Backstage: A Fake Marriage Romance, page 26
If this is the best my parents have been able to find, God knows who’s going to be next when I finally have to give in. Marry someone like this, or risk being disowned and renounce my royal lineage in the hope that I’ll be able to find the man I really want? Being an eighteen-year-old virgin helps that case, but how am I going to meet an athlete, underwear model or international superstar, if I’m no longer one of the elite? Eighteen-year-old virgins come by the bucket load, eighteen-year-old virgin princesses that want to fuck two men at once are a little harder to find.
Poor Elon. He’ll never get inside my panties no matter how hard he tries. He could have a huge dick and be a consummate lover but I’ll never know because it just isn’t going to happen. Sorry Mom, sorry Dad, but this little princess just isn’t going to play ball, not until she’s given the dark side a good go first.
“I’ve got a surprise”, Elon says, the chocolate from dessert still wet at the edge of his lips.
I don’t even want to think what it might be. “I like surprises”, I say instead, pretending to be jovial.
“I’ve got us tickets to the game.”
“The game?” I ask spontaneously, knowing full well that he can only be referring to one game, but surprised as hell if he’s really saying what I think he is.
“Patriots versus Jets, I know you’re a fan.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. “How?” I mumble.
“I’m a fan too”, Elon says, and despite the fact I know this about him from his Wikipedia profile, it’s clearly a lie and clearly an attempt to curry favor with me. That aside, he’s offering to take me to the fucking game. Not to some mall where I can see it on TV, not back to his house to watch it on a sixty-inch screen while he tries to bang me with his floppy cock, but to the stadium, to the game where there are going to be two full teams of incredibly well-built men. I’m practically drooling at the thought, clearly animated by the offer.
“How did you know I’m a fan?”, I say.
I mean, I’m not exactly the world’s biggest follow of football, not exactly the typical demographic.
Elon winks at me in a super sleazy way that gives me my third shudder of the afternoon, before saying, “us tech guys have our ways.”
The idea that he’s either, at best, been stalking me, at worst, been hacking my accounts, leaves me too stunned to respond. Alright, I had a look at his online presence, but literally nowhere but private correspondence have I mentioned I’m a fan of football, and even then, nothing more than an admission I’m a fan of the players more so than the sport. It makes me quickly wonder what else he’s read of mine privately before he jumps in again, perhaps sensing my concern.
“Your father mentioned you were showing interest on the plane over”, he says. “It was my idea to get the tickets. I take it you’d like to go?”
And get out of this nightmare into a crowd situation I can disappear from? Finally some light at the end of the tunnel.
“My parents might be expecting me back”, I say, hoping my theatrical display of reticence won’t blow up in my face.
“I’ll call them and explain everything”, Elon says confidently. “Besides which, I think your parents will be very happy if you don’t come home at all.”
That comment I don’t even dignify with a response.
Logan
Game day. I fucking love game day. Sunday night and on TV, Saturday afternoon in front of a packed crowd of home fans or middle of the week in the freezing cold, it’s all the same to me.
This one’s going to be extra special too. We’ve got the Jets visiting for the first time this season, which means I get to meet one of my all time idols, Carter Kane. In just three pro seasons, Carter has rewritten the record books a number of times, and we are going to have to be on top of our game to make sure we hold our own and stop that cannon of an arm he’s got firing.
If I could pick one other team to play for, or one other player to play in ours, I wouldn’t have to think twice about it. I’m not the only one who says it either, if Carter and I teamed up, we’d be absolutely unstoppable.
I don’t know the guy and I’ve never met him, though everyone I talk to says he’s an arrogant prick with an incredible talent, who could have been even better if he hadn’t have dedicated a large part of his early career on chasing pussy and partying hard. I don’t see it, though. In my eyes, the guys a legend. He’s clearly head and shoulders above any other quarterback in the league, and arguably better than anyone else we’ve seen in this sport in the last few decades. If he’s done that while going strong off-field, props to the guy. That just tells me that everyone else needs to step up. I’ll reserve judgment until I meet him, but I won’t be holding back when we get out there to square up. I have professional respect for the guy, fanboy adoration, but if he isn’t on the same team as me, he’s enemy number one until the Patriots come away with the win.
I’ve got something to prove today as well, considering the bullshit story from the middle of the week that just won’t leave me alone, and even though they’ve got the best quarterback anywhere in the world right now, it doesn’t mean they are the best team. Far from it. We’re top of the division and looking to stay that way until the end of the season. I want to go all the way and I’m not the only one that thinks we can do it.
Kane might already have his own Superbowl ring, and he might have made MVP last year, he just didn’t do it in his first season as a rookie, which is very much what I intend to do this year.
Some people get nervous on game day, not me. I get excited instead. I get the kind of skin buzzing, pulse racing sensation beating out across my body I get when I’m about to take a pretty girl to orgasm. Sex and football are pretty similar when it comes down to it, and a combination of the two is absolutely out of this world good. I’ll concentrate on that bit after the game, though, stealthily this time so Doug doesn’t get his panties in a twist.
I’ve been lying low since the middle of the week, just to prove I can be a good boy, but that hasn’t meant the need has suddenly gone away, and three days without any is beginning to take its toll. If you’re a natural at something, whether that’s painting, dancing or seducing women, it would be criminal behavior to stop you doing what you were born to do. If that’s being with women and playing ball, which it is in my case, it’s as bad as telling a cheetah he’s not allowed to run fast or clipping an eagle’s wings just so it can’t fly. Convincing the coaching staff and the owners of that is another thing altogether but I suppose it might get easier if we continue to win.
Maybe I should ask Carter if he wants to come and give a talk or maybe I should just get him to tell me how to keep the paparazzi away. He seems to have figured that out over the last few years because he’d turned from one hell of a bad boy into someone even the most untrustworthy of tabloid journalist seem keen to revere.
Even from in here, I can tell the crowd is livelier than usual, fired up for what’s about to come, and I can’t wait to get out amongst it. Doug gives his standard technical talk, most of which I ignore, before Hunter takes over and Doug does his personal rounds.
When he comes to me, he slaps his open palm hard on the top of the helmet, bends down and grabs hold of my grill to pull me towards him.
“No fucking around today, Logan”, he tells me.
“I promise, Doug, I haven’t seen a single princess worthy of my attention. Not yet anyway.”
He gives a wry smile at that before changing tact. “Give ‘em hell”, he says and bangs my helmet again before moving on to chew someone else’s ear out.
In the tunnel on the way to the field I see him standing slightly apart from everyone else, eyes directed forward, completely focussed on the game ahead. He’s even bigger than I expect, even more impressive close-up, a true fucking legend only meters away from me.
I begin to go towards him, unsure what I’m planning to say, but unable to avoid it either. I got into football because of people that Carter Kane has made look like little league players in less than five years, and even though we’re not out on the field yet it’s pretty clear to see why. The guy has a presence our quarterback could only dream about.
If I ever found that princess, I think to myself, this is the kind of guy I wouldn’t mind sharing her with at all.
Chapter Three
Marissa
That slink tries to kiss me in the car on the way to the stadium, and I have to make it even clearer than crystal that I’m not the kind of girl that fucks on the first date, or ever in this case. What gave him that impression in the first place, I have no idea, because this princess has been playing it cold hearted and frosty from the offset. It goes like this: We leave the restaurant, Elon tries to snake his arm under mine and pull me towards him, to which I resist, step apart from him and give him a look that under no circumstances could be misinterpreted, before we get into the car, and in less than two minutes between there and here, he’s slid over, to wrap his chubby arm around me again, in an attempt to twist me towards him and steal what I intend to never let him have.
I almost have to fight him off, which Elon interprets as playful resistance, before settling back into his own personal space again and leaving me to mine. Half of me thinks he likes the fact that I’m playing hard to get, the other half of me worries he thinks it’s just a matter of time before he woos me with his charm. I had expected him to be the typical tech geek who couldn’t hold a conversation properly let alone have the balls to try and kiss a princess because of a lifetime behind a computer screen, but unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Social ineptitude he does have, timidity, not a single bit at all.
Thank God the journey to the stadium doesn’t last too long, because in here, I feel totally trapped. Swap Elon out for a footballer, and this would be a totally different story altogether, that’s not too much to ask, is it?
We get total VIP treatment at the ground, where Elon has managed to arrange for us to sit in a completely private room, with waiters on hand for our every need. The view from up here is incredible too, and out on the balcony, the noise of the audience is enough to make my bones shake.
Elon is clearly uncomfortable in this environment, and not the least bit interested in the game. He orders a bottle of champagne, despite the fact I can’t and won’t drink any, and more food, even though we’ve eaten enough to last us for the rest of the day.
The private suite comes with a private terrace, separated from the other balconies below us, and is clearly considered to be the best seat in the house for its exclusivity. I understand why Elon chose it, why it probably has the price tag it does, but in all honesty, even though this is extremely enjoyable, I’d just as much like to be close to the ground and in amongst the crowd. I’m used to this treatment and I’ve never liked separating myself from what’s going on. That buzz is ten times as exciting from within, perhaps because it’s ten times as dangerous too. I’m not going to complain, though. As long as I can see the players, I’m happy just to be here.
“Your first?” Elon asks, leaning out across the balcony a little too close to me for comfort.
“Yes”, I nod, sliding slowly away from him and pretending to do so just to get the full effect of the outside space.
“It’s better inside”, Elon says, briefly attempting to move towards me again. “You don’t get bothered by the noise.”
“I like it out here”, I say. “It’s much more real. You can feel the atmosphere.”
“That’s not always a benefit”, Elon admits. “Sometimes it’s more enjoyable being able to control the environment a little more. That’s why I paid for this for us.”
I change tact because I know I’m not going to get anywhere arguing my point with him. “How often do you come?” I say, trying not to be too distant.
“Oh, now and again”, Elon says, clearly lying. “Whenever it suits me and I can get away from the office.”
I bet he doesn’t know the names of any of the players or even who the different teams are. I’m not going to embarrass him, though, that kind of approach is unlikely to achieve anything. I’m going to sit back, watch the game and sneak away when I get the opportunity to see if I can meet any prospective men.
“Well, I’ll be inside”, Elon says, “But feel free to stay out here if you want. I have a little bit of work I need to catch up on if you don’t mind, and I should call your parents, tell them where you are, how we are getting on.”
“Sure”, I say, surprised and absolutely delighted at the very same time. “You do what you need to do.”
You may think I’m some kind of sex crazed nymphomaniac talking about men all the time, perving over football players, kissing staff members in potting sheds or dreaming about how I want to lose it, but actually I’m a pretty normal teenager when it comes down to it, especially if you compare me to other women in my generation. Those that don’t have to deal with the societal burden of being a princess and can’t get on with their lives as normal. Perhaps I have a slightly above average sexual drive, but it’s easy to relate that to the upbringing I’ve had.
Imagine being watched twenty-four seven. Imagine being different to every other girl you read about or see on TV. Imagine having to conduct your social life in accordance with your elevated status. All that has done is set me apart from everyone else and provide a long list of expectations I never ever wanted in the first place. No wonder my parents are disappointed with me because the way they see it, I’ve completely failed in my role. Here it’s a little different, and I love it. Nobody recognizes me, which means I can pretend I’m just a normal girl like everyone else. At home, I can’t even leave the palace without armed guards, let alone go on a date with someone I like. That’s the kind of thing that drives me crazy about my family and makes me wonder whether being a princess is worth it at all. If I refuse to marry someone my parents pick out for me then maybe I’ll eventually get what I want, except that I know nothing in my life will change for the better. When my parents say they’ll disown me, or disinherit me, or whatever they are threatening, that just means they’ll no longer continue to support me, perhaps no longer even talk to me, and right now, I’m not ready for a change that big.
I don’t want to disgrace my family either, or for them to feel like I’m doing that, I want to convince them that they should let me choose who I want to be with, and not have to choose someone that represents a better option for the royal family as a whole.
I guess I’m just worried that time isn’t really on my side at the moment, especially with this impromptu trip, and combined with my first taste of freedom, my horniness is going through the roof. These footballer players aren’t helping either, not that I’m complaining. They haven’t even started playing yet and I’m already salivating watching them warm up.
The one issue I have with this game is the fact that these men wear far too many protective layers. I can’t see faces, or torsos or bare chests, but I suppose in exchange, I do get to see tight lycra shorts hugging perfect asses and bigger than average packets.
I wonder if every other girl in the crowd is thinking the same, and then I kick myself for being stupid because I know everyone other girl in the crowd is thinking the same. Women don’t come to these things just for the sport of it, they come to these things to drool over the men, and some of the really lucky ones get to take them home after the game as well.
Perhaps Mom and Dad would let me marry a quarterback. It’s not exactly the image they usually go for, but they’re definitely not short of money. Bad boys with big balls are infinitely more exciting than computer geeks with bad breath. If I did get disinherited, maybe this would make it worth it. A pair of football players to wake up next to every morning, a pair to send off to sleep every night.
I could cope with not being a princess if that was the other option, but being a princess might be the only way for that to happen. Talk about a catch-22 situation. I’d much rather it were a catch-69, but that kind of thinking has got me and a few other men in trouble before.
When the game begins, and the crowd explode in a wave of noise, Elon is on his cell and facing the other way. It doesn’t matter, and in fact, it’s better this way. The last thing I want is to have him creeping on me while I’m trying to concentrate on picking out my future husbands.
It doesn’t take me long to narrow it down either. There are a bunch of players that stand out as much better than the rest, three or four of those that would be perfectly suitable for what I want to have them do to me.
After the first quarter is up, I’ve narrowed it down again, to just one player from each side. The Patriots go into the break with a narrow lead, and the star player in the entire game is the wide receiver, Logan O’Connor. As soon as I get his name, I have a gallery of pictures up of him on my phone, with just as many stories of his naughty behavior. He’s renaissance art gorgeous, with incredible blue eyes, a square jaw, flat chest and perfect abdomen, with a seemingly insatiable desire for drinking and partying. He has been romantically linked to a number of high-profile celebrities, but currently considers himself single, available and on the lookout for love. It doesn’t say that exactly but more or less infers it in not so many words. Logan has the physique of a Viking, the mischievous smile of a troublemaker and the drop dead gorgeous good looks of a serial casanova, and before the second quarter begins I’ve already decided that I’m determined to make him mine. This is the kind of thing I came to America for, not the kind that is busy finishing off his third glass of champagne, while he crams foie gras vol-au-vents into his mouth at a hundred miles an hour.
