He’d have to be careful. Keep an eye out.
A minute after 11:00 a.m., Stephen met Thomas in the garage. The man greeted him, folding up his newspaper and shoving down the last of a chocolate biscuit.
Slipping behind the wheel, Thomas detailed the security measures set for the event. “We’ve a green room set up for you and the team. I’ve two men at every door, and the hotel security will monitor the entrance and the lobby.”
From the passenger seat, Stephen listened. Then as Thomas backed out of the garage and merged into traffic, he said, “Do you think she told?”
“Who?” Thomas glanced sideways at him. “Corina?”
“Who else?” Stephen stared out his window, watching the hustle and bustle of Cathedral City whisk past.
“Who would she tell? Don’t see how it could be to her advantage after all these years.”
“Spite doesn’t always need advantage, Thomas.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but Corina doesn’t strike me as the vindictive type. Not her way. What makes you ask?”
“No reason.” Stephen sat back, stretching his leg, gently moving the kinks from his ankle. Blimey, the thing hurt today. “Robert was just asking if I needed help with anything from America. The way he said it piqued my curiosity.”
Besides Robert’s comment, remnants from his dream lingered, disturbing him in places he couldn’t reach with his thoughts.
If he had his way . . .
. . . he’d reverse his days, go back three months to the game against England andnottake the sidestep that tore his ankle. He’d go back five and a half years andnothesitate that day in Torkham.
He’d go back even further andnotrecommend Asif as interpreter. Andnotrecommend Carlos to his commander as a new member of his crew.
He’d go back six years andnotpropose to Corina.
All to save himself from what he wrestled with today. Sigh. This wasnotfruitful thinking.Come on, get your head in the game. Be on for the fans.
The car jerked and Thomas muttered, smashing the horn, ordering a slow-moving car to move out of his Royal Highness’s way. “Prince of Brighton on board.”
“Steady, mate,” Stephen said, exhaling, letting go of his thoughts. Of his regrets.
In another few minutes, Thomas turned down Market, whistling low. “Look at this.”
Thousands of fans lined the avenue, creating a giant, waving banner of blue and gold. Stephen’s heart warmed. This was what he lived for—the fans. He was their winger, and he was going to do everything he could to get back on the pitch.
Thomas maneuvered toward The Wellington’s circular drive, where bell caps swarmed, shoving the hordes out of the way.
“Stay put,” Thomas said as he got out, pushing the Audi’s door against the throng.
“I’ve faced Taliban bullets, Thomas. Surely I can manage a few maniac fans.” Stephen stepped out, rising to his full height, waving.Thiswas his princely element. The fans roared, calling Stephen’s nickname, “Strat, Strat, Strat.” The noise was deafening under the covered drive.
“Didn’t they teach you to obey orders in the RAC?” Thomas shouldered alongside him. “This is a crowd. Have you forgotten the protocol?”
“It’s Fan Day. Give them what they want, eh?”
Besides, he couldn’t let fear sink in or he’d trust no one. He’d never leave the palace, always worried a rogue with a bomb lay in wait.
“But I’ll be the one who answers to the palace if something happens.” Thomas cut a path to The Wellington’s glass-and-concrete lobby, the shouts under the covering now a heavy, indiscernible sound.
The bell captain and hotel security darted from the expansive, sliding doors, pushing the crowd aside. “Stand back. Be orderly. You’ll get your chance to meet the team and the prince.”
The prince? The team would give him the dickens if he expected royal protocol.
“Welcome, Your Highness.” The hotel manager met Stephen just inside the door with a curt bow. “The green room is just this way.”
