Page 16 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

brIANNA

W aking up, I double-check my phone to make sure I’m not dreaming. It really is Monday—the official start of Wimbledon. For the first time, I’m here as a player, not merely a royal spectator.

While not every player competes today, the energy and anticipation of opening day are unmistakable.

I sigh and smile, stretching beneath the plush comforter, savoring the last peaceful minutes before the chaos begins.

There’s still a pang of regret that the mission derailed my singles invitation. But even so, playing here in any capacity is a dream come true. I’ll cherish every moment—even while carrying out my mission.

Our first mixed doubles match isn’t until Friday, but Blake’s opening singles match is tomorrow. With that on his mind, there’s no chance he’ll practice with me today.

Hopefully, Martina found someone else for me to hit with. I’d better check in with her.

Me: What time do we have a practice court?

Martina: 11 a.m. Meet you there.

Me: You know Blake won’t be there, right?

Martina: Yes. Josh and I are coordinating practices. I’ve made other arrangements. Don’t worry.

Me: This isn’t ideal.

Martina: No, but you’re both excellent players. We’ll make it work. We can talk during practice.

Me: Thanks.

I’m trying not to stress over our lack of doubles practice, but it’s hard. I’m competitive by nature. Even if the mission is my top priority, I’m still playing to win—and that’s tough when my partner doesn’t seem to care.

But Martina is right. I need to stay positive and work on a strategy to maximize our chances.

Doubles isn’t usually the main focus at Grand Slams, and players often split attention with singles.

My not playing singles gives us an advantage.

I can concentrate on our doubles game and study opponents’ matches to spot weaknesses we can exploit.

Later that morning, Erin and I approach the practice court. She grins. “It looks like Martina found you two handsome hitting partners.”

I follow her gaze and can’t help but agree. “They are rather handsome. I gather you wouldn’t mind an introduction.”

I’d rather have eyes on Blake though. They aren’t as fit as he is and don’t have his perfect facial features.

“As much as I’d love that, it wouldn’t be appropriate while I’m working. They are easy on the eyes though. Did you see the thigh muscles on the taller one? You know what that means.”

I laugh. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably. I’ll tell you later.”

“Sounds good. Time to focus on practice.”

Erin steps aside as I greet Martina with a nod.

“Perfect timing,” Martina says. “Paulo and Rafael just arrived. They’re from Brazil, supporting a few of their country’s players. They had free time today and agreed to hit with us.”

“That’s fantastic, guys. Thanks for helping me. My partner is prepping for his singles match. Now, please help me with your names. Which of you is Paulo and which is Rafael?”

The taller, leaner one steps up. “I’m Paulo. It’s an honor to meet you.”

I nod and smile. Turning to the more muscular one, I say, “So you must be Rafael.”

“Correct. Thank you for the invitation, Your Highness.”

“There’s no need for titles on the court. I’m Brianna here. Let’s get started.”

Martina steps in. “Rafael is going to partner with you, Bri. He’ll mimic Blake’s style as closely as possible. He’s also been briefed on the hand signals.”

“Excellent. That will help me adjust to his playing style.”

“Trust me, Josh and I have a plan to get you both ready—even with limited practice time.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Rafael turns out to be an excellent player and remarkably familiar with Blake’s game. The practice is far more productive than I expected. I’ll have to ask Martina how they plan to help Blake adjust to mine.

Time flies. As another player and his team arrive for the next slot on our court, I pack up my gear and turn to Paulo and Rafael. “It was a pleasure to work with you both. Thanks again for your help.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll be around if you want to practice again,” Rafael says.

“Me too,” Paulo adds.

Martina thanks them, and I wave goodbye as they leave.

I say goodbye to Martina and turn to Erin, saying, “I’m heading to the locker room for a shower. Then I’ll watch the match on Centre Court.”

“Understood. The press is asking for you. What should I tell them?”

“Can you delay? I don’t have anything to say yet, and I don’t want to miss the match.”

“I’ll text the coordinator to let them know you’ll be available later this week. We’ll take the tunnel to the locker room to avoid them.”

“Thanks, Erin. You’re a gem. Lead the way.”

“The tunnel entrance is at Aorangi just north of No. 1 Court. Follow me.”

Fans line the entrance, eagerly hoping for autographs. It warms my heart to know they’re excited to meet me because I play tennis—not just because I’m royal.

I stop to sign a few giant tennis balls and pose for selfies. As I turn to go, a girl with long braids steps in front of me, holding out a ball.

I can’t refuse her pleading eyes. “What’s your name?” I ask, taking the ball.

“I’m Samantha. You’re my hero.”

What a sweetheart. She must be eight to ten years old.

“Do you play tennis?”

“Yes. I practice almost every day. I want to be just like you and play here when I grow up.”

Her words hit me hard. I remember being her age—dreaming of meeting the players I idolized. Most were kind. One brushed me off ...until she learned I was a princess. I swore I’d never be that kind of person. Every child matters.

I hand back the ball with a smile. “I’m so proud of you for working so hard. Keep it up. You’re going to do great.”

Samantha’s smile grows wider as Erin gently nudges me down the stairs.

I’m blanketed by the warm and fuzzy feeling from my interactions with the fans as we swiftly jog down the stairs into the underground maze of tunnels.

They allow the players and staff to move quickly between the various buildings and tennis courts without being stopped by well-wishers and autograph seekers.

Thanks, Erin. If you hadn’t pulled me away, I’d still be out there. I just love seeing the young fans, especially the girls.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

As we walk, I say, “I still can’t believe they upgraded me to the Women’s Members’ Area instead of the dungeon with the majority of the players.”

“You deserve it. And with fewer people, it makes my job much easier.”

“I didn’t earn it. It’s for the top sixteen players and prior winners. That’s not me.”

“If you played more tournaments, you’d be one of the top players. It’s not your fault you’re a princess with other responsibilities.”

“I just hope no one resents me receiving special treatment. Otherwise, it will be awkward.”

“Ignore the rude ones. Some people will always resent you—royal or not. You’re a good person and an outstanding player. Let your actions speak for you.”

“That’s not always easy, but it’s my mantra. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“What are best friends for? We’re here.” She opens the door leading from the tunnel to the locker room.

We climb the stairs. At the top, she motions toward the double doors to the Women’s Members’ Area. “I’ll wait outside.”

I nod, pausing to commit this moment to memory. I’ve dreamed of playing at Wimbledon but never expected this additional honor—an invitation to the legendary sanctuary for the Wimbledon elite.

I’m almost expecting angelic music to play. This is every female player’s dream. It’s the ultimate sign of having made it .

It’s palatial with perfectly polished, parquet floors, dark wood trim, plush sofas, elegant chairs, and fine rugs. It’s not a locker room—it’s a spa.

I recognize two players who are lounging with their eyes closed and headphones covering their ears.

Others are watching matches and chatting.

They don’t pay much attention to me, but their surprised looks and whispers don’t escape my notice.

I nod and smile as if it’s nothing unusual for me to be here.

My princess training is useful in situations like this. I’ve been taught to have confidence, put others at ease, and ignore awkwardness. Only Erin would sense that I’m pretending to be comfortable here.

A table with silver trays holding exquisite biscuits and pastries draws my attention. Nearby, attendants busily arrange fine china for what looks like a formal tea rather than a tennis tournament.

I pass on the tea but can’t resist selecting a biscuit on my way toward the individual bathrooms.

As I’m finishing the slightly sweet, crisp treat, an attendant asks, “Welcome, Your Highness. Would you like me to draw you a bath?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to take a shower, though.”

“Of course. This way please. We have warm towels and other amenities for you. Do you prefer a specific scent of soap?”

I blink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked that question before. Do you have anything citrusy?”

“We do. I’ll get that for you, along with the matching shampoo and conditioner. Do you need anything else?”

“That’s all. Thank you.”

After a quick shower, I change and sit at a dressing table to dry my hair and apply a touch of makeup. This space is luxurious—nothing like the typical gym-style locker rooms I’m used to at tournaments. No wonder everyone covets a spot here.

Once I’m ready, I thank the staff and head out to find Erin. She’s talking with Prince Adrian.

“Adrian, what a surprise,” I say.

“I heard you arrived and wanted to welcome you to Wimbledon.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

“I understand your partner plays on Centre Court tomorrow. Will you be watching?”

I catch his almost imperceptible nod. Message received. I’m expected to be there, which isn’t a problem. I already planned to go—it’s a chance to study Blake’s game more closely.

“I will. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Excellent. Prince Stephen will attend as well. He hopes to speak with you.”

“It would be a pleasure to see him. I’m sure we’ll have much to chat about.”

“What are your plans this afternoon?”

“I’m headed to Centre Court to watch the next match—and calm my nerves before it’s my turn to play there on Friday.”

“You’ll do well. We’re all cheering for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the support.”

“You’re welcome. I hope you’ll excuse me now. I have another appointment.”

“Of course. Please tell Stephen that I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“I will.”

As he leaves, I turn to Erin. “Can we walk outside for a minute? The flowers are always beautiful here. This may be my only chance to enjoy them.”

“You love worrying me, don’t you?”

“You know how much I love flowers.”

“No worries. I’ve been expecting this request. There are two great viewing spots nearby. Follow me.”

“You know me so well,” I smile broadly.

A few minutes later, we’re standing on a second-floor balcony overlooking the walkway between Centre Court and No. 1 Court.

The famous hill is such a vibrant green that it looks artificial.

To my right, pergolas draped in hanging baskets of purple, yellow, and white petunias line the walk.

Guests are resting on wooden benches tucked underneath them.

Dense vines of ivy blanket the walls of nearby buildings. It’s stunning.

“I never tire of the flowers and greenery here,” I say.

“It’s breathtaking. When you have another break, we can walk to the area above Court 18. I’m told the gigantic hot-pink and purple hydrangeas are gorgeous this year.”

“We definitely have to see those while we’re here.”

I soak in the vibrant scene. Families picnic on the hill. Cheers ripple across the grounds. Positive energy fills the air.

It’s a shame something darker is brewing beneath all this tradition.

That thought breaks the moment. I turn to Erin. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the next match.”