Page 32 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

BLAKE

I wake up chilled. My head is throbbing, and there’s an incessant beeping that won’t stop. It’s impossible to focus on tennis when I can’t get a good night’s sleep. I try to roll over and bury my head under the pillow, but something tugs at my arm.

I yank harder, determined to escape the incessant beeping.

“Ouch,” I yell.

The beeping grows faster and louder.

Doors fly open. Lights flood my eyes.

“What the bloody hell?”

A stern voice says, “Mr. Knight, calm down. Please stop moving. You pulled your IV out.”

My pulse spikes. The beeping escalates. What’s happening? Am I dreaming? Is this a panic attack? Is it possible to have one while I’m asleep?

I finally manage to call out, “Who are you? Why are you in my bedroom? What IV? Where am I?”

“You’re in hospital. I’m Nurse Beasley. Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

“Huh? Hospital? Yesterday?”

“You’re okay. Try to take a deep breath. Then tell me what you remember.”

If I’m okay, why am I in a hospital? My head is pounding. It hurts to think—but I try.

Slowly, I say, “I remember playing the match. My stomach started hurting. I felt dizzy.”

“That’s right. You collapsed on the court.” Her voice softens.

“Did I catch a virus? Was it food poisoning?”

I must be in the Wimbledon medical facility, hooked up to an IV for rehydration.

“The good news is that you’re improving. I’ll let Dr. Shepard explain the rest—he’s coming in now,” she says, stepping back.

An older male voice says, “Hello, I’m Dr. Shepard. Welcome back to the living, Mr. Knight. How do you feel this morning?”

Morning? But my match was in the afternoon. Wait—someone asked me about yesterday. I’m so confused.

“My head hurts like someone took a hammer to it.”

“That should subside in the next few hours. Are you nauseous?”

Hours? I don’t have hours. Medical timeouts only last ten minutes. My brain is so foggy. Nothing’s making sense.

“No, not really. I’m thirsty though. And my arm hurts. I need to hurry and get back out on court.”

“We’ll get you water and fix your arm where you yanked out the IV. Now that you’re awake, you shouldn’t need it anyway. But you won’t be going back onto the court. Your match is over. It was yesterday. You’ve been unconscious for more than fifteen hours.”

“What do you mean? Is this stomach virus or food poisoning that serious?”

“It wasn’t a virus or food poisoning. As shocking as this will sound, you were poisoned.”

“Huh? You mean Bri’s chef served me something spoiled and gave me food poisoning?”

“No. That would have been much simpler. Unfortunately, we believe you ingested a poisonous substance from an oleander plant. You were lucky. It could have killed you. Do you know how that could have happened.”

“What? Poison? No way.”

“Think about yesterday. What did you eat and drink during the four hours before the match? We want to make sure you don’t accidentally consume the same thing again.”

“Believe me, I never want to go anywhere near anything related to oleanders again. I have no idea how I was poisoned though. I’ve either eaten at our house or had prepackaged food and drinks.”

“Then the answer may be as simple as a leaf falling into your cup of tea. We’ll probably never know. But if there are any oleanders in the yard where you’re staying, be careful to avoid them.”

I’m no plant expert. I’ll have to look for a photo on Google.

“I won’t go near one of them ever again. How long before I’m back to normal?”

“You should be feeling fairly well by tomorrow.”

“That’s good news. Do you know if I won my match before I collapsed? I can’t remember.”

“You were ahead but didn’t finish the match. I’m sorry.”

Is he saying I’m out of Wimbledon singles? How can that be?

“That means I forfeited. Again.”

“What’s important is that you’re alive and can leave the hospital this afternoon. You should rest for another twenty-four hours though.”

I nod, clenching my jaw as my blood boils. I white-knuckle the bedsheets and bite my lip to keep from screaming.

I’m grateful to be alive, but my dream is dead. I won’t be holding up the Wimbledon trophy this year—maybe not ever. Why does this keep happening to me? It’s like I’m jinxed.

Dr. Shepard pats my shoulder “One more thing. Princess Brianna is waiting outside. I’m told you have a doubles match with her in a couple of days. There’s a good chance you’ll recover enough to play. Should I send her in so you two can make plans?”

He’s patronizing me. There’s no way I’ll be playing at Wimbledon again in two days. For fuck’s sake, I’m lying in a hospital bed, recovering from being poisoned. Does he think I’m a fool?

Through gritted teeth, I say, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“She’s been extremely worried about you. Perhaps you could let her see that you’re on the mend before I send her away.”

“Sure.” I mutter.

The doctor walks to the door and opens it. “Your Royal Highness, you may come in. Blake is very tired, so just a quick hello. Then he needs rest.”

“Of course,” she replies.

She hurries to my bedside, reaching for my hand. “Blake, how are you feeling? I’ve been so worried.”

“I’ll be fine. No need to worry,” I say, sharper than I intend. I’m still fuming.

“Do you need anything? Would you like me to sit with you?”

“No. There’s nothing you can do.”

“There must be something.”

“No. You don’t understand. I need to be alone. Thank you for stopping by.”

She looks at me like a puppy who doesn’t understand why she’s been scolded. I turn my head away, hoping she’ll take the hint.

“You need rest. I’ll check on you again later. I’m glad you’re doing better.”

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze, then releases it. I hear her footsteps fade but don’t watch her leave.

I’m mad at the world. And I’m especially furious with her eccentric chef. I’d bet money that he’s the one who poisoned me. Who knows what he put in that fresh pesto? He probably chopped up random leaves from the garden. It’s just my bad Wimbledon luck that they turned out to be toxic.

I knew playing doubles would ruin my chance to win. If I hadn’t agreed, Bri and Fausto wouldn’t be at my house. And I knew better than to let my guard down. I don’t even believe in relationships. Why did I let myself get close to Bri? This is all my fault.

A twinge of guilt reminds me of Bri’s dream—playing at Wimbledon. She needs me to make it a reality.

But I brush that worry aside.

I held up my end of the bargain. We played a match. We won. She’s fulfilled her dream, unlike me.

I don’t owe her anything more.

I’m done.