Even princesses have problems. That line doesn’t exactly invite sympathy, does it? I was a fairly ersatz princess anyway, although you should try convincing my mother of that. And when I ran away from my family, my tech-bro groom, my almost-Stanford degree, and our fabulous future and right back to my trailer-living, hard-hatted life? Even I couldn’t explain it to anybody’s satisfaction. I’d lived my life by one don’t get attached. When you’re on your sixth team, your third country, and your second sport, that’s a pretty good rule, and it worked fine until some lowlife dumped his aging Golden Retriever at a rest stop right in front of me. Until I ran into a woman wearing a spangled cocktail dress, zero makeup, and a ponytail in the dog-food aisle at Target, and then kept on running into her. Until my new All-Pro teammates insisted on befriending the kicker, like they’d never read the handbook. Oh, and until my sister dumped my teenage nephew on me. On Christmas. So much for rules.