Scoring a Prince (Ebook)

HAMISH:

I’ll be honest—I hadn’t been thinking much about love or marriage. I’d met the girl for me and let her go years ago. And until I could make that right? I wasn’t looking.

Until my Durnish family reminded me that to keep my place in line for the Durnish throne (and my only real link to my homeland) I needed to tie the knot before I hit thirty.

The issue? There’s only one girl I’m willing to marry and I haven’t seen or heard from her in six years.

I’ll have to find her fast and hope she won’t be bothered by my lack of… experience. She’s the one. And until I find her again, I haven’t wanted to share my royal scepter with just anyone, if ya get my drift.

SOPHIE:

I followed Hamish MacEvoy to America six years ago, but what I found there told me right away he wasn’t waiting around for me.

Since then, I’ve built my own life—free of kilt-wearing football players, thank you very much. I have a successful business baking wedding cakes for the elite of the San Diego wedding scene.

But when Erica Johnson and Fernando Fuerte—who plays for Hamish’s team—came walking through my door, I should have hidden. Well, actually I did hide, but it all fell apart anyway.
I’m just not sure I’m ready to give Hamish a second chance.

* * *

Hamish "The Hammer" MacEvoy is every Sharks player's favorite kilt-wearing drinking buddy. But he's also a prince. And to keep his place in line for the throne of his tiny island country, he has to be married before the age of thirty.

Can Hamish find Sophie? And if he does, can he convince her to give him another chance after all this time? And if he can do that, will they survive the Feats of Matrimonial Might? And what about all the sheep?

The third hilarious book in the Mr. Match series will take you for a laugh-out-loud ride you won’t forget!

"It's on, losers!" Trace Johnson was standing, waving his arms at our teammates, who were gathered in Fernando Fuerte's rather opulent Coronado waterfront condo, lounging around in front of the television. Most of the lads on the team were there, and there were a few ladies as well. 

Besides Hoss, of course. 

The groupies of the moment were there, Evans and Toofer always seemed to like a variety of company in the off season, and then of course, Erica, Magalie, Melinda Isley, and Winchell's sister Cat were all there too. 

"Shhh," I cautioned the group, and surprisingly, they all shut up as the segment began on HOT-LA, the prime time gossip show we'd been told was going to feature a few of our guys tonight. 

Tonight we're going to talk to Trace Johnson, the unstoppable South Bay Sharks keeper, and Fernando Fuerte, often called the Fuerte Fire for the way he drives relentlessly to score time and again. 

"UnSTOPpable!" Trace shouted gleefully. Magalie smacked him on the arm. 

These two have more in common than playing for a conference-leading soccer team and being some of the most respected players in Major League Soccer, though. These men have also recently gotten engaged to women they met through the dating site that's been sweeping the southland—the site known as "Mr. Match." Let's welcome these players to HOT-LA. 

On the screen, Trace and Fuerte appeared, dressed in their team polos and both smiling broadly at the hostess, who wore a tight fitted red dress that would not have been considered respectable work attire in Durnland, where I'm from. But I'm in the United States now, and I had no complaints about the view afforded by the woman's garment, immodest though it was.

"So, gentlemen, you've both recently proposed, is that right?" 

Fernando and Trace bobbed their heads, and Trace shifted his weight, saying, "Correct." 

"And Fernando, am I right that you're actually engaged to Trace Johnson's sister, Erica?" 

Fernando smiled, every one of his trademark white teeth showing as he confirmed. "That's right," he said. 

"But you didn't meet Erica through Trace, right? You met her..."

"Technically I met her at work," Fuerte said. "She was managing PR for the team last year, but we would never have gone out because ..." He paused and looked around as if he wasn't sure whether Erica might charge in and smack him on the arm at any second. "Well, we weren't the best of friends. We kind of hated each other." 

"But when the website, Mr. Match, said you were a good fit, you just put that hatred aside?" 

She perched on the edge of her chair, pressing her chest forward as she spoke, and I found it hard to remove my eyes from the low-cut neckline. News was not like this at home, where most coverage featured what was now referred to as the Durnish Doom Line. The Doom Line was the marker at the capitol wharf where the rate of ocean rising was measured. Durnland was sinking into the ever-rising North Atlantic at a frightening pace. 

"Not exactly," Fuerte said. "It took a while, but the site ended up being right, and we'd probably never have even tried if Mr. Match hadn't suggested we were a fit." 

"That's amazing," the hostess gushed. "And you, Trace? What was your experience with the site?" 

Trace sat up straighter and stared into the camera, as if he'd suddenly realized he was being filmed. Fernando socked him in the arm, which seemed to jolt him back to reality. 

"Yeah. No. She...Magalie, that's my fiancee, we..." His shoulders hunched a bit and the hostess leaned forward, putting a hand on his forearm. "We would never have met," he finally said. "Without Mr. Match. I don't know who the guy is, but I owe him big time." 

"That was horrible," Trace moaned, and Magalie leaned her head into his shoulder, her hand dropping to his thigh in comfort. 

"Yeah, it's like you've never been on TV before," Isley said. 

"Quiet down," Fuerte said. 

The hostess continued. "So did you use the site because Fernando or your sister recommended it, Trace?" 

Trace nodded. "Yeah." 

"And what made you decide to use it Fernando? I hope you'll forgive me saying, but it didn't seem like you had trouble with the ladies before you met Erica." 

Erica made a little gurgling noise where she sat next to Fernando on the couch, and I turned to see her face reddening. Fuerte leaned over to whisper something in her ear, and her frown was replaced with a smile, but her face reddened even more. 

"I was looking for something real." Fernando smiled at the camera as he said smoothly, "True love. And that's what Mr. Match delivered." 

"That's amazing," the hostess cooed. "So let's get to the heart of things, shall we? Two Sharks players have found love with Mr. Match in a pretty short period of time—does Mr. Match himself have some connection to the team?" 

Trace made a scoffing noise. "Two Sharks players and a ****load of other people, you mean." 

A loud beep covered half his statement. 

"Nice," Erica said. "Good job cursing on prime time, Trace." 

Trace smiled proudly. 

"True," the hostess said. "But there have been other rumors around town that Mr. Match himself might be part of the Sharks organization—a coach? Maybe someone related to the owner, Marissa Molson?" 

"Your guess is as good as ours," Fernando said smoothly. 

"Well, I can tell you that more and more lonely hearts around the Southland will be flocking to the popular matchmaking site, hoping for the same results you two have found. And I can assure you that HOT-LA will be keeping an eye out for more solid confirmation of the connection there. Thanks for joining us tonight, guys." 

"Thanks for having us," Trace said, managing a polite sentence with no profanity and a fairly normal expression on his face. 

The room erupted into hoots and cheers as the segment ended and the station went to commercial. Fernando switched off the set, and people started to rise. 

"You're a star," Erica said to him. 

"I was already a star, baby," Fuerte said, but he didn't have the arrogance to back up those kinds of statements—part of the reason I liked the guy. 

As everyone got up and began milling around, helping themselves to more beer and snacks, I found a spot out on the patio and sat down to stare out at the impressive blue Pacific. Sometimes, when the weather was perfect (and honestly, this was San Diego—the weather was always perfect), I missed my family. I wished I could spend time with them here like this, with no pressure, enjoying the environment, just being together. My family was huge, and chaotic, and very busy at all times. That's how things were when you were the royal family in charge of saving an island nation from sinking into the sea. 

And while some of the MacEvoys might be sticking their heads in the sand, reluctant to face the truth of the Durnish Doom Line, I saw it plain as day. The country I loved might not last much longer, and that made me deeply sad. It also made me want to grasp tight to those things about Durnland I could hold, to reinforce my connection to the place I loved. 

I didn't know when I'd get back to Durnland, and while I was technically in line for the crown, I knew it would never be mine. (And for that, I was very grateful. Because for me to become the Durnish king, something terrible would have to happen to about sixteen other people I cared very much about, all of them my relatives, and many of them children.) But the potential disappearance of my country made me want to preserve my connection all the more, to be part of something that had been a critical part of my family for hundreds of years. 

That said, it made little sense that the king was going to hold me to the exact terms of my legacy if I wanted to maintain it. And maybe it made even less sense that I cared enough about a distant and impossible crown and a tiny sinking country to actually be considering those terms. 

"You're looking thoughtful," Erica said, coming to sit next to me on the patio. "Everything okay, Hammer?" 

I nodded, aware that I looked glum at best. "Aye, lass. All's well." 

"You might be a good fullback, but you're a shit liar." Her long hair fell over one shoulder as she leaned toward me and narrowed her eyes. "What's going on?" 

It wouldn't help things to tell her, but it couldn't really hurt either, I figured. "It's my mam," I told her. 

Her face elongated, her mouth forming a little "o" before she interrupted me. "Oh God, she's not sick, is she?" 

Fuerte's mom had been very sick when they'd met, so Erica was probably sensitive to sick mothers. "No, nothing like that. I spoke to her today on the phone. She called to remind me of some of my royal duties." 

"It's crazy that you're actual royalty," she said. 

"I don't know about the actual part. And you have to remember, I'm not exactly Prince William." 

"Just Prince Hamish," she said. 

I winced. Technically I wasn't a prince, but the American media had taken that one and run with it, so it was hard to shoot down now. "Right. Well, my mam called to remind me that to retain my claim, I'm to be married before my thirtieth birthday." 

Erica's eyebrows shot up. "And do they have someone lined up for that? Have you been, like, promised since you were young?" 

"No, it’s not an arranged marriage. Nothing like that." 

"Just an ultimatum that says you have to be married by a certain date or give up your claim to your legacy," she quipped. 

"Touché," I said. 

"And when do you turn thirty?" 

"Well it's January. So I have almost a year. My birthday's in early December." 

She nodded. "Then it's time to sign you up, I think." 

"What? For Mr. Match, you mean?" 

"Yep." 

A tiny finger of panic poked at the base of my spine and skittered north, spreading out along my ribs. "No thank you," I said, as politely as I could. "Afraid it's not for me." 

"Finding your soulmate is for everyone," she said, just as Max emerged onto the patio, looking immediately invested in our conversation.

"Who's looking for a soulmate now?" he asked, looking between us and settling on me. "Hammer? Really?" 

I stood, finishing my beer in a long gulp. "Nope. Not even a little bit." Case closed, I walked away, heading in to get another beer and hoping Erica wouldn't share everything she'd just learned with Max, but knowing she probably would. Erica was a sweet lass, but there was one thing certain about the Johnson twins: neither of them could keep a secret to save their lives. I strolled inside, hoping to turn the tide of conversation to something less personal and less potentially humiliating. Because while I might have been a star footballer and a decent-looking chap, especially when I wore my tartan, I didn't need anyone to know exactly what else I was. A man who had already found his soulmate. And lost her.

And an almost thirty-year-old male virgin.

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