Page 90 of King of the Crease

I flip through my messages, links to articles with one bad headline after the next:

Ardenia’s Royal Nightmare

Prince Nicholas of Ardenia Discovered in Small Town New York

A Gay Prince??

“Our secret’s out,” I say.

“Hank,” he says, his face ghostly white. “I am so fucked.”

28

NICK

Ihad forgotten what it felt like to be watched.

Not politely observed, not respectfully acknowledged—the way people look at a prince during official engagements—but watched. Cameras tracking movement. Voices whispering. Phones lifting the moment I stepped into view.

Sourwood had once felt blissfully invisible.

Now it felt like a stage.

The TikTok of Hank and me was spreading rapidly, stills of us cradling in each other’s arms swaying to music plastered across the internet. The last twenty-four hours have been a nightmare. Each time I tried to leave Millie’s house, there’d be more onlookers.

Yesterday morning, Hank drove me back to Millie’s after word got out. I spent the afternoon on the phone with Agnes and Alfred and ignoring calls from the king. A few photographers showed up outside her house that night. Agnes and Alfred flew in on the royal jet at midnight and turned Millie’s living room into headquarters for dealing with this public relations disaster. I’d spent my whole life being the good prince, the good son, and yet again, my desire for men has led to another scandal, this one ten times worse than the last.

This morning, feeling stir crazy, I insist on a trip to Common Grounds, a coffee shop down the street. Alfred shields me from the scrum of photographers on the curb. I’m not used to people in Ardenia looking at me when I’m in public. It’s an odd, uncomfortable sensation having it happen in Sourwood. I was supposed to be a normie like everyone. Now my secret’s out.

When we get to Common Grounds, heads turn our way.

“Your Royal Highness, perhaps we should get our coffee to go. Any of these people could throw a Molotov cocktail in an instant,” Alfred murmurs while scoping out the shop without an ounce of subtlety.

A child runs past us when we exit, dragging a pine branch twice his size while his mother pretends not to stare. Across the gravel lot, a man very obviously pretending to check his messages angles his phone toward me.

A camera shutter clicks. Another follows.

I used to be trained not to notice such things. Today every sound lands like a pebble against glass. Onlookers trample across front lawns to get a peek, leaving trash and muddy paths in their wake.

“This used to be peaceful,” I say quietly.

“It still can be, sir,” Alfred replies diplomatically. “If we return home.”

Home.

Meaning Ardenia. Meaning duty. Meaning leaving Hank behind before the chaos swallows him too.

I adjust my scarf and force a smile as a family passes. The scent of pine fills the air. Less than a month ago, Hank was telling me about tomatoes with the urgency of a political issue.

I nearly laugh remembering it.

Then my chest aches.

Because Hank isn’t here. Because I made certain he wouldn’t be.

I texted him yesterday: Best if we give each other space for now. I don’t want this hurting you.

He replied with a simple “Ok” and nothing else.