Surely he’d be back in command by summer’s end. Since his surgery in the spring, he’d been faithful with physiotherapy. He’d be in tip-top shape, ready to play in the fall Premiership.
Stephen picked up another puff, and another one of his distant memories drifted to the front. Why did puffs make him think ofher?
But he knew. They’d eaten puffs together, that night, at Franklin’s Bakery. And it was forever lodged in his psyche.
Robert entered, a set of tea towels in hand. “Sir, there you are. How was your therapy?”
“Fine. Did you see the headlines again today?”
“Ghastly business, speculating on your love life.”
“They didn’t ring round here, inquiring, did they?”
Robert made a face, folding the towels neatly into a drawer above the cabinets. “They’d be foolhardy if they did. Wasting their time.”
“As I thought. I can’t imagine what sparked this sudden interest.”
“Perhaps a slow news week.” Robert smiled and Stephen laughed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was intended.” Robert bustled about the kitchen, preparing for supper. “I trust you’ll be on the pitch for the summer internationals? After all, the Brighton Eagles need their star winger.” The older gentleman, with a thick coif of pale red hair, was lean and fit, an ardent rugby enthusiast. “The whole city is electric with excitement over the upcoming tournament.”
When Stephen took Robert on in the spring, his love for the game was the one quality that set him above the rest of the royal household staff. That and the fact he was the son of a valet who was the son of a valet. His father had also served in the palace.
“No summer internationals for me,” Stephen said.Thanks to his blasted, stupid injury.He should’ve taken more care with his weak left side. With these international games, he’d have earned another cap. So far, he’d collected twenty-eight in all, on his way to a goal of fifty. “The ankle is not ready.”
’Tis a shame, sir, what with the new stadium and all. They say we’re poised for a good show opening weekend.”
“I’ll be cheering from the bench.”
“I’m sure the lads will love the support of their prince and team leader.”
Stephen shifted in his seat, gently stretching his left ankle, silently dealing with the pain. Why wasn’t it getting better? The throbbing seemed to be a constant. Even more bewildering to him was how the pain leaked upward toward his chest and drilled into his heart.
Ever since he returned from his tour in Afghanistan and demobbed from the Royal Air Command, he’d been on the pitch, consumed with the present, fashioning his future, grateful for every training session, every test that excised his dark demons, the painful past, and his doubts about a kind, loving God.
Okay, so it was only June. He’d miss the summer games, but Dr. Gaylord predicted another month in the walking boot along with physiotherapy and Stephen would be ready to train at 100 percent again.
As he stuffed his sixth puff into his mouth and washed it down with tea, door chimes pealed through his palace apartment.
Robert wiped his hands on a towel. “Are you expecting someone, sir?”
“Perhaps it’s someone who’s figured out how to catch a prince?”
Robert’s small white smile sparked in his eyes. “Shall I let them in?”
“Please, I’d like to know the answer myself.”
Stephen poured another cup of tea. Just how did one catch a prince? An American, Susanna, had captured his brother, the king, with a single glance.
As for him? He’d been caught. Once. And he was certain he’d never want to be caught again, despite all of Mum’s not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren tobothof her sons.
“Sir, your brother is here to see you.”
Stephen glanced around to see Nathaniel enter, a large white envelope under his arm. “Come join me, Nathaniel, for puffs and tea. Your favorites.” Stephen reached over, shoving the second stool away from the island, intending for his brother to sit.
“May I see you in private?” Nathaniel said, serious and deep voiced, and without a nod to the puffs.
