The Prince and the Player (The Prince Pact #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

TORE

Westminster Abbey was packed to the rafters with the who’s who of the royal and rich. The grandeur of the medieval church was on full display with its ornate, stained-glass windows, towering pillars, and intricate details adorning every inch of the cathedral, all polished to perfection.

Princes and queens mingled with pop stars and actresses, and old nobility sat right next to fashion models and even a social media influencer or two. Elegantly dressed guests filled the pews, the women all sporting the most ridiculous hats and their jewels glistening like baubles under the chandeliers.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of fresh flowers carefully arranged throughout the cathedral. Combined with the abundance of expensive perfumes and eau de colognes, it made for an overwhelming attack on the senses.

I’d always been a firm proponent of the “less is more” philosophy, but it wasn’t every day that the British crown prince got married, and the royal wedding was the event of the year, if not the decade.

“I give them five years,” Floris whispered.

Greg leaned in. “Five? I beg to disagree. It’ll take at least ten years.”

“What will take ten years?” I asked.

“To pop out an heir, a spare, and an extra.” Greg said it as casually as if he were announcing the weather.

I slapped a hand in front of my mouth to hide my laugh. If the press got a picture of me laughing at an inopportune or, worse, an inappropriate time, my mother would kill me, and once she was done, my uncle and aunt would murder me all over again.

“That’s your cousin, Greg,” Nils chimed in. “Do you think so little of him?”

Greg quirked a well-groomed eyebrow. “Excuse me, but have you met the British royal family? We’re not known for our fidelity and long-lasting marriages.”

“That’s an understatement,” Floris mumbled.

“Like you have any right to speak. Your grandfather had two children out of wedlock,” Greg fired back.

Floris shrugged. “The difference is that the Dutch don’t care, and the Dutch press is only marginally interested.”

“God, I wish that were the case here,” Greg said with a sigh. “The British tabloids are the absolute worst.”

He wouldn’t get an argument from me. Being fourth in line to the Norwegian throne wasn’t my idea of fun, but things could be so much worse. Like being fourth in line to the British throne, which was the fate of Greg, officially known as Gregory Edward William Mountbatten-Windsor, the future Duke of York.

Then again, at least he wasn’t the crown prince, like his cousin Harold, who was promising everlasting love and faithfulness to his bride, Lady Caroline. She was of noble birth, of course, if not an actual princess. Those were in short supply these days, with European royal families all downsizing and no longer granting royal titles to all descendants.

They could take my title today, pretty please and thank you, but alas, I hadn’t been that lucky so far. For now, I’d have to be Prince Tore Haakon Anders von Glücksburg, nephew to King Ragnar and Queen Hilda of Norway. At least my chances of ever making it to the throne were slim.

Though that was true for all four of us. Floris was fifth in line for the Dutch throne, and five people had to die before Nils would become the King of Sweden. We were the extras, the expendable princes, the ones who were expected to show up when needed and, above all, behave. Kind of like those fancy poodles at a dog show.

After the church service, we joined the receiving line to offer our congratulations—condolences? Respect? Thoughts and prayers?—to the happy couple. It took for-fucking-ever, and with so many people watching us, we couldn’t goof around too much either. Finally, the official part was done, the press was firmly ushered out, and the real party could start.

As usual, at events like this, the four of us hung out together. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, coronations, and the occasional royal visit were the lifelines of our friendship. We’d all known each other since birth. Hell, there was a famous picture of Greg, Floris, and me looking all adorable in full suits as page boys at the wedding of Floris’s aunt. I was two, Greg and Floris three. Nils, who was six years older than me, still resented not being asked.

“At least the booze is top quality.” Floris leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his no-doubt expensive and old whiskey, then let out a sigh of happiness. The man was a certified whiskey snob.

“Without alcohol, these events would be unbearable,” Greg said. He’d opted for some fancy microbrew.

“A couple more years and that will be us,” Nils remarked, and that got our attention.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Nils gestured at the bride, who had changed into her third outfit of the day. “Marriage. Kids. You know that’s what they expect of us.”

Floris held up his hands. “Not me. Not unless surrogacy is an option.”

He’d come out last year as the first openly gay prince, and while it had dominated the news everywhere else, in the Netherlands, it had been accepted with a shrug. You had to hand it to the Dutch, they really didn’t care.

“I’m nineteen,” Greg said. “Way too young for marriage.”

“You’ll be first,” I said to Nils.

“It’s not marriage that scares me,” Nils said softly. “It’s the feeling that life is passing me by without me truly living it.”

I sat up straight. “I’m not following.”

He gestured at the party around us. “This isn’t real life. This is a privileged, sheltered existence. The ultimate ivory tower. I want to truly live, to experience what normal life is like, away from the spotlight. I don’t want to have all these regrets on my death bed of things I never did. I need to know what it’s like to live as a… commoner.”

As much as we all detested that word, it had no good alternative that conveyed the same meaning.

“How on earth will you pull that off?” Floris asked. “Everyone in Sweden knows you. Hell, all over Europe, people may recognize you.”

“America,” I said slowly. “Americans may know the crowns but not those further down the line. We don’t get much press there.”

Nils nodded. “That was my idea as well. Hell, I’d be surprised if they could even locate Sweden on a map.”

I snorted. Rude as it was, he wasn’t wrong. The American education system didn’t seem to prioritize European geography. I’d met Americans who thought Norway sat right alongside Russia. Finland would like a word about this.

“Did you know about this idea of his?” Greg asked me.

“No, but I was following his line of reasoning and came to the same conclusion. He’s not wrong, you know.”

“You really think Americans won’t recognize you?” Floris asked Nils, looking skeptical.

“Me? No. Greg, maybe, but a disguise should help with that. We’d have to use aliases, of course.”

Greg shook his head. “Leave me out of it. I have zero desire to spend time in our ungrateful former colony.”

Nils leaned forward. “You could be yourself.”

Silence descended as we all processed that. Greg had come out to us as gay right after Floris had made his public statement, but we were the only ones in the know. His secret was safe with us. With the rest of the British royal family and especially the press? Not so much.

Greg orchestrated for himself to be photographed with gorgeous girls all the time, suggesting an endless stream of girlfriends, and so far, no one had even speculated about his sexuality. He’d even gotten the nickname Prince Playboy, which, considering the man was still a virgin, was so ironic that I didn’t even know where to start.

“He’s right,” Floris said softly. “You’d be able to experiment.”

Floris, always the levelheaded Dutchman, wasn’t known for being emotionally supportive, but he’d been Greg’s biggest ally since he’d shared his secret.

“I’m warming to the idea,” I said. “I think we should all do it. Spend a year in America and live an ordinary life as commoners.” An idea popped into my head. “We could attend university there.”

“College,” Nils corrected me. “I think they call it college if it’s an undergraduate degree.”

“Whatever. That’s semantics. Though you’re a little old for college.”

Nils nodded. “I was thinking of applying for a job there. Maybe as a sports coach, since that’s what my actual degree is in.”

Sports. Oh, there was an idea. I’d played football—soccer, according to the Americans—my entire life and had dreamed of going pro until my father had provided a harsh reality check. Princes did not become pro football players, no matter how good they were. But I’d continued playing at a high level, so maybe football could be my way in? American colleges were big on sports, so surely there had to be one that was interested in an international student who excelled at football. Soccer. Whatever.

“I wouldn’t mind studying in the US for a year,” Floris said, “but I’m not sure I’d want or need to go undercover. I can see the reason or even the necessity for you guys, but most people in the Netherlands don’t even recognize me. And if they do, they don’t care.”

“The British press would care very much, trust me. For me, an alias and even some disguise would be crucial,” Greg said, but then let out a long sigh. “Who am I kidding? The king will never allow it.”

After too many scandals, King Edward—Greg’s uncle—had tightened the rules, warning everyone in the family that he wanted no more salacious headlines. I feared Greg was correct that he’d be fighting an uphill battle here.

As for me, I could probably convince Uncle Ragnar and Aunt Hilda, the king and queen, to let me go, providing I built a solid case. Nils shouldn’t have an issue either, and Floris had the most freedom out of all of us, so he’d be fine. But Greg? Greg was in for one hell of a fight.

“Let’s make a pact,” Nils said, shifting to the edge of his seat. “Let’s promise each other to do whatever we can to spend a year outside the bubble of our privileged existence and see if we have what it takes to make it in the real world.”

He held out his hand, and I was the first to place my hand on top of his. “I’m in.”

After a brief hesitation, Floris joined us. “Me too. It sounds like fun.”

We all looked at Greg, who bit his lip and then sighed as he slowly placed his hand on top of ours. “I’ll do my very best to convince the powers that be to let me go.”

We all grinned at each other.

“Let’s meet two years from now and share our experiences,” I suggested. “I can’t wait to hear all of your stories.”

Everyone agreed, and we let go of each other’s hands. I leaned back in my chair. Where should I go? Somewhere exciting. I didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, like Kansas or Oklahoma or something. Maybe a big city like New York City? Not LA. I’d been there and hadn’t seen the appeal. Boston was nice. Very European in its atmosphere.

Wait, I needed a college with a campus. I wanted to live on campus, in a dorm like in all the movies and TV series. And it needed to be a college with a good soccer team.

I rubbed my hands together. This was going to be so much fun.