by Alix Nichols
“In three years, I never hit on you?”
She shakes her head. “Ask Zach or Denis. Ask your parents.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“They all say the same thing. You were ‘like a little sister’ to me.”
“See?”
“I just…” I exhale a frustrated breath. “I just find it hard to believe.”
“What are you saying, Lucas?”
“I guess I’m saying that I’m drawn to you in a way I haven’t been drawn to a woman since I woke up six years ago.”
She fidgets with the rubber bands on her folder and refuses to look at me.
I run my hand through my hair. “You have nothing to worry about, Isabelle. I won’t act on my… urges.”
“Good,” she mumbles.
Our food arrives, and for a good five minutes, we eat in silence.
“You were involved with a woman,” Isabelle says suddenly. “Angela. You called her Angie. Hasn’t she…? Haven’t you seen her since waking up?”
I shake my head.
“How come?” she asks.
“She was modeling in New York when I woke up.”
“Didn’t she travel to France occasionally? Not even for Christmas?”
“Apparently not.” I shrug. “Or if she did, I didn’t get a heads-up.”
She touches my hand. “I’m so sorry, Lucas.”
“Please, there’s no need.” I stare at her hand and then into her eyes.
She pulls her hand back and down to her lap.
“When I recovered enough to reach out,” I say, “I called her. That was four years ago.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much. Our conversation barely lasted five minutes. We exchanged some platitudes, she said she was sorry she couldn’t come see me because of her insane schedule, and then she said she had to run.”
Isabelle clenches her jaw, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen her.
The server returns with the menu and asks if we’d like a dessert. Neither of us fancy any, as it happens, so I pay the check and we leave.
“The fish stew was amazing,” Isabelle says, turning toward the sea.
I watch the soft summer breeze play with her shoulder-length hair, and I know I’m not prepared to go back to the hotel just yet. Whether it’s the feeling something’s been left unsaid or just a selfish desire to spend more time with her one-on-one, it’s stronger than the rational voice telling me to run from temptation.
Taking a breath, I say as matter-of-factly as I can. “Fancy a walk on the beach before we head back?”
She nods.
The beach is still full of people, but not the noisy teenage crowd which gathers closer to Port Vell. This end is much more peaceful and less crowded. The families with kids who frequent it in daytime have left by now, and the remaining beachgoers stroll or sit around in small groups, enjoying hushed conversations or just gazing at the sea.
“I love this beach,” Isabelle says as we amble past one such gracious group. “So quiet. What a change from Paris Plage!”
“Which isn’t even a real beach,” I say. “You can’t smell the sea because there is none.”
She turns to me, smiling. “Nor can you go in ankle-deep and let the waves lick your feet.”
“Would you like to do that?”
“Do you mind?” She points at the sneakers I’m holding. “We’re barefoot already.”
I head toward the water.
She catches up.
As we stand next to each other, warm waves caressing our feet, the temptation to take her hand in mine grows stronger by the minute. When my fingers start to twitch, I curl them into a ball and take a few steps back.
She turns around, a question in her eyes.
“I’m going to sit here and let my feet dry.” I point to a spot a few meters from the edge of the water. “Take your time.”
Five minutes later, she plonks herself next to me. “That was nice.”
She’s sitting too close to me—way too close.
I can smell her delicate perfume. I can see every delicious curve and muscle of her athletic, lithe body. Her flawless skin, her hair, her elegant neck, breasts…
Suddenly, I remember a dream from last night. I was kissing Isabelle and pushing into her, hard and deep. It felt so incredibly good… And so real.
Was it a dream or a memory?
While I ponder the question and valiantly ignore my arousal, Isabelle plants her palms into the sand behind her back and leans into her stretched arms. Dropping her head back, eyes shut, she stretches out her legs, and wiggles her toes.
I don’t even try to pretend I’m not leering.
My body is so tense, I feel like it’s going to snap any moment now.
Being alone with her here, away from our usual professional setting, was a big mistake.
What was I thinking?
Clearly, I was thinking I could handle my lust.
I still think I can, even if I begin to suspect she’s lying about us, and the images in my head aren’t fantasies or figments of my imagination, but true memories.
No matter what we used to be to each other, right now she works for me. I guess it’s OK for us to be friends—I’m friends with Leanne, Zach and Denis, after all—but we can’t be lovers.
Even if I crave it.
Even if it turns out she wants it, too.
After all, I fired Martin for hitting on a female player. True, she was only a teenager, but still. What message would it send to my team if I become too chummy with Isabelle?
Move away, Lucas.
But my body refuses to budge.
Isabelle opens her eyes and turns her lovely face to me.
Touch me, I beg her in my head.
Touch my foot, my knee, my hand—anything. Tell me you want me like I want you.
She moves her leg just a tiny little bit, and her thigh touches mine. I shift, too, pressing my leg against hers. The next moment, my hand covers hers. We both turn to gaze at the sea, fooling ourselves that no lines have been crossed yet.
Isabelle’s breathing comes fast and shallow.
Mine quickens, too.
I turn back to her.
She looks at me. “Don’t kiss me.”
“Izz—”
“It’s not that I don’t want to…” She hesitates. “It’s the garlic.”
I pull back and stare at her.
“The fish stew we ate,” she says, smiling her adorable smile. “It had tons of garlic in it.”
I do my best to keep a straight face. “Yes, it did. That’s why it was so good.”
She widens her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I mimic her expression. “May I point out we both ate it?”
“So what? It doesn’t cancel it out.”
“No, but it puts us in the same aromatic class.” I beam despite my best efforts. “It would’ve been worse if you smelled of garlic and I of vanilla.”
I cup her face.
A smile flashes across her face before she bunches her brows again. “It isn’t just the garlic.”
I wait.
“It’s…” She huffs, frustrated. “I don’t want to go there, Lucas.”
Go where, exactly? Explaining the non-garlic-related reasons why she won’t let me kiss her? The kissing itself? What that might entail?
The latter, most likely.
She’s right. If I could think clearly right now, I wouldn’t want to go there myself.
She pulls her hand from under mine and stands up.
I stand, too.
We return to the hotel in silence with Isabelle keeping her arms crossed over her chest and a distance between us big enough to fit another person. A corpulent other person.
“Good night,” she mumbles the moment we enter the hotel, and ducks behind the door that leads to the staircase, forgoing the comforts of the elevator.
And the dangers of riding it with me.
6
Is
abelle
I pace the office, waiting for Leanne to come up after practice.
Emboldened by how smoothly I’ve steered Lucas to okay my schemes so far, I want to run one specific idea by Leanne before bringing it to the Big Man.
Shit.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t think about him, even indirectly, for the next hour. Not the whole week, or even the rest of the day. Just one hour.
Should’ve been easy, right? A small, realistic, achievable goal.
The hell it is.
I can’t go ten minutes without thinking about Lucas.
Or about what we did—and didn’t do—on Nova Icària Beach.
It’s been two weeks since that evening, and we’ve been excessively polite and professional toward each other. I’ve avoided one-on-one situations. He’s given me a wide berth, which was easy to do now that he’s preparing for the European Championships. With the club season over, Lucas spends a lot of time away from the Paris office so he can train the men’s national team for the European playoffs.
He doesn’t talk about it—nor do Eric, Leanne, or any of the players—but everyone at the club knows putting France up on the podium this season is Coach’s big endgame.
It was one thing to get Nageurs de Paris, a club that boasts the country’s top scorer and the best goalie, to the second place in the French playoffs. Far be it from me to trivialize that achievement—and no one in their right mind would—but snagging a European medal for a country that hasn’t been in the top eight in decades is a whole different story.
The leadership of the French Swimming Federation has put its faith in Lucas. So have his men and thousands of fans. The last thing he wants is to let all those people down.
So yeah, Coach has a lot on his plate, and the best way I can help him is by staying out of his hair.
I glance at my watch. Leanne should’ve been here twenty minutes ago. The team workout is taking much longer than usual—or something is wrong.
I head downstairs to the pool where the smell of chlorine and amount of water on the floor increase with every step.
The girls are gathered around Leanne at the edge of the pool, their expressions grave.
“I don’t want to see that happen ever again,” Leanne says. “You hear me?”
They nod.
The former player in me can’t help wondering what my ex-coach is so riled up over.
“Suit holding is unsportsmanlike, unacceptable, and downright nasty when it results in exposure!” she booms.
I agree with every word.
The girls nod. Two of them—Nat and Corinne—look down.
“You wouldn’t want that done to you, would you?” Leanne asks the offenders directly.
They shake their heads.
“I have yet to meet the woman who plays water polo for the opportunity to flash her tits,” Leanne says, too livid to let her team off the hook. “So, once and for all, don’t do it!”
“But other clubs do,” Magali says. “I had to get a new suit after we played against Marseilles, remember?”
Leanne sighs. “Of course, I remember that. And I resent their coaches for not reining in their players.”
“It gives them an advantage.” Corinne shrugs. “As long as it’s done underwater and the refs can’t see it.”
Something like rage flashes in Leanne’s eyes. “There are people who mug other people and get away with it. Does that mean you should do it, too?”
Corinne draws her brows. “No. Of course not.”
“Women’s suit holding is in the same league as mugging,” Leanne says.
There’s a long silence, during which Leanne’s expression softens. “OK, before you go, I want you to tell me what you can do when someone’s going for your suit.”
“We can leg up to show the holding to the ref,” Nat says.
Leanne nods. “What else?”
Corinne raises her hand. “As center forward, I should focus on the ball, hold position, spin to get the defender off my back, and try not to get worked up.”
“That’s right,” Leanne says. “And no retaliation. Under no circumstances will you react by holding a defender’s suit. Is that clear?”
Corinne drops her head with a sigh.
“Good girl,” Leanne says. “It isn’t just a matter of principle. At the end of the day, it’s in our own interest. If you respond to holding by holding, the ref might not know or care who started it. He might call you and not the other girl, or he might eject both of you.”
“That’s exactly what happened to me last year when I played for Nice,” Suzanne cuts in.
Leanne points to her, while looking at Corinne. “See? What I’ll do next time we play against Marseilles and any other clubs that treats suit holding as just another defense tack is to tip off the refs to keep a close eye on the confirmed grabbers.”
“Will they listen?”
“Oh yes. Suit holding in the women’s game has gotten enough spotlight lately that no ref can ignore it anymore. It makes women’s water polo look like mud wrestling.”
A few of the women giggle.
“Off you go, see you tomorrow!” Leanne shoos them with a wave of her hand, and the two of us go up to the office.
“I’m glad I caught you chastising the girls,” I say, pouring her a glass of water from the fridge. “You never seem to do that anymore. It’s all about praise and encouragement and positive feedback.”
She gives me a what’s-your-problem look.
“You were much harder on us,” I say. “It was all about tough love.”
She tut-tuts. “Are you jealous?”
“Nah, just teasing. I’m happy for them. It’s much more fun this way.”
“The coaching mantra today is five praises to one criticism,” she says. “Lucas barely manages four to one. I aim for seven.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ve come to realize with age and experience I get more out of my girls that way.” She gives me a wink. “Positive learning environment and such.”
I nod and grin.
Leanne drains her glass. “So, that thing you wanted to talk to me about, does it start with an L?”
An L? Oh my God!
She thinks I want to talk about Lucas! Is the tension between us obvious? Or has she been duped by the chill? Does she think we’re on the outs again?
Whatever it is, I need to set things straight. “If you’re worried Lucas and I are derailing again, let me set your mind at rest. There have been zero disagreements, and we’re completely on the same page.”
She gives me a noncommittal look. “If you say so.”
“Trust me.”
“OK, what is it you wanted to discuss?”
“Sponsor logo placement.”
She furrows her brow.
I lean forward. “You know how I’m hoping to sign with either Cleona Bank or National Assets Insurance?”
She nods.
“Offering to place their logo on our players’ suits would be an additional carrot in our sponsorship proposal.”
“I see.”
“Problem is, the men’s suits aren’t much use, seeing how minimalistic they are.” I trace an imaginary line across my hips. “But the girls’ suits offer more advertising space.”
“Hmm,” Leanne says.
“There are the caps, too,” I add quickly, “And Lucas has no objections to that. But I haven’t shared the women’s suit idea with him yet. I wanted to run it by you first.”
“Stick to the caps,” Leanne says.
“Oh, come on! At least Lucas is trying to keep an open mind.”
Leanne smirks. “I’m sure he is. But not open enough to stamp National Assets on his men’s crotches.”
“Which is a shame, between us,” I mumble. “Would make a brilliant marketing campaign.”
I picture the same logo on the backside of the guys’ Speedos and crack up.
A second later, Leanne is guffawing, too. I guess she pictured the same thing.
“Whatever you do…,” she begins, before stopping for a fit of laughter. “For Christ’s sake…” She stops and shakes with laughter again, her eyes tearing. “Go with the Cleona Bank!”
In bed that night, I replay the Barcelona scene again in my mind as my hands go to my breasts, and then down my stomach. Until recently, my go-to nighttime fantasy was The Famous One Night with Lucas. I relived it over and over again in my head while my hands got busy. I relived it even when I shared a bed with Sylvain.
Do I regret chickening out in Barcelona and forfeiting the possibility of a second chance with the man who still matters so much to me? God help me, I do. My body weeps for him, begs for him, aches for him. These last two weeks have been dreadful. So bad I’ve envisaged turning up on Lucas’s doorstep with a bottle of wine in my hands and a toothbrush in my purse.
I’ve envisaged it more than once.
But I didn’t do it.
I can’t risk another “this didn’t mean anything” from him. My stupid, sissy heart may not survive it.
7
Lucas
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dad says.
I freeze and turn to him, waiting to hear more.
He shakes his head. “Catfish are far from stupid. They manage to hunt pigeons, after all. But they’re still fish, not cats. They have no clue what a hook might do to them, so there’s no need to hide it in your bait.”
I push the point of my hook up, so it’s exposed.
Dad nods. “That’s better. This way, your hook doesn’t need to make a hole in the bait before it makes a hole in the fish.”
Dad and I are fishing in his new favorite spot on the left bank of the Seine, across from Notre-Dame Cathedral.
He’s been an angler forever, but he’d never done it in Paris until about ten years ago.
We had never done it in Paris.
The sheer number of pics of the two of us fishing various lakes and rivers around the country leaves no room for doubt—I got my kicks from fishing, too.
Unless, of course, I was coerced or bribed into accompanying him. Which he denies.
In the earliest of those photos, I am smaller than the specimen he and I proudly hug to my chest. With every subsequent picture, I grow bigger than the largest fish we pulled out of the water. In later photos, I’m taller than Mom who sometimes joined our expeditions, out of solidarity.