Suffocated by security, Stephen cut across the marble floor toward an unmarked door, the rise of the steel-and-windowed lobby peeking over him in a dome ceiling.
From his right, a beautiful redhead made a sultry, green-eyed approach.
“Your Highness,” she said as she curtsyed, “might I have your autograph?”
Stephen slowed, drawn in by her confidence and husky voice, but remembering he was not a free man. His heart sighed relief. He was pledged. For now anyway, and he liked the security.
Thomas blocked her next step. “Autographs are for the event only. Please wait in line.”
Stephen smiled, shrugging.Got to follow the rules.
“Then I’ll see you in the line.” She captured the pout forming on her lower lip and instead, gave him a rather saucy wink.
In the green room, Stephen greeted his teammates, joining in their banter, preparing to meet their fans, relishing in their recent win over Ulster and harassing the event coordinator as he tried to gain their attention. They were worse than schoolboys, and Stephen loved them.
“Please, pay attention. My name is Langley and I’m yourhostfor the day. Now, the signing goes until six, no later.” Langley popped his hands together, looking as if he might say, “Children, children.”
“Gentleman, please focus.Onme. If you don’t know what’s going on, I’m not going to tell you when you come round begging.”
“Listen up, lads,” Stephen said, tipping his head toward the coordinator. The team settled down. As much as he wanted to be just one of the boys, Stephen was ever aware of his royal status. He must be both man and prince.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Langley was prim and neat, too skinny for any adult man, but Stephen liked him. He seemed efficient and passionate about his job. “The hotel lobby has stations with your names. The fans will make their way in single file, receive a souvenir, then pass by the stations for signatures. Do not speak with the media.” He jabbed the air with his finger. “They will sneak in and try to trick you, but we’ve no time for their games.”
“You do realize you’re talking to rugby men, right, mate?” This from tight head prop Earl Bruce, who never knew a rule or regulation he couldn’t break.
“I do, and you realize you’re to be goodwill ambassadors for not only the sport of rugby but Brighton Kingdom. Do not forget your prince is among you.”
The boys jeered, and Randall Cummings, an Eagle center, slapped Stephen on the back, sending him forward, causing him to stumble and catch his balance with his left, aching foot. A slice of pain gripped his ankle. “Careful Randall, or I’ll never be on the pitch again.”
Langley snapped his fingers. “Still talking, still talking . . . Do not pause for pictures, or selfies, as they say, lest we be here all day.” The man gave them his best stern expression, but it only made the men snicker more and whisper barbs to one another. “There are more than five thousand people waiting to see you.”
That shut them up. Stephen peered at his mates. Every jovial rugby face turned to stone. It was one thing to play before tens of thousands in the stadium. The boys were in their element. But it was quite another to greet so many face-to-face.
“It’s time.” Langley clapped his hands, trying to corral the men and usher them out of the green room. But they’d not listen.
Stephen pierced the din with a sharp whistle. “It’s time. Let’s go.”
The Wellington lobby was crammed and jammed. Literally swimming with kids from ages one to ninety-two—young rugby players, families, fans, and beautiful, stylish women who batted their eyes at the team.
At Stephen.
Thomas walked beside him, just off his right shoulder. “Security is tight. We’ve a plainclothes team watching the crowd inside and out. A metal detector is working at the entrance. Bags are searched.”
“Good,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought anyone was at risk. But please, keep vigilant.”
Heightened security and keeping war secrets was the only way Stephen could play professional rugby. His admittance to the team only came when the league agreed to a strict security protocol. Otherwise, traveling with the prince put the players and fans at risk.
He was grateful the last five and a half years had been without incident.
He found his name at the table. Blimey. His placard read Prince Stephen, not Stephen Stratton. Grabbing the Sharpie set out for signing, he scratched out Prince and wrote Winger.
And the crowd was let loose. For three hours he never looked up. Boys, girls, mums and dads, fans of all ages, shapes, and sizes offering congratulations for the spring 7 Nations Championship, wishing them well in the upcoming World Cup.
“When do you think you’ll be back on the pitch, Your Highness? Brighton needs their Number 14.” A tall man with broad shoulders offered Stephen a rugby ball for signature.
“Who’s to say?” He signed with a flourish. “We’re not answering questions right now.”
“Come on, I’m just a fan. All I want to know—”
