Page 6 of Risky Match (Royal Spies #1)

brIANNA

C hills run down my arms as I stare at my parents with wide eyes. Could it finally be true?

“I’m one of the wild cards? Are you serious?”

They nod in unison.

My heart’s beating out of my chest, and my body’s shaking with excitement. It’s really happening. My lifelong dream is coming true.

I’m going to play at Wimbledon.

It takes all my restraint not to jump up and down. But proper protocol for a twenty-eight-year-old princess prohibits such displays, particularly when standing in my dad’s—or more accurately, the former king’s—palace office.

But damn, I’m human, and this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me during my tennis career.

With my royal duties, it’s impossible to play in enough tournaments to rank in the top 100 and automatically qualify for this prestigious Grand Slam event.

For a long time, I’ve known my only chance was to be granted one of the handful of coveted wild card slots that are given to players the tournament deems deserving.

As I’m riding on a cloud, I notice my parents look worried rather than pleased at the news. What’s up with them?

Reeling in my emotions, I ask, “Aren’t you happy for me? It was a long shot, but you knew I was hoping for this.”

“Of course we’re happy for you, dear,” Mum says.

She’s still frowning though. Then it hits me.

“Ohhh! I know what’s wrong. You’re concerned about my safety. Don’t be. The royal box on Centre Court is always packed with British royals and celebrities. Not only would they be the first targets for any threat, but security will also be first rate. I’ll be fine.”

The problem is that Mum and Dad have fewer royal duties since they stepped down as the rulers of Catalinius, letting my oldest brother, Xander, become king.

They soon learned there weren’t enough events to keep them occupied in our small island nation during their retirement.

Once they tired of vacations to nearby Italy and France, they jetted around the world but soon became weary of constant travel.

And when charity work wasn’t enough to fill their downtime, they decided to take more of an active interest in my tennis.

Their first suggestion was for me to employ the extra staff they no longer needed. My parents explained that these people could manage my tennis engagements and travel while my current assistant could manage my royal duties.

I didn’t want those people to lose their jobs, so I agreed. The side effect of this arrangement is that my parents now hear about my schedule from their loyal staff and worry every time I’m off to a crowded event.

Mum shakes her head, saying, “That’s not it. There are a couple of conditions on the invitation.”

“What do you mean? Wild cards don’t come with conditions.”

“Your mother is referring to the fact that you’ll be playing mixed doubles, not singles.”

My eyes narrow and I twirl my ring, considering what my dad just said. It’s disappointing, but it also doesn’t make any sense. Sure, I’ve played doubles quite a bit over the years, but this year my focus was on singles.

And even if they invited me to play doubles, why mixed doubles?

I’ve usually played doubles with Sara as my partner.

I can’t remember the last time I played doubles with a guy.

So, why in the world would Wimbledon give me a wild card in mixed doubles?

Something doesn’t ring true, but it’s not like I can challenge their decision.

They might realize their mistake and withdraw the invitation entirely.

That thought sends a chill through me, so I resolve to accept the situation, saying, “That’s unexpected and disappointing, but if that’s my only option, it’ll be okay.

It’s still Wimbledon, and I’m a strong doubles player.

Wait—something doesn’t add up. I don’t have a regular, mixed-doubles partner. It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s not a problem. You’re partnering with Blake Knight. It’s all set,” Dad says.

I shake my head. I can’t have heard him right.

“Did you say Blake Knight?”

“Yes. You know him, don’t you?” Dad asks.

That’s one way to put it—we spent a steamy night together two years ago, but Dad wouldn’t know about that—at least, I don’t think he would. We were very discreet.

Hopefully, I’m not blushing at the sudden memory of Blake’s warm, athletic body wrapped around mine.

I carefully answer, “Yes. We’ve crossed paths and interacted at various tournaments over the years. Enough for me to know he hates playing doubles. He’s not going to agree to this.”

“He will. One of his sponsors wants him to play with you. They’ve made it a condition of continued support. He’ll come around to the idea.”

“Why on earth would his sponsor do that?”

“ The sponsor wants the royal connection on the court. They like the idea of a top male player and a princess both wearing their clothes at Wimbledon,” Dad says.

“Are you allowing me to wear their clothes? As a royal, you’ve never permitted me to have a sponsor.”

“That relates to the other condition,” Mum says.

“I’m afraid to ask but tell me.”

“You’ll be on a CRM,” Dad says.

My mind is racing. “Are you joking? A Covert Royal Mission? Does that mean the wild card invitation isn’t real? I’m not actually going to be playing, am I?”

“Slow down. We’ll explain. The wild card is real, and you will be playing. At the same time, you’ll be spying on your tennis partner,” Dad says with a straight face.

What the actual fuck?

My eyes widen, and my jaw drops. I’m utterly speechless, which is rare for me.

That means I slept with the guy I’ll now be spying on.

“May I sit?” I ask, but I move toward a chair before my parents have a chance to answer.

“We know this isn’t exactly what you had hoped for,” Mum says.

It’s hard to fathom that Blake is a suspected criminal, or worse, a terrorist. That would be the only reason for the Covert Royals to be involved.

But it can’t be too serious. They would never send me into danger despite my repeated requests for more meaningful missions.

My parents wouldn’t allow it. That must mean that Blake’s involvement is rather benign.

Even if that’s the case, there’s still something suspicious about this wild card invite.

My name wasn’t on the list when Wimbledon announced the majority of the wild card recipients a couple of days ago.

Saying I was crushed would be an understatement.

I’d thought my dedication and success in tournaments over the past year would’ve been enough to garner a merit-based invite.

But the last thing I wanted was for people to think the privileged princess was pouting, so I plastered a smile on my face, pretending not to be bothered.

There’s a limit to my ability to fake it though, so I’d decided not to attend Wimbledon this year. It would be too painful to watch, knowing that at my age the chances of ever playing in my dream tournament are quickly fading.

Regaining my voice, I say, “As you know, I’ve always wanted to receive an invitation based on my tennis success, not because I’m part of a royal family.

I also never envisioned being invited to play as part of a covert mission.

Please be honest with me. I need to know.

British intelligence orchestrated my invite, didn’t they? I didn’t earn the spot.”

“Dear, we need to tell her even though she’ll be upset,” Mum says to Dad.

He nods. “Bri, please understand that this mission is very important not only to our country but also to several of our allies, including the UK.”

“So, you and British Intelligence did arrange for my wild card slot.”

“Not exactly. You see, you were originally on the list to receive a wild card to play singles at Wimbledon this year. But we needed you close to Mr. Knight. That required changing your invitation,” Dad says.

“How do you know I was on the list of wild cards for singles?”

“If the tournament hadn’t already chosen you, British Intelligence wouldn’t have been able to get you in. You earned your spot.”

Thank god.

“That’s a relief, but you know how hard I’ve worked to earn a spot for singles.

I’ve had my best year of tennis ever. This was probably my only chance.

Now, it’s gone because someone wants me to collect information and pass it along.

It’s like someone punched me in the stomach,” I say, hugging myself. I’m feeling sick.

“We know it’s not fair, but this isn’t one of your typical missions. We were against your involvement in the beginning. Ultimately, we agreed you’re the best person for the mission. In fact, you’re probably the only one who can do it.”

“You’ve clearly known about this for a while. Why wasn’t I told sooner?”

“Your father and I have spent hours trying to find a way to keep you out of this mission. We wanted to protect you from danger and let you experience your well-earned honor,” Mum says.

“And we weren’t sure they would find a way to force Blake to play doubles. If he refused, we wanted you to receive your original invitation for singles. But he’ll play, so duty calls. You’ve trained for years with the Covert Royals. You’re ready,” Dad says.

He’s right. I’ve been trained in the use of electronics for surveillance, martial arts, survival skills, weapons handling, and covert communication. We update our training in the classroom and with field exercises every year, so I am ready.

Mum nods solemnly.

“I’ve been ready for a long time, but no one would assign me to real missions. Are you saying this one involves more than just passing information?”

“It does. When you return to your apartment, log in to your secure laptop. Your contact is waiting to give you a video briefing. You’ll receive further instructions when you reach the UK.

You also need to talk with your coach and team about the invitation.

Be ready to leave at the end of the week.

Mr. Knight is already at the home he’s rented in Wimbledon. ”