The Thrill Is Gone

“This is not a date. It’s just two friends . . . no, not friends. Hmm . . . acquaintances?” she mused aloud. “Wait, no that doesn’t fucking sound right. Fuck! Okay. Okay, calm down, don’t panic. This is just two people that happen to sort of like spending time together, making a go at spending more time together. Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. And that’s what it is. Understood?” she told herself. “This isn’t some courtship or anything that’ll lead to any of those stupid ideas that sounded all rad and romantic . . . focus! This is just us going to a football match. That’s it. So put that red dress away. It’s too much.” Paulina craned her neck to the side as she inspected the dress. “But I look so good in it. And it’s red! It’s completely acceptable to wear red dress to a Manchester United match. Oh. Who am I kidding? It’s not. Nope. Not at all,” she picked up the dress from her bed and placed it back inside her small closet. “I’ll just wear those new jeans I bought and my Rooney jersey. I mean, I did tell him, I’d be sporting it so, yeah, yeah, I have to wear it. But the dress is so nice. No!” she threw her hands in the air. “Can’t wear it, can’t wear that dress and I need to stop being so crazy. This isn’t a date. So stop treating it like one. Act like you’re gonna hang out with Via,” she walked back over to her bed and grabbed the jeans off it. “Or Alfie!” she exclaimed. “Act like you’re gonna hang out with either of them, and this’ll be rad. You’ll have fun, see a good match and then come home. That’ll be that. But what if people take pictures of me?” she asked herself as she grabbed her Rooney jersey from the pile of clean laundry.

At that, she froze. Paulina hadn’t even thought about what would happen if people snapped a photo of her with Harry. She’d completely forgotten about the fact that his being a Prince meant that people took a bunch of pictures of him, that there was paparazzi following him wherever he went and that if she were seen getting out of a car with him or in a compromising position, she’d become a target for the media. That wasn’t something that appealed to her. Other people may have been thrilled at the prospect of suddenly becoming famous for being seen with him, but not her. All she wanted was to go out with him, to have a laugh, but now she wasn’t to sure that would happen. She didn’t want to have her picture land on the cover of some magazine like all the others he’s been around town with.

Paulina thought that maybe she could convince him that watching the game at her flat would be better than going to the stadium. There’d be privacy there and . . . oh, who was she kidding, there was no way her flat could be better than watching a Manchester United v Arsenal match at Old Trafford. She’d been walking around with a massive grin ever since he’d called, because she’d be going out with him and, more importantly, because he was taking her to Old Trafford. That was somewhere she’d dreamt of going ever since she was nine years old.

“I'm over thinking this.”

But was she really? A part of her didn’t think so. A part of her thought she was being perfectly reasonable in wanting to cancel. She had, after all, seen the covers of tabloid magazines that had pictures of girls that had been spotted with Harry. She’d never actually flipped through them, having always been in a rush to get home, but the thought of seeing her own face on one of those covers, made her cringe. They’d put a shitty headline in one of the corners, something alone the lines of his American Girl or Latin Lover. Ugh. It hadn’t even happened and she already wanted to never show her face in public again. If only Harry was normal, or not even normal . . . just not a Prince! She really liked him. He was cheeky and a bit obnoxious, there was no denying that, but he was also funny and nice . . . and even though she wouldn’t tell him to his face, he was rather charming.

A dreamy look swept across her face as she remembered just how close his face had been at the club. If she’d just leaned in a little bit, she would’ve kissed him. Her cheeks flooded with color at the thought. The hopeless romantic in her was attempting to break loose again. It demanded to take over for the outing, but she was determined to keep it at bay and to make up some excuse that would get her out of going to the match. Food poisoning was a good one, so was a headache . . . but which to use? The sound of her buzzer ringing took her from her thoughts. Her eyes darted towards the apartment intercom, the small white box that hung beside the door.

“Know I'm a bit early, but I was wondering if you might let me in. It’s a bit chilly out here.” His voice emanated from the intercom. “It’s Harry, by the way, in case you were thinking about who the bloke ringing your buzzer was.”

Paulina rushed towards the door, her jersey still in her left hand as her right tucked a strand of recently straightened hair behind her ear. Her eyes darted to the small clock that hung on the wall. There was a little over a half hour until it was eight o’clock. So why was he there so early? He didn’t seem the sort to be early or even on time to things, she’d expected him to run late, especially since he’d most likely driven out from London or some other place. She thought about telling him that she was just on her way to the doctor to get checked out for her food poisoning. That could make him feel uncomfortable enough to leave, but he’d already gone through the trouble of driving out and he’d even gotten there early, she couldn’t cancel on him. It’d be beyond rude. So she took in a breath, pushing aside the thoughts that drove her crazy and lifted her finger to the intercom’s talk button.

“Oh Harry, handsome Harry –” she spoke into the intercom, remembering those were the very words he’d joked about.

From outside, he pressed the intercom again and let his laughter ring. “Bloody hell!” he laughed. “Now that’s how a man should be properly greeted!”

“And where’s my greeting?” she asked. “You didn’t even say my name!” she huffed.

Harry cleared his throat. “Paulina, my dearest Paulina, the most radiant of all the . . . uh . . . women to have ever abused me . . .” he trailed off. “How’s that?” asked Harry, leaning against the glass door.

“I sound like some sort of molester!”

“No, not at all,” he argued.

“Really?” she cocked her brow, despite the fact that he couldn’t see her. “The most radiant of women to have ever abused you?” she repeated. “Makes it sound like I got a cricket bat and sodomized you.”

“You did not just say that!”

“I did, actually. Want me to say it again?”

“No, no, I think its best not to mention that again. Swore I felt my butt clench up on me,” he joked. “So am I gonna be let in or should I start looking for a window to climb to?”

“Don’t think you can do that.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you don’t know where my apartment’s at.”

“Know it’s on the second floor. Remember that from last time I was here.”

“But you wouldn’t know which window it is.” Paulina pointed out. “Or have you been spying on me?”

“Can’t answer that, wouldn’t want to give myself away. Would I?” he smiled to himself. “But you’re right; don’t know where it’s at. Care to tell me? Or would ya rather have me roaming about the place?”

“Just because you’re taking me to a match, I’ll tell you where to go. When you walk into the complex, just walk up the stairs and on the second floor, make a right, walk all the way down the hall and my apartments the last one there.”

“Sounds easy enough,” he declared. “Be there in a bit, then.”

Paulina briefly forgot that he couldn’t see her and nodded as she turned to walk away, but when she remembered that she hadn’t buzzed him in, she turned on her heel and pressed the door button so he could get into the building. She then turned around, her jersey still in her hand, and when she saw the state that her apartment was in, she let out a slew of profanity. There were books littering the small coffee table. She’d spent the previous night drinking wine and reading a few Jane Austen novels and now the empty bottle of wine was on the ground and the books were a mess. She grabbed the books off the table and placed them on her bookcase, the bottle of wine was then tossed into the trash bin and she was left throwing the clothes laid out on her bed, into the closet, where they’d be hidden from view. She quickly made her bed, throwing on the sheets and then the two blankets. She thought she was done, but when she spotted her bright pink Cheer Bear on the floor, she ran towards it and threw it into the closet. It was the bear that she’d had since birth, the one she took everywhere she went, but she didn’t need him seeing it. He hadn’t seen it the last time he was there and he didn’t have to see it.

By the time that Harry knocked on the door, the apartment was in near perfect shape. There was a dirty coffee cup in the sink, but she didn’t feel like washing dishes. And as she made her way to the door, she took in deep breaths, everything was going to be fine, they were going to have fun like last time and watch what she expected would be a very heated soccer match. It wasn’t until she was unlocking her door that she realized that her shirt was slung over her left shoulder and that her upper body was completely exposed. A panicked little noise escaped her lips as she slipped the jersey on, trying her best not to mess up the hair that she’d woken up extra early to straighten. She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it out as best she could, and then, deeming herself presentable, she opened the door.

“Hey . . . oh, sorry, I think you have the wrong . . . Harry?” she asked when she stared closer at the dark haired young man standing on her doorstep.

He broke into a wide grin, his lips curled upwards in style she was so familiar with. “If it’s good enough to fool you, I'm sure we’ll be alright at the match.” He waited for a reply from her, but when she gave none, he added, “Thought you might not want to have people following us around, but if you don’t like it, I can take it off. It’s just a wig and some sideburns, I’ve always wanted sideburns, can’t grow them naturally though.”

“I like it.” Paulina said. “It’s just, you look so different, it’s amazing what a difference some hair can make.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “Initially, I was just gonna add some ginger sideburns, but figured I should change the color as well. That way they won’t recognize me and keep from actually watching the match.”

“Good thinking.” Paulina cheered inwardly, the press would no longer be a factor in their day. “Where’d you get this wig, though? It looks so natural.”

“Oh, well, don’t really know where it’s from. Had the family hair stylist pick it up for me, even showed me how to put it on and the sideburns.”

“Aren’t you afraid that they’re going to tell people to look for a brunette Harry?”

“Not really.” He replied. “If they do that, they’ll get fired, and the money they’d get wouldn’t be worth the income they’d lose. They did a good job finding one though and look, even my eyebrows are brown. It’s wicked.”

“It is,” she agreed, and without thinking, she reached out to his face, her fingertips gently brushing against the dark brown sideburns that adorned it.

Harry watched in silence as her hand grew closer to his face, as the tip of her fingers made contact with the foreign hair that he’d secured to his face. Her eyes were fixated on the left side of his face, where her fingers were employed, her lips were slightly parted and her nose somewhat scrunched, and as he looked at her, as he stared at the dark haired brunette, the image of her sleeping face rushed into his mind, and as he had done on that occasion, he began to contemplate her features, to take in her beauty. It was then that her fingers momentarily lost their way from the dark brown hair and danced across his pale flesh. It was then that his breathing, momentarily, hitched.

“Sorry,” she said, recoiling as if she’d just been bitten. “I just wanted to see if it felt like actual hair or some random synthetic thing. So, I, uh, need to get my coat and grab a few things, like breakfast. Have you eaten yet?”

“What? Oh. No, just has some tea before I drove out.” Harry replied, trying his best to clear his throat as discreetly as possible. “Was actually wondering if you’d fancy some breakfast,” he asked. “There’s a bakery a few roads up that makes the best hot chocolate and croissants, I’ve ever had. They’d make a fine breakfast and then we can have lunch when we get Stretford in Manchester.”

“That sounds good. Let me just grab my things.” Paulina stepped aside, giving him room to walk in. “Come on in, you can have a seat on the couch or would you like something to drink?”

“No, no, I'm fine. I’d actually like to use the loo. Mind if I make a stop?”

“Of course not,” she replied, picking up her coat from the hook behind the door. “Do you remember where it’s at?”

He smiled sheepishly, “Can’t say I do.”

Of course he didn’t remember. He’d only been there once and he’d been stoned out of his mind on that occasion. So she showed him to the bathroom, mentally patting herself on the back for having given the entire bathroom a good scrub the day before, and then walked back to the bedroom section of her flat, so that she could stuff her wallet, keys, and money into her coat pocket. She’d thought about taking a purse, but since there was a good chance that the football hooligans might start a brawl during or after the match, she thought it best to cut down on any unnecessary weight. She hoped the hooligans wouldn’t be too violent, she didn’t want to get in a fight, her body was sore enough from the rugby scrimmage from a few days earlier.

Inside the bathroom, Harry carefully splashed water onto his flushed face. He scolded himself for having acted like such a hormonal teenage boy when she touched his face. He wasn’t supposed to act like that. He was a grown man, an experienced man. So the fact that he’d acted like some inexperienced virgin that had never been touched by a girl, made him cringe inwardly. He didn’t know what it was about her that sent his body ablaze. She wasn’t an overtly sexual woman. There was an innocence to her beauty, it was understated . . . natural. He was pretty sure that when she woke up in the morning, she wouldn’t look like a completely different person without her make up, which was something that the women he shagged, always ended up looking like. They were one person with the make up they strategically placed on, and by morning, there was a completely different person there, a stranger even. But he didn’t think that would happen with her. He’d remembered her sleeping face being as radiant as it was asleep, with the make up smeared in places and completely gone in others, as it was awake.

Bloody hell, he was in danger. He was growing too fond of her, feeling more than he should have. He’d even gone through the trouble of getting a wig and sideburns so that they’d be left alone, so that they’d have privacy to be normal. He’d never done that before! Not with Chelsea, not with anyone.

“Maybe I should call this off.” He muttered to himself.

Pretending to be ill wouldn’t be a problem. He could say that he’d gotten an upset stomach or food poisoning. It’s not like she could force him to drive out to Old Trafford. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He could just go, throw out her information, and keep himself out of danger, throw himself back into the arms of the buxom blondes he was so keen on. But then he heard that horribly out of tune singing of hers, then he walked towards the door, opened it just a tad, and saw her dancing around the living area as she slipped on her coat.

“Dreadful woman,” he muttered to himself.

He couldn’t leave. He’d unknowingly become her prisoner.

Out in the living room, she buttoned up her grey pea coat and ran a hand over the front of it, to smooth out the small wrinkles on it. She looked around the apartment, wondering what to do with herself until he stepped out. Ultimately, she took a seat on the couch and reached out for her phone that rested atop the coffee table. She looked through the message folder. There was a new one from Alfred, telling her to enjoy the match since he was stuck at his parent’s estate for a dinner with his extended family. She text back saying that she would and that she’d even get him something from the stadium, since he was also a Manchester United fan. Alfred had been so jealous when she told him that she was going to be there for the match. They’d tried getting tickets, but by the time they’d gotten around to it, they’d all sold out so they’d opted to just watch it at a pub. But then his parents decided to throw a family dinner, and Harry had asked her to go with him, so their plans had been interrupted and Alfred was left to speculate about who was taking her to the match.

She insisted that it was just a friend, no one special. Alfred knew better though. Most guys wouldn’t go through the trouble of driving two hours to a stadium and two hours back, if they didn’t fancy the person they were taking. Hell. One of the reasons he’d been so eager to offer to drive them to Bath was just so he could spent more time with Olivia. So he knew that whoever the guy was, liked Paulina, even if she didn’t want to admit it. Alfred thought that it had to be one of the Rhode Scholars, those were the people that she hung out with whenever she wasn’t with him or Via. Whoever it was, he just hoped they’d be respectful and mindful of her. He’d grown much attached to his dear friend, caring for her like a sister, and if someone were to be disrespectful of her, he’d put his years of playing lacrosse to use.

“Ready to go then?” asked Harry when he finally stepped out of the bathroom.

The pair left almost immediately, journeying down the hall, down the stairs and then outside where the Ford Focus that Harry borrowed from Alistair, awaited them. Paulina was relieved to see that they’d be driving around in a normal car. For a moment she’d thought that there’d be a Rolls-Royce or a Bentley, waiting for them. She couldn’t trust herself in one of those, with her luck she’d end up getting gum stuck in one of them or spill hot chocolate. When they reached the car, Harry held the door open for her and then closed it when she’d taken her seat.

“Someone’s feeling awfully charming this morning.” Paulina playfully commented.

Harry strapped himself in. “Well, you know, I am a very charming man.”

“Sure you are,” she fought back a smile.

“I'm offended that you don’t believe me.” Harry placed the key in the ignition and then pressed the brake pedal down and moved the gear level to drive. “Have you been to Old Trafford, before?”

“Hadn’t had the chance before today. My friend I tried getting tickets for today’s match, but they were sold out so we were gonna wait until there was another match to go to. Have you been there before?”

Harry nodded. “Whenever Arsenal plays them there, I go. Usually drag Will with me.”

“Is Arsenal his favorite to?”

“His favorite’s Aston Villa. Has worse taste than you when it comes to football clubs,” he joked.

“Oh yea, because Manchester’s record of beating Arsenal, makes it the worse club,” she smirked at him.

“It’s not all about winning.”

“When there are championships on the line, I'm pretty sure that it’s about winning. Especially since it’s looking like Manchester’s going to win the Premier League and Champions League.”

“And who says it’s looking like that?” he asked, pulling onto the main street. “I fancy Arsenal has a good a chance as any.”

They spent the entire drive to the bakery arguing over which team had the better chance, and when they climbed back into the car, with their pastries and hot chocolates in hand, they resumed their argument, each claiming that their team had the better lineup and that the odds were in their favor. It wasn’t until they reached Stretford that they decided to drop the argument and let it be settled on the field.

“So who’s your favorite footballer in Arsenal?” she asked as they left the parking lot.

“It’d have to be Fàbregas, he’s really young but there’s just so much talent there. Honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Barcelona offers him a contract with their lads. Well, them or Real Madrid.”

“I’d rather he stay with Arsenal.”

“Hah. Why? Do you not like those clubs?”

“I like them. They play amazing football, but it’s just . . . they get all the talent! They have Messi and Marquez and Thierry and Puyol! And that’s just Barcelona.”

“You really know your football.”

“Only know so much about Barcelona, because their Adrian’s favorite team.” Paulina explained. “Adrian is my brother,” she added. “And I know Real Madrid because my other brother, Raphael, loves them. He even named my nephew after one of them.”

“You’re joking!” he laughed.

Paulina shook her head, smiling as she did so. “Wish I was, but Rafa’s that much of a fan.”

“And what club does your other brother root for? There were three of them, weren’t there?” he asked, though he knew very well that she was indeed the youngest of four children.

“Oh, you mean Luis!” her smile widened at the mention of her favorite brother. “He’s like me, crazy about Manchester, and our dad is to, so Manchester United is the official team of the Balcázar family.” Her cheeks colored slightly when she realized that she’d been talking just about herself. “What’s your dad’s – I mean, His Royal Highness the . . .”

“Don’t have to call him that. Actually preferred if ya didn’t, not when it’s just us,” he smiled reassuringly. “And I was thinking, since we’re out here, and I'm . . . well, like this, that you might not call me, Harry.”

“Then what’ll I call you?”

“Henry.” He said. “It’s my given name, but most people don’t truly realize that. They just hear Prince Harry, all the time and think that’s it, so Henry will be safe.”

“I like Henry better,” she told him. “It’s very adult.”

He nodded in agreement.

“So, Henry, what’s your dad’s favorite team?” she asked, grinning inwardly at the fact that she was on an actual first name basis with him.

“Be warned, my father has the absolute worst taste in football clubs.” He took a breath before continuing, “Burnley.”

“Burnley?” she squinted. “They’re not in the Premier League. Are they? I swear I’ve never heard of them.”

“That’s because they’re in the Football League Championship, right below the Premier League.” Harry explained. “You’d think my dad would fancy a better club, but no, Burnley is his favorite.”

“Well it could be worse.”

“How?” he stopped walking and stared at her, questioningly.

“He could be a Chelsea fan.”

“Chelsea?!” his nose wrinkled in disgust. Chelsea was the football club that held a rivalry with both Manchester United and Arsenal. “Didn’t think anything could be worse than Burnley, but you’re right, at least he’s not a Chelsea fan.”

“Know what this means?” she asked.

“What does it mean?”

“Means we’ve agreed on something football related.”

“Have we now?”

“Shocking, isn’t it?” she teased as she began to walk.

Harry followed close behind her. “A bit, yeah, was thinking you were a bit thick for liking Manchester so much. Oi! Don’t give me that look, said I was thinking you were a bit thick, but now I don’t.”

“You better not.”

“Or else what?” he questioned.

“Or else . . . or else I’ll peel those sideburns right off your cheeks!” she joked.

“You wouldn’t dare!” he told her, covering the dark brown hair with his hands.

Paulina lifted her hands and began to wiggle her fingers tauntingly. “Oh, I’d dare.”