’t you?” Dad asks.
That’s one way to put it—we spent a steamy night together two years ago, but Dad wouldn’t know about that—at least, I don’t think he would. We were very discreet.
Hopefully, I’m not blushing at the sudden memory of Blake’s warm, athletic body wrapped around mine.
I carefully answer, “Yes. We’ve crossed paths and interacted at various tournaments over the years. Enough for me to know he hates playing doubles. He’s not going to agree to this.”
“He will. One of his sponsors wants him to play with you. They’ve made it a condition of continued support. He’ll come around to the idea.”
“Why on earth would his sponsor do that?”
“The sponsor wants the royal connection on the court. They like the idea of a top male player and a princess both wearing their clothes at Wimbledon,” Dad says.
“Are you allowing me to wear their clothes? As a royal, you’ve never permitted me to have a sponsor.”
“That relates to the other condition,” Mum says.
“I’m afraid to ask but tell me.”
“You’ll be on a CRM,” Dad says.
My mind is racing. “Are you joking? A Covert Royal Mission? Does that mean the wild card invitation isn’t real? I’m not actually going to be playing, am I?”
“Slow down. We’ll explain. The wild card is real, and youwillbe playing. At the same time, you’ll be spying on your tennis partner,” Dad says with a straight face.
What the actual fuck?
My eyes widen, and my jaw drops. I’m utterly speechless, which is rare for me.
That means I slept with the guy I’ll now be spying on.
“May I sit?” I ask, but I move toward a chair before my parents have a chance to answer.
“We know this isn’t exactly what you had hoped for,” Mum says.
It’s hard to fathom that Blake is a suspected criminal, or worse, a terrorist. That would be the only reason for the Covert Royals to be involved. But it can’t be too serious. They would never send me into danger despite my repeated requests for more meaningful missions. My parents wouldn’t allow it. That must mean that Blake’s involvement is rather benign.
