Chapter 6
6
TORE
Tidying wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but this time, I was grinning as I began straightening the array of textbooks and soccer gear strewn across our dorm room. Luke was studying in the library and wouldn’t be back for hours, giving me plenty of time to prep for a FaceTime call with Floris, Greg, and Nils. Not exactly something I could do when Luke was here, considering our identities.
“Ew,” I muttered under my breath as I chucked Luke’s dirty laundry into a basket. I wanted everything to look spotless, a visual reassurance that I was managing fine in this new American college chapter. Besides, I’d always been tidy and didn’t function well in chaos. A psychologist would probably have a field day tying that to my neat and structured upbringing I was expected to rebel against.
After a last visual check, I perched on the edge of my neatly made bed and pulled out my phone. My fingers couldn’t move quickly enough as I tapped Greg’s, Floris’s, and Nils’s smiling thumbnails on the screen, initiating the FaceTime call. I bounced my knee, the energy within me too much to contain.
The very second their faces popped into view, a quadruple grid of princely features, my grin widened, and something warm unfurled inside me. “Hi!”
“Say that again,” Greg urged me.
“Hi?”
He laughed. “You already sound American.”
“Fuck you too, asshole,” I said in my best American accent, and that had us all laughing.
“All right, spill it,” I said. “How’s life in your corners of the world? What’s new? Who’s pregnant, who broke up, and what’s the latest scandal? I feel so out of the loop.”
“Margarethe is pregnant,” Nils offered. Margarethe was his older sister, married to some absurdly handsome commoner determined to make her happiness his life goal. Nils really liked him, and because of that, so did we.
“Right on schedule,” Greg said. “She’s been married two years, right?”
Nils nodded. “Yup.”
“Congrats, soon-to-be uncle Nils,” I said. “How far along is she?”
“Four months, so out of the danger zone… according to her. Not that I know anything about it. She showed me a printout from the ultrasound, and it looks like a shrimp-shaped blob. Not that I was stupid enough to tell her that. I ooh’d and aah’d appropriately.”
Of course he did. All of us had been trained to respond properly in any and every situation.
“And with you, Greg?” I asked.
“Everything’s rather mundane here.” Greg chuckled, lounging back in what looked like an antique chaise-longue. “So please, dazzle us with tales of American splendor.”
“Did you really eat deep-fried Oreos?” Floris asked, his eyes crinkling with amusement. He was in his dorm room, which looked much neater than I had expected, using his computer to FaceTime.
“Ah, yes, the culinary chaos of the American cuisine.” I flopped back onto my bed with a dramatic sigh. “Where gluttony dresses up in gourmet clothing. It’s not just Oreos. They’ll happily drown candy bars, pickles, and even ice cream in batter too. It’s like watching a mad scientist at work, only with more grease and less concern for arteries.”
Nils snorted. “You really know how to make it sound delicious.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “I tried one of those abominations and felt like I’d swallowed a pickle coated in oil.” I paused, grinning. “But on the bright side, there’s this extraordinary thing they call “tailgating.” Imagine a festival devoted to sports fervor. People camp out with their trucks, feasting and drinking as if preparing for battle before a match. Seriously, they bring barbecue pits, massive coolers, and heaps of food to a football game.”
“Or a soccer game, in your case,” Floris interjected. “Speaking of which, how’s the season going?”
“Splendid. We’ve tied twice and won all our other games. Coach is very happy. And at our games,” I continued, suddenly animated, “the mascot—a giant hawk named Hawkeye—does these ridiculous dance moves that have half the crowd in stitches. At first, I thought it was some sort of majestic bird display, but no. It’s pure comedic gold.”
“Are you sure you’re not describing your own victory dance, Tore?” Nils teased, and laughter erupted from each corner of our virtual gathering.
“As if I’d ever lower myself to that level,” I protested, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed my mock indignation. “For your information, my victory dance is elegant and refined.”
“Of course, how could we forget? The epitome of royal grace,” Greg joked.
“Speaking of elegance,” I said, steering the conversation away from my questionable dance skills, “you should’ve seen the homecoming parade. Floats and banners as far as the eye could see, and me, trying not to look utterly bewildered amidst a sea of blue-and-yellow streamers.”
“Did you wave like the prince you are?” Floris asked, his smirk visible even through the digital divide.
“More like a tentative hand flutter.” I demonstrated a halfhearted royal wave. “I didn’t want to betray my experience with waving and outshine everyone else.”
“Your modesty knows no bounds,” Nils observed drolly.
“International incident averted,” Greg said, nodding sagely. “Well done, Tore.”
“Every day is an adventure here. Speaking of which, I’ve heard a rumor that you will finally be joining Floris and me in the land of the free, Nils. Is it true? Are you really coming to the States?”
“Guilty as charged.” Nils’s smile broadened over the screen. He was practically radiating enthusiasm, so much so that I could almost feel it through my phone. “I have permission. Now all I need to do is find a job as an assistant coach since I’m a little too old to pass for a student.”
“You’ll love it.” Floris’s grin matched Nils’s. “I’m having an absolute blast here in Massachusetts… though I’m not sure how I’ll feel once winter hits.”
“If you find a spot somewhere on our side of the country too, Nils, we should try to hang out sometime.” I frowned as something occurred to me. “Or do you think that would be too much of a risk? Do you think someone would be more likely to recognize us if we’re all together and Floris is out?”
“Out as what? Gay or royalty?” Nils teased.
I flipped him the middle finger. “The latter, asshole. As if I could possibly care about his sexuality.”
“I’m not sure where I’ll end up yet, but I have to admit the Midwest sounds good to me,” Nils said. “It seems so quintessentially American, you know? Plus, I’m not one to spend a year in or near a big city like LA or New York or something. I’d go mad.”
“Ah, but not all of us can partake in this American dream,” Greg’s voice cut through our excitement, and I saw his wistful expression. His disappointment was a stark contrast to our enthusiasm.
“Still wrestling with the powers that be?” I asked sympathetically, sitting up straighter with concern for my friend.
“Indeed.” Greg sighed. “The king is adamantly opposed so far, citing security issues. But I’m working on it, so don’t count me out yet. In the meantime, I’ll live vicariously through your escapades. Make sure to send daily updates, okay? And don’t be skimpy on the details, including pictures.”
“We’re all keeping our fingers crossed for you,” Nils said.
“In Dutch, we say ‘thumbing.’ As in, we’ll be thumbing for you,” Floris commented.
“I’ll take all your fingers, thumbs included,” Greg said with a small chuckle, though his eyes held an unspoken yearning. “Until then, I’ll send you all the strength I can muster. Or, as us Brits say, keep calm and carry on.”
“Chin up, Greg. If anyone can charm their way across the Atlantic, it’s you,” I said, trying to bolster his spirits.
“Keep making waves stateside, and maybe they’ll realize I need to join to keep you out of trouble,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.
“Trouble? Me?” I feigned innocence before laughing along with them.
“Until then, stay safe, stay scandal-free, and for heaven’s sake, try not to fall prey to any more deep-fried absurdities,” Greg warned.
“It’s not scandals I’m worried about. Or deep-fried culinary craziness, for that matter. I have a much bigger challenge here. It’s Farron who’s been driving me up the bloody wall.”
“Who?” Floris squinted at me through the screen, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Farron Carey, that bloke on the football team I told you guys about. Fuck, I meant soccer team.” My voice took on an edge, recounting our latest encounter. “He’s the captain and he’s got this inexplicable vendetta against me, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out why. We’re like oil and water, fire and ice—whatever metaphor suits your fancy.”
“Have you tried talking to him?” Nils suggested, leaning forward with genuine interest.
“Talk to him?” I scoffed, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “He won’t even let me finish my sentences. Every time I try to explain myself to him, he cuts me off. It’s like we’re jousting, except with words.”
“Maybe he’s jealous? You are quite the talented player,” Greg chimed in, though his tone didn’t sound entirely convinced by his own theory.
“I suspect jealousy is a part of it, but it’s deeper than that. He accused me of being a spoiled rich kid.”
Floris held up a hand. “No offense, but you are. We all are.”
“Sure, but then he accused me of not knowing what having obligations is like, and that one hurt.”
“He doesn’t know you’re a prince, so I’m sure he thinks your life is carefree. You have to admit, for most rich people, this would be true.” Nils was, as usual, the peacemaker. He always saw solutions to conflicts, the perfect diplomat.
“Maybe, but why wouldn’t he ask? Why is he assuming he knows anything about me?”
“Oh, he’s hot,” Floris said in an appreciative tone.
“He’s what now?”
Floris held up his phone to the camera. “I googled him and plenty of pictures came up. He’s hot. Broad-shouldered, perfect six-pack, thighs that could squeeze me any day, not to mention his soulful eyes. The man is undeniably hot.”
“Excuse me, and I’m not?” I asked, a little offended by Floris’s extensive praise of my archenemy.
“You know you are, but you’re not my type.”
“I’m everyone’s type,” I muttered, still not entirely appeased. “He’s just… He’s exhausting. He’s always looking at me, always keeping an eye on me, always watching me.”
“You do realize those three mean the same thing, right?” Greg checked, repressing a smile.
“Yes, but he really can’t take his eyes off me. I always feel the weight of his stare. And each interaction is a battle, each glance a silent challenge. It’s tiresome.”
“Perhaps it’s not disdain,” Floris said, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. “Maybe all this animosity is a form of foreplay.”
“Foreplay?” I nearly choked on air. The very notion was ludicrous. “That’s… That’s preposterous! You know I’m straight, and I’m fairly sure he is too. But even if we weren’t, I’d sooner kiss a frog.”
“Stranger things have happened.” Floris was clearly enjoying the flush that crept up my cheeks.
“Let’s not add fairy-tale twists to my already complicated collegiate narrative, thank you very much,” I retorted, desperately trying to steer away from the absurdity of the suggestion.
“All right, all right.” Floris was still smirking. “But keep an open mind, Tore. The line between love and hate is sometimes thinner than one might think.”
“Thin lines be damned.” I made my voice as stern as I could, yet somewhere deep down, an unsettling curiosity stirred. “Let’s agree to disagree on the matter and never speak of it again.”
“Agreed,” they all said in unison, but their knowing looks spoke volumes more than their words.
I exhaled, realizing that the hour had flown by and night had crept along the edges of my dorm window. “I should probably say goodnight. I have an early training session tomorrow, and Coach has been relentless. Plus, I’ve got reading to catch up on, and clearly, some bizarre theories to forcibly forget.”
“Good luck with your American adventures,” Greg said warmly. “I truly hope you’ll have the experience of a lifetime. And about Farron, keep us in the loop, yeah? We want all the juicy updates on your nemesis.”
“Enemy, not nemesis,” I corrected him, my hands gesturing dismissively, brushing off the weight of the word. “But yes, I’ll keep you posted. Though I sincerely hope there won’t be anything worth reporting.”
I ended the call with a mix of relief and lingering disquiet. I couldn’t shake Floris’s words, and for some reason, now I kept seeing the image of Farron’s intense brown eyes that seemed to burn into mine with every heated exchange.
And why had Floris felt the need to point out how attractive Farron was? I might not be into men, but I wasn’t blind. He did have a near-perfect body—aside from the permanent scowl on his face, obviously. His chest was rather broad, and Floris hadn’t exaggerated about the man’s perfect six-pack. The thought of Farron’s abs sent a shiver down my spine, one that had nothing to do with the chill in the air-conditioned dormitory.
Shaking my head, I willed those thoughts away. It was another of Floris’s jests, nothing more.
“Focus, Tore,” I murmured to myself, opening a textbook to distract myself with academia, pushing aside thoughts of Farron Carey and his perplexing animosity. He’d taken up far too much space in my head already.