Playing to Win (The Complete Series Box Set): 3 romances with angst and humor

by Alix Nichols

  I cock my head and stare into Isabelle’s big brown eyes. “So, you wrote this last night, just like that, even though you don’t want to work for the club?”

  “Yeah, well… I do care about water polo.” She shifts nervously and points to the document. “It’s not a big deal. Just some ideas to get you started.”

  I survey her.

  Isabelle had been a good friend of mine, I’m told, but we were on the outs when I was attacked.

  Is that why she’s so generous with her expertise? Does she feel guilty for something? Has she realized in retrospect that whatever it was I’d said or done to cause our falling out was insignificant?

  I must find a way to ask her.

  “Thank you for this,” Leanne says to her. “We do get some funding from the city of Paris and some from the Swimming Federation. But it’s far from enough.”

  Isabelle nods.

  “The good news is our men’s team won silver at the Pro A championships last season,” I say. “Surely that’s something you—or whoever we end up hiring—can use, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Isabelle’s eyes light up, and she stops fidgeting. “That victory can be tapped in so many ways! Promoting the club is one avenue, promoting the sport to make it easier to attract talent and sponsorship is another. And it shouldn’t be difficult to land contracts for all kinds of commercials—anything from deodorants to beer to car insurance.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “You think you could do that?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Any publicist with a half-decent address book can.”

  Leanne and I exchange meaningful looks.

  “Martin had a hard time,” Eric says.

  Isabelle furrows her brow. “But that was before you won the medal, wasn’t it?”

  I’m sure she knows Martin got fired and why, but she doesn’t hit the man while he’s down.

  Well done.

  Everything about Isabelle is incredibly reassuring. She could approach you with the craziest investment scheme, and you’d still give her your money because your gut tells you she won’t con you.

  It must be something about the way she isn’t trying to mystify her work or to suggest we’re doomed without her magic touch. Her winsome smile helps, too. Add to it her fruity voice and easy manner, her friendly face and even her trim, athletic figure, and you have someone you want to down a beer with as soon as business is done.

  I can totally understand why I was friends with her. What I have a harder time fathoming is why we had a falling-out.

  One thing is sure—I trust Isabelle.

  What’s more, I like her.

  And that means there’s no way she’s leaving here without signing that damn contract.

  “Isabelle is friends with Fumé,” Eric says, beaming with pride. “She could maybe get him involved somehow.”

  I stare at my assistant coach. “Who’s Fumé?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I thought you’d know. He’s a rapper. He’s really big these days.”

  Isabelle signs, clearly peeved. “I’m not friends with him. I just know him from a video he shot for my former employer.”

  “Yeah, but you stayed in touch,” Eric says, jutting out his chin.

  Leanne frowns. “Isn’t he a… rough sort of person, what with being a rapper?”

  “He’s the sweetest guy,” Isabelle says. “A real pussycat behind the rough look.”

  There’s an awkward pause when it hits me that despite their good intentions, Leanne and Eric aren’t helping my case.

  “Hey,” I say. “How about Isabelle and I continue our conversation over a drink, since she’s isn’t planning to work for me, anyway?” I turn to my reluctant candidate. “Isabelle? A quick beer to go over your clever ideas?”

  “Er…” She chews on her bottom lip. “OK.”

  “Do you mind if I jo—” Eric begins.

  “Off you go,” Leanne butts in. “Eric and I need to get some administrative stuff done tonight.”

  Eric gives her a WTF look.

  Leanne arches an eyebrow, as if daring him to voice his unspoken question.

  He swallows. “Right. It’s true. We have some… some stuff to do. You guys go ahead.”

  I nod a goodbye to my two acolytes and turn to Isabelle. “Shall we?”

  She sticks her folder into her sensible handbag and follows me to the exit.

  In the bar, I choose not to beat about the bush. “What can I offer to make you sign the contract? Name it, I’ll consider it.”

  “I’m flattered,” she says, “but also perplexed. It’s not like I’m the only publicist in Paris.”

  “You’re the one for my club. Leanne and Eric dream about working with you. Starting today, I do, too.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.” I give her an earnest look. “You’re my man, Isabelle.”

  She curls her lip. “Your man, huh? My, now I’m truly pumped.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.” Her expression softens. “But it’s a strong statement for someone who just met me.”

  “Maybe it’s the suppressed part of my brain talking.”

  She shifts her gaze to her beer.

  OK, I must ask her.

  The question that bugs me might ruin my already slim chances of swaying Isabelle, but I need to know.

  “We didn’t get a chance to discuss it when we met a few years back, but I was wondering…” I search her face. “Why did we have a falling-out, Izz?”

  She nearly jumps at my last word.

  I blink, trying to figure out where that came from. “Is that what I used to call you—Izz?”

  She nods slowly.

  For a long moment, I stare at her, processing what just happened. Was it a coincidence? Is that how I would normally address a woman named Isabelle whom I just met?

  For a man who has no clue what he used to call his mother, this could be huge. A potential breakthrough. The first step on the path toward remembrance.

  “Do you think…? Did you…?” She pauses, unable to form her question.

  Judging by her heaving chest and her furious blush, it isn’t just excitement for a former friend gaining a tiny bit of ground in his battle to recover his past. It’s personal. Whatever it is, it’s significant to her, perhaps too significant to reveal. I must tread carefully.

  “Probably just a coincidence,” I say. “I don’t remember calling you Izz. Or anything else about you. Or about anyone. My mind is still as blank as before.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “No, it’s me who’s sorry.” I force a smile. “Whatever killed our friendship, I’m sure it was my fault.”

  She lifts her beer to her mouth and takes several long, slow sips, sets it on the table, and lifts her eyes to me. “You can’t apologize for something you don’t remember doing. It isn’t right. Besides, you didn’t do anything… reprehensible. We just drifted apart.”

  I peer at her. So not buying it.

  “What are your doctors saying about your chances?” she asks. “Isn’t there some new drug or a powerful mindfuck that can help?”

  “There’s no medication for amnesia, but some individuals succeed in retrieving most of their memories, even years later.”

  “How?”

  “By exposing themselves to objects and people from their past—triggers that can jog their memory.”

  She chews on her bottom lip. “Is that the only way?”

  “There’s also hypnosis and group therapy, but my doc doesn’t think either is a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too little evidence they’re effective, coupled with a high risk of creating false memories—or worse—delusions.”

  “I see.” There’s a pause before she says, “I wanted to ask you something, too.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When we met four years ago, I was… I was tongue-tied… but I’d like to hear about your recovery—whatever you feel comfortable tel
ling me.”

  According to my parents, she visited several times while I was in a coma, unlike Angie who showed up only once—the day after the mugging.

  “It took me three months to wake up,” I say. “And three years to recover my physical strength, redevelop motor skills, and relearn to function in a world I didn’t recognize. The first two years, I needed full-time supervision and assistance. The first six months, I needed help wiping my ass. Still, I consider myself lucky.”

  “You do?”

  “Many people with head injuries stop improving at some point in their rehab and never recover all of their intelligence. Some turn weird and make stuff up like they’re on a different planet, surrounded by aliens. Others become zombie-like.”

  “That’s so sad!”

  “It is. And why I’m lucky. I recovered enough to be self-reliant.”

  “Much more than just self-reliant!” Her eyes drill into mine. “Look at the man you’ve become! Look at what you’ve achieved, starting from scratch. Literally, from scratch. The way you lead your guys, how you inspire them to surpass themselves. Leanne and Eric look up to you. They all look up to you.”

  Since Nageurs de Paris qualified for the Pro A league and especially after winning national silver, I’ve been commended on my “remarkable” recovery and achievements many times by many people. Family members, friends, doctors, colleagues—you name it—have been generous with accolades and praise. A recent article in Le Parisien compared me to the phoenix reborn from its ashes.

  Obviously, I was as pleased to read that as I’d been pleased to hear the compliments of those close to me. But it’s Isabelle’s praise that moves me in a completely new and unexpected way.

  I look down and focus on my breathing, so I won’t break down and cry.

  “You haven’t lost a single gram of your intelligence,” she says, eyes glistening. “But I’m sure everyone tells you the same thing.”

  OK, if I don’t crack some stupid joke right now, she’ll witness a big guy’s meltdown.

  “Everyone does, but it’s possible everyone is just being kind.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Maybe I was the next Einstein before the coma, or a future Nobel Prize in astrophysics.”

  Her expression becomes playful. “Astrophysics, no less?”

  I grin, mirroring her toothy, infectious smile that scrunches her eyes and dimples her cheeks just so.

  What happened between us?

  “Alternatively, it’s possible I was a dick,” I say. “Personality changes are not unheard of in amnesiacs.”

  Her smile fades a little.

  I lean in. “Was I a dick, Isabelle?”

  Something like defiance flashes in her eyes. “A new personality, huh? What makes you so sure you are a nice guy now?”

  “That’s what everyone around me seems to believe.” I shrug. “They may be deluding themselves, of course.”

  “I’m required to give my employer a three-week notice,” Isabelle says suddenly.

  Is that a yes?

  A flicker of a tiny smile barely lifts the corners of her mouth. “So, I wouldn’t be able to start until mid-April.”

  “Not a problem,” I say. “We’ll study your ideas in the meantime so we’ll be as ready as we can be when you begin.”

  After we say goodbye, I promise myself I’ll find out one way or another why Isabelle and I drifted apart. Not just in the hopes it will trigger a memory, but so I can fix it.

  I want to be friends with her again, and this time round, I’m going to hold on to our friendship.

  Isabelle

  The hunt for the Big Official Sponsor is on.

  It took time and coaxing before Lucas agreed to the changes he’d need to make when I find one. Note that I’m not asking for a board of directors where the sponsor would sit, or to rename the club. My demands are realistic.

  Number one, we’d pin the sponsor’s name to the club’s name. If my efforts with the Cleona Bank pay off, Nageurs de Paris would become Nageurs de Paris Cleona. We’d put their logo everywhere—on the website, social media pages, newsletter, and printed materials. Even on the caps, if I get my way. They’d be called out at our games, receive certificates of appreciation, and be given the opportunity to do joint media releases.

  Another resource I’m tapping is the players’ connections. You’d think it would have been an obvious place to start, but Martin hadn’t thought of it, and Lucas seems to be under the impression his guys live on the salary he’s paying them.

  Most of them do, but not all.

  Zach Monin, the hole set and captain, runs a very successful online business selling food supplements. The only reason he didn’t come forward as a potential sponsor was because he thought there was a conflict of interest. He didn’t want anyone to think he was named captain because he was helping fund the club.

  Can you believe it?

  I reminded him he was the team’s most experienced player, and he was awarded France’s best scorer title last season. No one in their right mind would question him. I let that sink in for a few days and then laid out the ways his business would benefit from the sponsorship.

  Worked like a charm.

  Then there’s the goalie, Noah. During his first year with the club, he’d been estranged from his family and had to deliver pizzas in the evenings to make ends meet. But he and his brothers finally got their differences ironed out, and Noah magnanimously accepted his inheritance, which includes a huge castle and winemaking estate in Burgundy.

  No less.

  Right now, all his cash is tied up in renovations, but the man has two filthy rich brothers! It’s been a year since Noah made peace with them, and I don’t get why it never occurred to either him or Lucas to ask one—or both—to sponsor the club. I’ve met with both brothers, and I can predict with confidence that this deplorable situation will soon be behind us. We’re polishing the terms, but both d’Arcy brothers are ready to make announcements over the next few weeks.

  And I’m not stopping there.

  This summer, I plan to organize the Paris Youth Aquatics Games. If Lucas, Leanne, Eric and some of the players pitch in, and if Fumé confirms his support, I can pull it off, even without the help of the French Swimming Federation, whose resources are stretched thin as it is.

  The Games would be a great promotional opportunity for the club and for water polo in general. I want boys and girls from all over the city to have the time of their lives. They can watch some of their country’s best players do their magic and get in the water and play themselves. I want their parents to get excited. I want the city and the arrondissement officials to go home thinking, Wow—I had no idea.

  And while they’re still all warm and fuzzy, I’ll try to persuade them to do a national water polo lottery to raise funds for the Swimming Federation’s Water Polo branch.

  Yep, this publicist thinks big.

  I grin, pleased with myself as I scan the hotel’s lounge for Lucas. It’s my fifth or sixth time in Barcelona, so I won’t be joining the Gaudí tour organized by the local water polo bosses for our team. Neither will Lucas. Instead, he and I will use the free afternoon to discuss my plans for next season. My goal is to get him one hundred percent on board with what I intend to do.

  I spot Lucas sitting in one of the leather sofas, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and talking to Eric. I halt for a moment and stare at him, letting my stupid heart do its crazy dance of longing and regret. After a few seconds, I’ll draw a few slow breaths, plaster a businesslike smile on my face, and join him.

  We’ll talk about work. There’ll be moments when he’ll look at me in a funny way. I’ll avert my gaze. There’ll be an awkward silence or two, which I’ll kill on sight thanks to one of my ready-made icebreaker jokes. When we’ve covered everything there is to cover, I’ll smile, nod, and get out of there.

  That’s how Lucas and I roll.

  That’s how we’ve been rolling since I started working for the club five and a half weeks ago.

&
nbsp; Feeling calmer, I approach Lucas and Eric and say hello.

  Lucas glances at his watch. “Can you give us another ten minutes, Isabelle? I’d like to finish my chat with Eric before he leaves to admire Gaudí’s works.”

  “Sure. I’ll hang out at the bar.”

  Eric gives me a dismissive wave. “You can stay here—I don’t mind.”

  “Please.” Lucas points to one of the armchairs across from the sofa. “Let me order you a drink. What would you like?”

  “The usual,” I say.

  He beckons a server and asks for blonde ale, before adding, “The same for me, please.”

  He returns his attention to Eric. “So, the practice schedule.”

  “I propose twenty minutes for each section now at the end of the season,” Eric says.

  “Agreed,” Lucas smiles. “What will you start with?”

  Eric smiles back. “Stretching, weights, swimming and leg work, obviously. Then we’ll practice passing.”

  “Warm-up or wet passing?” Lucas asks.

  There’s a brief hesitation in Eric’s eyes before he says, “Wet.”

  “OK, go on.”

  “The next section will be shooting.”

  “With shot blockers?”

  Eric’s eyes dart. “Er… I guess.”

  “Guessing isn’t good enough,” Lucas says. “Yes or no?”

  Eric frowns. “Why can’t I decide in the moment?”

  “Because…” Lucas sighs as if searching for the right words. “As a coach, you need to know exactly what you want from any given practice, at any given time. Just like with the games.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the guys need to see that. They need to see where you’re going with the practice, so they can understand why you’re asking them to do this particular drill not another, why you’re asking them to tread water until they pass out, what exact roles you envision for each of them.”

  Eric nods slowly. “I see…”

  “It’s just how humans work,” Lucas says. “They need to understand before they can adhere, and they need to know what their own and the others’ roles are. It’s the best way to build confidence and trust.”