T-Dav! T-Dav! T-Dav!
Against every instinct he possessed, he rolled almost silently into the parking space. The urge to immortalize the moment was too much for him to resist. He reached over, grabbed his phone, and contorted his body, so the pitch could provide the perfect backdrop. Taking a quick picture, he posted it.
T-Dav has arrived. Ring the bells.
The notifications sounded, each ding an angel singing. Smiling wide, he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to the dressing room. Intentionally, he arrived early, so he could enjoy the pristine view, the smell of the dew on the grass, and an unhurried stroll through the building. He paused on the threshold, taking a moment to appreciate the realization of his lifelong dream. With his feet spread, he crossed his arms, turned his head to the left, and nodded. Anyone familiar with T-Dav knew his trademark pose. Nothing flashy because his flash came in front of the goal, his celebration more of an acknowledgment. He untangled his left hand and snapped another selfie.
Dream realized!
“How many selfies today?” Rowan asked from behind him.
Tristan smiled over his shoulder, not even a little embarrassed. “What are you doing here so early?”
“Ramsey request.”
“Skipper talk already?”
Rowan shook his head. “Doubt it. He wants to see you too.”
It didn’t matter that Nicolas Ramsey had chosen Tristan from thousands of other footballers or that Tristan had now had numerous conversations with him or even that he’d participated in three of Ramsey’s training sessions; Tristan continued to have a small case of hero worship. There were ballers you could claim were the best. But Nico Ramsey had set the bar for his generation. If Tristan looked at the National Team gaffer with a bit of awe and incredulity, it was only natural.
“What about?”
“Not sure.” Rowan started walking with Tristan toward the dressing room. “Why are you here so early?”
“Taking it in.”
“Keep it like that, Tris,” Rowan said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Tristan smiled. Rowan’s approval was almost as good as playing for Nicolas Ramsey.
“Shall we?”
Tristan nodded. “Do you still feel it, playing for your country?”
Tristan didn’t think he would be disappointed with any answer. But when Rowan didn’t speak for a moment, Tristan realized that wasn’t quite true.
“Of course,” he finally said. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t play. Plenty of younger players—Caleb, for instance—are waiting to take my spot.”
“True. And I think you might have a couple of caps left in you, Skip,” Tristan said with a smack on his captain’s stomach.
They reached Ramsey’s office, and Tristan rapped on the door before Rowan could retaliate.
Nico came forward and embraced Rowan first before turning and welcoming Tristan with a more formal handshake. Sir Nicolas Ramsey was just a little bit taller than the average footballer. Nico had become a fashion icon off the pitch when he was a player. As a manager, he took his look to a new level. GQ’d as a rule, he was dressed in charcoal-gray slim-fit pants, a light-gray undershirt, and a black cashmere V-neck sweater. As much as Tristan liked to look good, he couldn’t quite match Ramsey’s style. His dark hair had gone to gray on the sides. It was slicked back and only out of place on the few occasions he lost his shit on the field.
He stepped away, inviting them to enter his office. The space was as impressive as every room at the training center. Nico’s glass-topped L-shaped desk looked out over one of the indoor fields. A conference table, surrounded by plush chairs, was situated on the opposite side. A big screen TV adorned the wall.
“Let’s sit at the table,” he instructed.
Rowan led the way and took a seat on the right while Tristan plopped down on the left. Nico pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat. He leaned forward, completely engaged in the coming conversation.
“We start in two days. Are you ready?” he asked the question to both of them, but Tristan knew it was directed at him. Of course Rowan was ready. This wasn’t new for him, but it would be the first cap for Tristan, and the expectation was already heavy.
“I am.” He found himself sitting straighter, his body responding to the unspoken demand for respect.
Nico nodded. “As you know—or maybe you don’t—we are a favorite of the prince. He isn’t shy about coming to watch. And it’s tradition for him to attend our first practice. Part ceremony, part patriotism. Even when I was a player, he came with his father.”
Tristan merely nodded. There were people who were interested in the royal family—his mother and sisters—but Tristan didn’t pay the palace much attention. To be fair, if it didn’t happen on the pitch, Tristan didn’t give many things too much thought.
“I was prepared to welcome him. However, we received word from the palace that Prince James will be unable to attend, so they are sending the princesses.”
Rowan stiffened, but Tristan merely waited, trying to figure out why this conversation even involved him.
“And?” Rowan intoned.
Rowan could question. In fact, as captain, it was his job. Tristan withheld his delighted laughter. Rowan had it in him to be a total asshole. No one would dare defy him, except the team collectively calling him Grumps.
“Your lucky day. You have been chosen to represent the National Team by escorting Princess Eleanor and Princess Juliana.”
Rowan rolled his eyes, and Tristan snickered.
Instead of Ramsey giving Rowan a hard time, he turned his glare on Tristan. “Think you can handle it?”
“Pfft,” he blew out, waving a hand. “Of course.”
Rowan and Nico exchanged knowing glances.
Tristan caught the look. “Am I missing something?”
Rowan shrugged. “Ulterior motive. Palace doesn’t do anything if there’s nothing in it for them.”
“Cynical much?” Tristan wasn’t surprised by Rowan’s assessment. He just wasn’t sure it mattered.
What did he care? So, he had to hang with the Ice Princess for a spell. There were worse things than entertaining a pretty woman.
“What? Poor kid makes good? Why do they want you?”
Nico chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but Rowan is the reigning face of football in our country.”
“Hide your crown, Grumps. I’m coming for it,” Tristan teased.
“You can have the bloody thing. Do all my damn interviews too. You play nice after losing to the worst team in the league. See how much you like it,” he grumbled, his back stiffening more than usual as he shouldered Tristan’s ribbing.
Tristan leaned back in his chair, silent laughter shaking his frame, while Nico smiled indulgently at the two of them.
“And that’s probably not why they want you, if I had to guess,” Rowan continued. “I might be king of the pitch right now, but you, my friend, are the social media prince.”
“Enough with the royal references already,” Nico chided.
“Yes, Sir Nicolas,” Rowan responded, using Nico’s official title.
Nico dropped his head to the table. Tristan couldn’t contain his mirth as even Rowan’s stuffy countenance was broken up by a crooked smile.