“There is when she’s just using you,” Poe says dryly. “You’re better than that, man.”
TJ frowns. “It’s not my fault you guys prefer guacamole and books to a night out.”
Del rolls his eyes. “Let’s agree to disagree. What about you, Bates?”
“I’ve got that thing in California.”
The “thing” being a charity gala that my mother demanded I attend. I didn’t have the energy to try to talk my way out of it. Sadly, that’s become a sort of pattern between her and me. She says jump, and even when I’d rather not, I do.
The guys start heckling me immediately. TJ is singing “California Gurls”by Katy Perry. Del breaks into the song by the same name by the Beach Boys.
Poe smirks. “You get to play prince for the weekend.”
“Yeah. My favorite thing to do.” I lace my voice with sarcasm. These guys get me. I love my teammates like brothers. They’ve become the type of close-knit family I always longed for but never had. They know I hate flaunting my royal title, which is really what my mother wants me to do out there. But they also know that, as the heir to the monarchy of a small island nation off the coast of Norway, I have certain hats I’m forced to wear.
I’ve been able to convince my mom, the queen, that I don’t need additional security and special treatment in my day-to-day life—at least not any more than what other pro-football players have. But when I go to events like this, where my royalty is what’s on display, I’m forced to have an entourage. I hate it.
Why didn’t I say no?
Because I can’t stand disappointing my mother. Because I feel like I’d come across as ungrateful for the silver-spoon life I’ve been allowed to live.
Because I do actually like giving back. Still, I’d rather stay close to home. I much prefer my job as Anton Bates, #4, starting quarterback for the Green Bay River Foxes over His Royal Highness Prince Anton Muriel Bates of Penwick.
“Don’t forget about us little guys when you get out there with all those famous people, eh?” TJ mimes tugging at invisible sleeves of a dress shirt.
“Need a date? I’ll come with you.” Del slings his arm over my shoulder.
“And take you away from your chips and guac? Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Del covers his heart with his hand. “That’s how I know you’re a real one, Bates. Always looking out for my best interests.”
“You know it.” I grin at Del, thoughts of my mother and my royal responsibilities falling away. I got traded to the River Foxes three years back, and Del followed this year, which worked out great for me. It takes a lot to get a quarterback and a center on the same page. Our history together has worked to the team’s advantage. The fact that he’s one of my best friends off the field is a cherry on top.
We follow the winding hallway that leads us to an exterior wing of the stadium. Several of our other teammates are walking this direction too. It’s a team tradition that on Fridays, we put on the Biker Brigade for our fans.
I don’t know who came up with the idea or why it has stuck, but young fans bring in their bikes, and then we, the players, ride them in a sort of parade. The kids get to run out and meet the player who’s on his or her bike. We sign autographs. Stand for pictures. All that jazz.
It’s cute.
Some of us think so more than others.
“I still can’t believe they make us do this,” Del grumbles as we round the corner and see the line-up of bikes for the day. “Don’t they realize I weigh two hundred and eighty-five pounds? I am not built for this madness.”
“Buck up, Delly-boy. This is what we do!” TJ takes off in a sprint toward the end of the bike line. “Dibs on the blue mountain bike!”
The rest of us follow on his heels, racing to claim a ride. You never want to be the guy who gets the smallest bike. The smaller the bike, the more uncomfortable it is to ride it. And there’s always the risk that you’ll break a pedal or bend some metal.
I run toward a solid, sturdy-looking Huffy, but before I can put my hand on it, Caleb, one of our linebackers snags it. “Sorry, 4. Ya snooze, ya lose.”
Blast it all. Rules are rules, and the first person to any given bike gets to ride it.
My teammates are like little mice, scattering to the bikes. If we can match this energy on the field for the rest of the season, we’ll be undefeated. A quick look around reveals that every other two-wheeled contraption is spoken for except a small purple one with glittery streamers coming off the handlebars and a white woven basket hanging from the front, complete with a brown plush teddy bear resting inside.
I stride over to it, resigned to my fate. I press down on the handle bars, testing the wheels to see if they have enough air in them and if the whole thing will be able to support my weight. When I’m satisfied that it’s not going to collapse under me, I swing my leg over and tentatively sit on the uncomfortable banana-shaped seat.
“Lookin’ good, Bates!” Poe rings the bell on his orange-and-black mountain bike, walking it forward.
“I can make anything look good.” I flick the handle bar streamers for good measure.
