Page 4 of Risky Match
“Thank you for understanding. And I completely agree about needing a break. You’re the only person tonight who has had a normal conversation with me.” She sighs, sadness passing over her face.
My eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“I must have had a dozen people ask me why I’m not wearing a tiara tonight. Others curtsied to me so many times it was making me dizzy. Then some wouldn’t talk to me at all because they were under the impression that they were only allowed toanswer questions I asked. And there’s a limit as to how many times I can ask someone if they are enjoying the food, the wine, the evening, etc.”
I want to hug her and erase the frustration she’s feeling. Instead, I gently push an errant strand of her hair behind her ear and stare at her intently, saying, “That sounds exhausting.”
She shrugs. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I was born into a wonderful life. But, sometimes, I just wish I could have normal interactions with people. Tonight, you were a shining light. You were respectful but treated me like a real person. I’ll be forever grateful for you saving me at this event.”
I can’t imagine what it’s like to be treated the way she describes. No wonder she was desperate for normal conversation. Is she hungry for intimacy too, I wonder? That’s none of my business though. I remind myself that princesses don’t date tennis players, even wealthy ones.
“I’m happy to have been of service. Let me know if I can do anything else to make tonight better.” I wink, unable to resist flirting a little.
She blushes, saying, “I’ll have to give that some thought.”
I wonder if she likes the idea of something more. With that thought, my mind quickly conjures the most inappropriate options.
“You do that,” I suggest.
“It’s getting cool.” She shivers.
I remove my tux jacket and wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her closer as I say, “The rain cooled the air down more than I expected.”
Enjoying the moment, my hands linger on her upper arms, holding the jacket in place.
She stares into my eyes as if judging my intentions and finally says, “Thank you. I should have brought my wrap with me, but I assumed it would still be warm. You never know whatto expect this time of year though. It can go from warm to cool and rainy in an instant.”
“This works. I don’t mind keeping you warm.” I smile.
“You are quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
“Not always. Most people think I’m too serious. I’m just enjoying your company. This has been an exceedingly difficult two weeks for me. I must say I was dreading tonight. You’ve made it worth it for me,” I admit, looking away in an attempt to hide just how hard it’s been.
“I can only imagine what it’s been like for you. I was sorry to see you lose your semifinal match here. It was a nailbiter. You played well. I thought you were going to win, but your opponent had a couple of lucky bounces in the last game.”
“He did, but I had other opportunities to win that I let slip away.”
If she only knew how much that loss sucked the energy from me. I’ve always been a fighter, but I’m starting to wonder if I have what it takes to conquer this battle on grass courts.
She reaches up and tenderly rubs her palm against my cheek, saying, “There’s always next time. At least that’s what I tell myself. Each year, I keep hoping for a wild card invitation to Wimbledon, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
There’s a longing in her voice that tugs at my heart.
But she’s a princess. Her parents should be able to fix this. I ask, “Can’t you or your family pull some royal strings?”
A fierce, hardness forms on her face as she practically growls, “I’d never do that, and I gave my parents strict instructions not to even think about using their influence to get me an invitation. I only want to play at Wimbledon if I earn the opportunity. I take my tennis very seriously. I don’t cut corners. The problem is that I’m not able to play enough tournaments during the year to raise my ranking enough to automatically qualify. Therefore, I’m left hoping that one day I’ll receive a wild card invitation.”
Talk about integrity. I’m overwhelmed with admiration. But I’m confused. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but how did you end up at the Champions Dinner tonight?”
I can only describe her expression as resigned.
After a pause, she answers, “I’ve been watching Wimbledon as a guest in the Royal Box this week. As a visiting royal, I’m sure they felt obligated to invite me tonight. It would have been impolite not to attend. What about you?”
“Technically, invitations are only given to the winners and runners up in singles, doubles, and mixed doubles. But as the highest-ranking British player, I’m also given an invitation each year regardless of how I do in the tournament.”
Realization dawns on her face. “I see. And like me, it wouldn’t be acceptable to skip the dinner even if it’s hard to watch the winners celebrate.”
“Exactly. We have more in common and understand each other better than I would’ve ever imagined.”
