Here we are.
Guilt at bringing up his mother—atworkingfor his mother without Anton’s consent, twice now—gnaws at me, shredding my carefully constructed outer shell like a cheese grater to a block of sharp cheddar. I keep the rest of my questions surface level. Anton’s polite, if a little distant, in his responses. I can’t help but wonder if his mind is on the past like mine is.
After we change out of our athletic gear and into street clothes, I manage to convince him to show me around the stadium under the guise of wanting to have a full picture of the place for my article. Truthfully, I’m scoping out security cameras and envisioning where a potential attacker could be lurking if he or she was going to make an attempt on Anton’s life.
“That about covers it. Pretty much your basic NFL stadium.” Anton stops and turns to me. “Now I need to go and get some rest.”
“Yeah, sure.” I adjust my grip on my purse, my pulse kicking up. I’m not his full-time security. He doesn’t have that because he’s refused it all these years. I get that. It’s not my job to be withhim 24-7, but I don’t like the thought of leaving him alone with the looming threat. I pull up a mental picture of his high-end apartment complex. At least it’s secure, with a manned desk and locked doors. I’m sure he’ll be fine at home alone. Or maybe he’s not going home alone. My pulse accelerates even further. Maybe he has a date.
I blink and find him staring at me. I immediately rearrange my facial features, attempting to mask my thoughts and the displeasure they’re causing.
Without waiting for me, Anton turns and heads down the hallway. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says over his shoulder.
“What? That’s not necessary.” I jog to catch up with him.
He spins around, and I collide with his chest. I suck in a breath as he sticks out a hand and catches me on the elbow, steadying me.
“Where are you parked?” he asks.
“Right outside.”
“Right outside? As in the visitors’ lot that’s practically in the next county?” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll walk you over there.”
“I’m perfectly capable of getting to my car on my own.” If he knew that I was professionally trained in defensive techniques and take-down maneuvers, this would be a non-issue.
“I know you are.” He sighs, flicking his gaze to mine. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here, okay? Let me have this one thing.”
I swallow down a retort and nod my head. He pushes the door open, and we walk into the cold winter air. The change in temperature from inside to outside momentarily snatches my breath. I fold my arms across my chest to conserve body heat and lean into the wind.
“Feels like Penwick here.” Anton has his chin tucked into his coat. He glances over at me, and I remain silent. “Much more so than it did down in Mobile.”
“Do you miss it?” I slide along a patch of ice, shuffling my feet to keep my balance.
“Mobile? Or Penwick?”
“Either. Both.”
He tips his chin up. “I learned a ton playing for the Tigers, and I’m so grateful to them for taking a chance on me right out of college. But I feel like I’ve hit my stride here. My teammates are like family.”
It’s a good response. Honest yet very politically correct. I can tell he means it about his teammates too. Judging from my earlier interaction with them, the feelings go both ways.
“As for Penwick,” Anton continues, “it’s a beautiful country. I wish I could visit more, but…” He shrugs.
“It’s still a lot of pressure when you’re there, huh?” I say quietly.
He nods. “More so now, with my thirtieth birthday looming. Back home, there’s a spotlight on my every movement. The press churns out stories about how I act, what I say and do, and all the pundits weigh in on what type of leader I’ll be. Everything is picked apart and analyzed. I want to live and do my work, but it’s paralyzing with that amount of pressure and publicity.”
We walk on in silence, the only sound the crunch of leftover snow beneath our feet.
“You probably think that sounds like a sob story.” Anton chuckles bitterly. “A poor, miserable royal, unhappy with his silver spoon and privilege.”
“That’s not what I think. You know that.” I’m surprised by how fierce I sound. After a beat, I add, “I can keep that off the record.”
He curses under his breath, reaching up and raking a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t thinking about the article.” His eyes hold a pleading gleam when I meet his gaze. “You really won’t publish any of that?”
“Of course not. We’re just a couple of old friends, catching up.” My voice hitches on the wordfriends. I look away, grasping for a way to deflect. “Speaking of friends, you’ll invite me to guys’ night?”
“They won’t let me get away withnotinviting you.”
