Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 275(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Prince Titus moves between Prince Roark and I with an irritated expression on his face. He half-turns toward his brother, obviously having caught the way I was staring. My cheeks blossom with heat and I know I need to say something--anything--and fast, but all I can do is open my mouth and close it like a fish out of the water.
“Uh-h-hello,” I stammer.
Titus seems to consider something before he spits to the side and leers at me. “My beautiful Elizabeth,” he says, moving closer and lowering his voice. “You’ll need to learn to control your fucking eyes,” he growls so low only I can hear before stepping back and raising his voice again. “Let me show you how the game is played.” He turns toward a scared looking boy in his teens whose holding the same kind of hockey stick hybrid Roark holds. “Boy! Give me the bat.”
Titus doesn’t wait for the boy to respond. He rips the bat from the boy and turns toward a grassy mound where I stand with Queen Korintha and Roark, who is still watching me shamelessly.
“Titus is one of the best,” says Queen Korintha, as if she’s confiding in me. “Watch him closely. You’ll find no better example of form.”
Titus approaches a small device in the ground that looks like a metal traffic cone. He slaps the side of the cone with his stick and steps back, dropping into an athletic pose like a baseball player, body turned and bat gripped firmly in both of his hands. There’s a huff of air and a golf ball sized object spits up from the metal object. Titus swings powerfully as the ball descends, making contact with a ringing thud that sends the ball flying more than half the distance to the target. He watches it land and then throws his bat to the ground, locking his eyes on me.
“That’s how to properly hit the ball, my love,” he adds, reaching to brush my chin with his forefinger. His eyes dart to Roark as he touches me, and I see Roar’s knuckles go white on the handle of his bat. “Care to show her how not to hit the ball, big brother?”
Roark approaches the metal ball-spitter, dropping into a similar stance. He taps the metal with his bat and waits. The ball fires up, but Roark doesn’t even wait for it to reach its peak and come down. He catches it on the rise in a blur of movement that sends it streaking through the air, to just within a few yards of the target.
There is scattered applause from the servants who wait in the tents and a group of nobles wearing similar uniforms and holding bats of their own, but Queen Korinthia and Titus both look like they just sucked on lemons.
“Can I try?” I ask.
Titus turns toward me with an incredulous expression on his face. “You want to take a bat?” he laughs to himself. “Sure, just try not to hurt yourself.” He snaps his fingers and points to the bat he threw down earlier. One of the young men nearby sprints forward, grabbing the bat and presenting it to me like some holy relic.
I take it, testing the weight and finding it’s not dissimilar to a tennis racquet. Thankfully, I played tennis throughout high school--mainly to give me a reason to stay away from home longer. I put a second hand on the bat, gripping it like I’m going for a two-handed backhand, and try a couple practice swings. I move up to the metal object, remembering after a few seconds the way the princes tapped the metal to get the ball to rise up. I do the same, waiting with the bat drawn back.
The ball puffs up and I take a wild swing, missing entirely. The ball plops back into the hole with a hollow sound. I grit my teeth, refusing to be embarrassed. It’s just a stupid game. I’ve never played before, and I obviously won’t be good right away. But this bat is just a different length than what I’m used to, and with a tiny tweak I’m sure I could hit the ball.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” says Titus so loudly I’m sure all the servants in the nearby tents can hear. “Let’s put this to rest before you end up breaking a nail.”
Before he can get closer, I tap the metal again, bending my knees and relaxing, trying to imagine Titus’ smug face on the little ball as it comes spinning out of the hole in the ground. I swing as hard as I can and this time make contact with the ball. My shot doesn’t go nearly as far as the men’s, but it flies straight and judging from the raised eyebrows and surprised gasps, it’s a good shot for a beginner.