Chapter Two

Marissa

Mom and Dad are stopping just short of coming on this date with me. I half expect them to accompany me to the restaurant and then pull up chairs either side to take notes, before watching while Elon tries his level best to sleaze in and kiss me, but they aren’t, thank God, because just the thought of it makes me physically shudder.

That doesn’t stop them giving me last minute advice through the window of the car before I’m whisked off to meet him, though, as though I’m about to be interviewed by the CEO of a fortune five hundred company and the future of my entire professional career hinges on my ability to impress him.

“Don’t slouch”, Dad says.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full”, Mom adds.

“Alright, I get it”, I complain, fully prepared to do all that it takes to put him off me as soon as possible, “I’ll make sure I act like a princess.”

I know very little about what has been planned for me, but perhaps that’s for the best. What I do know is that Elon has decided on a lunch date to begin with - apparently after several conversations leading up to this with my parents and not a single consideration I might want to be involved in the process - which is ideal in a way, because it means that when I get this over soon enough, I’ll still have the rest of the day to work out how I can watch the football game in peace. I can’t exactly come to the States at the height of football season and not take advantage of a rarely scheduled Saturday evening game between two rival teams, can I? What kind of a dangerous virgin princess on the look-out for a pair of athletic lovers would that make me?

The car and driver are both his, and on the way to the elaborate venue, I get eyed up in the rear view mirror almost constantly, my appearance clearly too much of a tease for him to keep his filthy eyes off me. I don’t mind it at all, in fact, it kind of turns me on. The thought to do something about it crosses my mind, but if my parents found out I hadn’t even made it to our first date, they’d go absolutely ballistic.

If I string Elon along I’ll have plenty of time here in Boston, and perhaps even further afield if I convince him I’ve always wanted to see New York, so there’s definitely no rush to get started. Mom and Dad will have a week at best, more if they feel like they still can’t trust me, but after that, I’m sure I’ll be on my own. Besides which, as attractive as he is, flirting with the chauffeur isn’t exactly setting my goals all that high, especially for a princess like me.

This whole thing seems utterly ridiculous to me, but if my parents insist on setting me up this way, the least I’m going to do is make sure I enjoy it. What I’m not going to do is bend over and play ball like the rest of the family, and fall into my role as a subservient mistress. If I want to be subservient, I’m going to choose the man to make me feel that way myself, and It’ll only be in the confines of the bedroom. I’m not sure what Elon’s game plan is here, but I’m not prepared to undersell myself, even if he literally bleeds money all over me. Of course, if he’s paying I’m going to let him carry on just to please my parents, while my eyes wander all over the place looking for a pair of real men.

You may think judging him like this is a little unfair, especially before I’ve even met him, but let’s look at the facts so far. One, this whole thing has been conducted like a business negotiation between two owners of two separate companies that could benefit from a merger, two, he has an incredibly poor track record with women and his attitude to the opposite sex is nothing short of archaic, and three, from the photos I’ve seen of him, he just doesn’t look capable of keeping up with me.

A virgin, yes, unimaginative, no.

Elon is sat when I make it to the table, led there by the Maitre D, who presents me like one of the expensive bottles of wine he’s just brought up from his cellar. Elon, already in the process of wiping breadcrumbs from around his mouth, puts the folded serviette down, before standing too and offering me a chubby hand to shake.

He is, and I’m being generous here, larger than his online presence suggested, receding almost to the back of his head, and has pallid and flaky skin like undercooked dough. He is also older than his profile says he is, old enough to make me feel like this lunch date is even more inappropriate than I thought it might be.

I’m invited to sit down, which I do, tentatively, only to feel the weight of Elon’s enormous eyes bear grotesquely down on me and my teenage assets. I have dressed for what I want the second part of the day to consist of, and to throw my parents off the scent of my dastardly plan, so the effect here is consequential but not entirely agreeable.

“So”, Elon says, like the villain in a bad Bond film. “We meet at last.”

“Hi”, I say politely. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Elon breaks the already broken piece of bread, an agitated motion that sprays crumbs liberally over the table, and then without taking his eyes off me, shovels a large piece into the back of his throat. Red lips, cracked skin, eczema on his temples. Is this what my parents aspire of me? He could have more money than anyone else in the world and it wouldn’t matter. He could even be nice and I don’t think I could. Maybe that’s me being shallow, but if I’m going to marry someone and take them to bed, I’d kind of like it to be someone I want to climb on top of.

“You look stunning”, Elon says, “beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“A real princess.”

I smile nervously, I play with my hair, I look around the room and back again and Elon still won’t take his eyes off me. I feel nothing like I did in the car over here, though. This is a completely different sensation from a completely different look. Right now I feel as dirty as hell and not in a good way either. Elon makes me want to shower not slide my fingers inside myself.

“So, Elon”, I say, just to say something to take my mind off it, “What kind of music do you like listening to?”

Elon gives out a weird little noise worryingly similar to the sound my dad seems capable of making when he doesn’t understand something I’ve said and then either pretends he hasn’t heard me or just isn’t interested at all. “Shall we order?” he says instead of responding to me.

I leave it and we order. I’m hungry so it doesn’t bother me, and the faster we eat, the faster we get this over with anyway. I’ve got an afternoon of shopping planned. First for clothes and afterward for men.

“I told your father”, Elon says, “I thought we’d make an excellent couple.”

“Oh yeah?” I say suspiciously.

“Despite the difference in our ages”, Elon goes on.

I’m ready to list the obvious differences in a lot of things between us, but I decide to play it carefully. “I know my parents are keen for us to hit it off”, I say, “but this world is all very new to me.”

“Of course”, Elon says, reaching out to place an unwanted hand on my arm.

“We’re going to need some time to see if we are suitable”, I continue, looking down at his hand until he gets the hint and slowly pulls it away. “It’s important we don’t rush into something, don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t agree more”, Elon says. “Although I’m absolutely convinced we are going to be totally right for each other. The way that your father described you to me. Well, I couldn’t have asked for more.”

“Right”, I say.

“I can give you everything your father has asked”, Elon says. “I’m a very rich man. I can make you very happy.”

“I’m not entirely sure what I can offer you, Elon”, I say, playing dumb.

“Well, status for one”, he says. “You’re extremely beautiful too.”

“You know, I think we should just get to know each other first”, I repeat again, “just to make sure we are on the same page.”

“Yes”, Elon says again, “exactly. It’s going to be fun to get to know each other, I’m absolutely certain of it.”

I want to be sick, and not because the food is off, but because this whole thing feels completely rancid. Before coming here, after the incident with the gardener and the subsequent conversation with my parents, the idea of what I’m doing just didn’t seem real. Now that I’m here, however, that reality has just slapped me in the face like a cold, wet fish.

Great, I’m on holiday in America. Great, I get to spend time away from the watchful eye of my parents, but this? An arranged date with someone who thinks that we are already half way to being in a relationship. I thought this was going to be a meeting, nothing more, naively perhaps, not a discussion on the ins and outs of a project already agreed upon. Elon’s talking like he and me are already some kind of item. I sip my water and compose myself.

“I’m not sure what Mom and Dad will have arranged with you on the phone”, I begin. “But I just want you to be absolutely clear, that you and I are not a given.”

“Oh no”, Elon says, shaking his head. “Of course not, my princess. Where would the fun be if the fish was already caught? I don’t go hunting to catch tame animals, I go hunting to catch something from the wild.”

“And you don’t always get it”, I suggest.

“Oh no, I always get it in the end”, Elon says. “Money buys rifles big enough to trap anything”, he says with a thick smile that shows off dirty teeth, before doubling over in laughter at his own joke.

“You’ll see”, he goes on. “You’ll come round.”

The food comes at just the right time to cut through the tension surrounding us. Ten minutes in his company and he’s already repulsing me. I can’t help but picture my parents rubbing their hands with glee, while I dig into my steak, and Elon waffles on about how much money he’s got, how many businesses he’s crushed, generally how brilliant he is and how well we are going to get on, without any basis for the probability of it.

I smile when he looks for a reaction, nod disingenuously when he wants me to agree, try my best to block out his egotistical diatribe and lose myself in my expensive but overcooked steak and dreams I have of somehow finding my way out of the hole I’ve unfortunately found myself in.

“This is going really well, isn’t it?” Elon says at one point. “I told you it would.”

The gardener had arms like granite rock, a chest of thick toned muscle and a kiss that made me feel like I was floating. In comparison, Elon has worse manners than some of the pet dogs we keep at the country house and worse personal hygiene too.

There are gaps in conversation he fills with elaborate stories about his success, and clearly nothing in common between us, despite his constant insistence to the contrary.

After less than an hour in his company, I’m bored to distraction and desperate for the whole thing to end. It’s so bad, I’m not even sure I can keep up this pretense just on the off chance I’ll meet someone I really want to be with. The saddest thing is, I’m sat here thinking I wish I were anywhere else while Elon seems to think we are getting along like an old married couple. He keeps making reference to us as a pair rather than individuals, and things he has planned for us in the future. Not just the immediate future either, the as yet undiscussed long term future that has to do with houses, families and a shared bedroom. I’ve shuddered twice, and both times I’ve had to pretend it’s because I’m cold. My parents are going to kill me if I don’t agree to another date with him, but if I agree, I might just have to kill myself before the end of it.

If this is the best my parents have been able to find, God knows who’s going to be next when I finally have to give in. Marry someone like this, or risk being disowned and renounce my royal lineage in the hope that I’ll be able to find the man I really want? Being an eighteen-year-old virgin helps that case, but how am I going to meet an athlete, underwear model or international superstar, if I’m no longer one of the elite? Eighteen-year-old virgins come by the bucket load, eighteen-year-old virgin princesses that want to fuck two men at once are a little harder to find.

Poor Elon. He’ll never get inside my panties no matter how hard he tries. He could have a huge dick and be a consummate lover but I’ll never know because it just isn’t going to happen. Sorry Mom, sorry Dad, but this little princess just isn’t going to play ball, not until she’s given the dark side a good go first.

“I’ve got a surprise”, Elon says, the chocolate from dessert still wet at the edge of his lips.

I don’t even want to think what it might be. “I like surprises”, I say instead, pretending to be jovial.

“I’ve got us tickets to the game.”

“The game?” I ask spontaneously, knowing full well that he can only be referring to one game, but surprised as hell if he’s really saying what I think he is.

“Patriots versus Jets, I know you’re a fan.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me. “How?” I mumble.

“I’m a fan too”, Elon says, and despite the fact I know this about him from his Wikipedia profile, it’s clearly a lie and clearly an attempt to curry favor with me. That aside, he’s offering to take me to the fucking game. Not to some mall where I can see it on TV, not back to his house to watch it on a sixty-inch screen while he tries to bang me with his floppy cock, but to the stadium, to the game where there are going to be two full teams of incredibly well-built men. I’m practically drooling at the thought, clearly animated by the offer.

“How did you know I’m a fan?”, I say.

I mean, I’m not exactly the world’s biggest follow of football, not exactly the typical demographic.

Elon winks at me in a super sleazy way that gives me my third shudder of the afternoon, before saying, “us tech guys have our ways.”

The idea that he’s either, at best, been stalking me, at worst, been hacking my accounts, leaves me too stunned to respond. Alright, I had a look at his online presence, but literally nowhere but private correspondence have I mentioned I’m a fan of football, and even then, nothing more than an admission I’m a fan of the players more so than the sport. It makes me quickly wonder what else he’s read of mine privately before he jumps in again, perhaps sensing my concern.

“Your father mentioned you were showing interest on the plane over”, he says. “It was my idea to get the tickets. I take it you’d like to go?”

And get out of this nightmare into a crowd situation I can disappear from? Finally some light at the end of the tunnel.

“My parents might be expecting me back”, I say, hoping my theatrical display of reticence won’t blow up in my face.

“I’ll call them and explain everything”, Elon says confidently. “Besides which, I think your parents will be very happy if you don’t come home at all.”

That comment I don’t even dignify with a response.

Logan

Game day. I fucking love game day. Sunday night and on TV, Saturday afternoon in front of a packed crowd of home fans or middle of the week in the freezing cold, it’s all the same to me.

This one’s going to be extra special too. We’ve got the Jets visiting for the first time this season, which means I get to meet one of my all time idols, Carter Kane. In just three pro seasons, Carter has rewritten the record books a number of times, and we are going to have to be on top of our game to make sure we hold our own and stop that cannon of an arm he’s got firing.

If I could pick one other team to play for, or one other player to play in ours, I wouldn’t have to think twice about it. I’m not the only one who says it either, if Carter and I teamed up, we’d be absolutely unstoppable.

I don’t know the guy and I’ve never met him, though everyone I talk to says he’s an arrogant prick with an incredible talent, who could have been even better if he hadn’t have dedicated a large part of his early career on chasing pussy and partying hard. I don’t see it, though. In my eyes, the guys a legend. He’s clearly head and shoulders above any other quarterback in the league, and arguably better than anyone else we’ve seen in this sport in the last few decades. If he’s done that while going strong off-field, props to the guy. That just tells me that everyone else needs to step up. I’ll reserve judgment until I meet him, but I won’t be holding back when we get out there to square up. I have professional respect for the guy, fanboy adoration, but if he isn’t on the same team as me, he’s enemy number one until the Patriots come away with the win.

I’ve got something to prove today as well, considering the bullshit story from the middle of the week that just won’t leave me alone, and even though they’ve got the best quarterback anywhere in the world right now, it doesn’t mean they are the best team. Far from it. We’re top of the division and looking to stay that way until the end of the season. I want to go all the way and I’m not the only one that thinks we can do it.

Kane might already have his own Superbowl ring, and he might have made MVP last year, he just didn’t do it in his first season as a rookie, which is very much what I intend to do this year.

Some people get nervous on game day, not me. I get excited instead. I get the kind of skin buzzing, pulse racing sensation beating out across my body I get when I’m about to take a pretty girl to orgasm. Sex and football are pretty similar when it comes down to it, and a combination of the two is absolutely out of this world good. I’ll concentrate on that bit after the game, though, stealthily this time so Doug doesn’t get his panties in a twist.

I’ve been lying low since the middle of the week, just to prove I can be a good boy, but that hasn’t meant the need has suddenly gone away, and three days without any is beginning to take its toll. If you’re a natural at something, whether that’s painting, dancing or seducing women, it would be criminal behavior to stop you doing what you were born to do. If that’s being with women and playing ball, which it is in my case, it’s as bad as telling a cheetah he’s not allowed to run fast or clipping an eagle’s wings just so it can’t fly. Convincing the coaching staff and the owners of that is another thing altogether but I suppose it might get easier if we continue to win.

Maybe I should ask Carter if he wants to come and give a talk or maybe I should just get him to tell me how to keep the paparazzi away. He seems to have figured that out over the last few years because he’d turned from one hell of a bad boy into someone even the most untrustworthy of tabloid journalist seem keen to revere.

Even from in here, I can tell the crowd is livelier than usual, fired up for what’s about to come, and I can’t wait to get out amongst it. Doug gives his standard technical talk, most of which I ignore, before Hunter takes over and Doug does his personal rounds.

When he comes to me, he slaps his open palm hard on the top of the helmet, bends down and grabs hold of my grill to pull me towards him.

“No fucking around today, Logan”, he tells me.

“I promise, Doug, I haven’t seen a single princess worthy of my attention. Not yet anyway.”

He gives a wry smile at that before changing tact. “Give ‘em hell”, he says and bangs my helmet again before moving on to chew someone else’s ear out.

In the tunnel on the way to the field I see him standing slightly apart from everyone else, eyes directed forward, completely focussed on the game ahead. He’s even bigger than I expect, even more impressive close-up, a true fucking legend only meters away from me.

I begin to go towards him, unsure what I’m planning to say, but unable to avoid it either. I got into football because of people that Carter Kane has made look like little league players in less than five years, and even though we’re not out on the field yet it’s pretty clear to see why. The guy has a presence our quarterback could only dream about.

If I ever found that princess, I think to myself, this is the kind of guy I wouldn’t mind sharing her with at all.