Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  She sighs. “You most likely won’t be ready for the Olympics, Lucien. Your injury was very serious. Don’t get too excited, okay?”

  I swallow hard causing my Adam’s apple to heave. I give her a small nod and slip my black trucker cap backwards on my head. “Je comprends, Cynthia. I understand. I just had to ask.”

  She offers a sympathetic smile. “I know that this is hard for you. But I’m sure that as soon as you’re ready, a thousand opportunities will open up for you. I’ve seen you play. I’m a big fan.”

  My lips curve up ever-so-slightly. Cynthia will never understand what it’s like to lose what I lost. Most people could never comprehend it. They say dumb shit like Why are you moping? You’ve been playing professionally for a while. Aren’t you rich by now? You have money. Go lie on a beach somewhere and drink beer and let a beautiful, exotic woman feed you prawns out of a coconut shell.

  But it’s not about the money.

  It never was.

  Soccer is who I am. I’m lost without it. Only another athlete could possibly understand.

  “So, I’ll see you on Friday?” Cynthia asks sounding way too chipper after the conversation we just had.

  I ignore her exuberance, giving her a solemn nod instead.

  “Okay – see ya, Lucien,” she calls after me as I step out into the hallway leading to the waiting room. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

  I have no reason to doubt that Cynthia is very good at her job. My team’s physician wouldn’t have sent me to her if she wasn’t. But a part of me is praying that, just this once, Cynthia Montgomery, physiotherapy miracle worker, is wrong.

  I sidle up to the reception desk to book my next appointment. “Bonjour Sabine,” I say in my most charming tone. I get a snarl in response.

  Merde! She still has not forgiven me. But what can I expect? I fucked her then put her in a cab at two o’clock in the morning, promising to take her out on a real date some other time. But I never called her back or asked her out again. And now, I have to face her wrath every Monday, Wednesday and Friday when I come in for my physiotherapy.

  Was it worth it, asshole?

  That’s what I get for shoving my dick into everything that moves.

  I was never promiscuous before the injury. I was actually a big fan of steady, exclusive relationships despite the fact that they never did seem to work out very well for me.

  But ever since the injury that wrecked my career, I’ve been pretty callous with my sexual exploits. Any woman with a pulse and a full set of teeth seems like fair game these days. I’ve just needed something to take the edge off, something to get lost in for a while. And sex provides that every few days.

  Wait – I haven’t had sex since airplane-lavatory-gate last week.

  I scratch my bearded chin, double-checking my memory just to make sure I haven’t somehow forgotten about an escapade or two...Nope. I haven’t had sex in a week.

  Am I subconsciously abstaining because of that riotous, blonde firecracker I fucked against the airplane sink?

  Nah – that can’t be it. No one woman could hold me down like that. I just haven’t found the time. I’ve been busy. That’s why I’ve gone for eight days without sex and didn’t even notice it until now.

  But, I must admit that I have thought about Julia. Often. She has be—

  “Oui?” Sabine says, irritated, her stare pierces me like a venom-dipped arrow.

  “Un rendez-vous avec Cynthia ce vendredi,” I say with a sweet edge to my voice as I request an appointment with Cynthia on Friday.

  That doesn’t manage to soften her. Instead, she rolls her eyes at me. Okay – lesson learned. No more sleeping with my physiotherapist’s passive aggressive receptionist.

  Unable to bear the weight of her resentment, I turn away from her desk, glancing around the empty waiting room as she checks her appointment book for Cynthia’s Friday availabilities.

  That’s when the door opens, letting in a gust of humid air from the street. A dainty, ethereal figure moves into the doorway, blond hair messy and disheveled from the wind, gorgeous even in a black t-shirt and jeans.

  Her eyes meet mine and her name rolls over my tongue before my brain even has the chance to register what’s going on.

  “Julia…”

  Chapter 5

  Julia

  Ah – the way he says my name sounds so good.

  JEWH-lyah.

  He makes it sound exotic, like everyone who’s ever spoken it before him has somehow mispronounced it.

  A part of me wants to turn around and dash out the door so I don’t have to face him again. Meanwhile, the other part of me – let’s just call her ‘my inner salope’ – wants to grab Lucien Beauvier by the bulging bicep and find the nearest restroom.

  Thankfully, my sense of decency kicks in and I opt for an entirely different approach.

  “Hello, Lucien,” I say in my most aloof and unaffected tone. I give him the world’s most awkward wave, because there really is no etiquette class on how to behave when you randomly run into the rugged stranger who inducted you into the mile-high club somewhere over the Atlantic. I had kind of hoped I’d never see again but in all honesty, I orgasmed in a sex-toy-induced frenzy two nights ago fantasizing about how good it would be if I did.

  My body is stuck in the doorframe, refusing to move. Is he actually better-looking now than he was on the plane? Is that even possible?

  He moves towards me, meeting me where I am. “It is lovely to see you,” he brogues, his accent smoothing over the words. He braces me by the shoulders and his body forms a sheath of warmth around me. His beaming eyes rake over my face, my neck, down into my cleavage before he places a chaste kiss on each of my cheeks. A spark of something reckless crackles in my stomach the moment his lips touch my face. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  And because I’m an impulsive freak with a fetish for facial hair, I reach up and run my fingertips along his scruffy beard. “Well, it appears that you guessed wrong,” I say clucking my tongue.

  His smile is wide and devious, an invitation for trouble. “What are you doing here?”

  I purse my lips momentarily. Seeing him here had caught me off-guard. It had made me forget where I am and why I’m here. It made me forget to be gloomy and sullen and miserable.

  His question quickly zapped me back to reality.

  But then, I hear someone clear their throat behind him. I look past his shoulder and notice the receptionist glaring at us. “Vous êtes Julia Lockhart?” she asks, giving off a snarky vibe.

  “Yes, I am,” I say edging around Lucien and taking a step towards the reception desk.

  Her eyes narrow. “You already –” she checks the clock above her desk “– four minutes late. Cynthia have other appointment after you. Time is mon-nay.”

  “Sorry,” I grumble hurrying towards her desk and Lucien is right there with me, his hand at the small of my back.

  The receptionist chucks me a clipboard holding the forms I need to fill out. “Signez,” she demands gruffly.

  As I fill in my basic information, Lucien caresses the base of my spine before grazing his fingers under the hem of my black t-shirt and causing little firecrackers to explode along the surface of my skin. My tongue darts across the seam of my lips to brush away my sudden urge to moan a little.

  The chemistry is still there, bubbling, popping, fizzing between us.

  When I hand the clipboard back to the receptionist, I turn to face him. “Alors…” he says softly, taking my hand, drawing small circles across my palm with his thumb.

  “Alors…” I tease. I purse my lips to stifle the smile battling for control of my lips.

  “May I take your telephone number?” he asks, glancing at the clipboard clenched in the receptionist’s hands.

  But then the bitch interrupts our moment yet again, rising from her seat, nodding brusquely towards the door at the end of the hall, reminding me in a less-than-polite manner that Cynthia is waiting.

  It
’s probably for the best, anyway. I don’t have the time or the space right now for whatever it is that Lucien thinks he can offer me. Be it simply another round of knee-buckling orgasms…or something more. I’m too messed up and sad and depressed and I don’t want to have to put on a happy face when all I want to do is ball up in my bed and cry. That wouldn’t be fair to Lucien and it definitely wouldn’t be fair to me.

  And besides, I’ve already archived our adventure and filed Lucien away in a dark storage unit of my past, among all my other one-night stands and meaningless flings.

  I bring my hand to his beard again, enjoying the way it feels under my fingers, then I run my palm down his chest, pressing it flat against his heart. “Au revoir, Lucien.”

  I don’t look back at him as I follow the receptionist down the hall.

  Chapter 6

  Lucien

  If she thinks that I’ll give up so easily she must have no idea how much I want her.

  I’m sitting on the narrow concrete steps outside of the physiotherapy clinic when I see her emerge. Her head is down, her golden hair curtaining her face as she rummages through her oversized messenger bag.

  “Hey,” I say as I bounce up to my feet.

  She startles and jumps, dropping her bag. The contents spill out onto the ground.

  “Merde,” I mutter as I rush over to help her. “I’m sorry.”

  We crouch down on the stairs together and gather up her things, tossing them all back into her bag.

  “Lucien – I –” She’s at a loss for words as she brushes her hair away from her eyes. “I was in there for an hour and a half.”

  I shrug. “I waited.”

  She looks at me like she thinks she should be mad, but a fraction of a second later, she’s smiling as she descends the stairs towards the narrow sidewalk. “Why would you do that?”

  I laugh, tugging on the bill of my cap, pulling it deeper onto my head. “Because you’re pretty…and I like you…” Her grin widens. “And I fucked you in the back of an airplane.”

  I say that last part a little too loud. It earns me a disapproving stare from the elderly couple ambling by us, relying on their walking sticks to steady their steps. “Ah, les jeunes de nos jours,” the old man grumbles, tightening his grip on his wife’s hand.

  I offer them a sheepish grin in apology and the wife gives me a cross glance. When I turn back to Julia, her jaw is still hanging open. “Real smooth,” she says shaking her head. “Real fucking smooth, Lucien.”

  And then she laughs. And I want to make her laugh all day.

  “You’re not very subtle,” she says, cheeks red and blushing.

  “I am a grown man. And you are grown too, no?” I say pointedly. “Why waste time dancing around the issue when we could both be getting what we want?”

  Her eyes narrow as she shakes her head at me in disbelief. “It’s about buildup. Flirtation. Seduction.”

  My mouth tilts up at the side. “Hmmm? Is that what you need to get those panties wet?”

  She hocks as she walks away from me. “You are un-believable.”

  I can’t let her get away. I snatch her by the wrist. “Come have lunch with me,” I offer.

  “I – I’ve gotta get home,” she says curtly as she watches busy pedestrians zip around us.

  “Well, even better. Let me come with you,” I say waggling my brows.

  “You wish…” she says sarcastically.

  “Oh, yes. I certainly do.” I give her a smug grin, deliberately highlighting the innuendo in my statement.

  She rolls her eyes but she’s still smiling. “You really don’t take a hint, do you?”

  “No, I do not,” I say trying to look earnest. “It might be the language barrier.”

  She throws her head back and giggles. “Yeah, right.”

  She’s laughing. Good. We’re on the right track. I press on. “So, what will it be? Lunch at the wonderful little café around the corner,” I stick out one hand, palm facing the sky, “or, we just head straight back to your flat and pick up where we left off on the plane.” I stick out my other hand, weighing her options.

  She shoves me playfully in the shoulder, her small hand squeezing at my deltoid muscle. I like the way that feels. “How about a quick coffee?” she suggests.

  “Très bien alors,” I say with a smile. I will take whatever I can get from her.

  “Okay, Monsieur Beauvier,” she says with a smirk. “Lead the way.”

  My hand itches with the urge to curl around her slim waist and press my fingertips into her side. So, I do just that as I lead her down the cobblestone road.

  Chapter 7

  Julia

  The waiter sets a tiny shot of espresso in front of me and one in front of Lucien. Lucien wrinkles up his nose at me, amusement twirling in his eyes, as I dump one teaspoon and then another of white sugar into my coffee before adding enough milk to make the drink spill over the sides of the small cup.

  “Americans,” he says shaking his head in pity as he pulls off his cap and sets it on his knee. His brown, wavy hair is cropped close to the scalp. He runs a hand over it distractedly, brushing it into place.

  “What?” I ask furrowing my brow at him.

  “You complicate everything, even a simple cup of coffee,” he chuckles before lifting his cup to his lips.

  “I resent that,” I say sharply despite the smile on my mouth. “America is the greatest nation on earth. We employ methods far superior to those known of here in France,” I state in a faux-haughty tone.

  “If you say so.” He throws up a hand in defeat. A serious but pleasant look settles on his face. “I did not ask you here to discuss diplomacy and foreign relations, though.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “So, what exactly did you invite me here for?”

  He gives me a curious look. “I want to know you a little,” he says. “Why is that strange to you?”

  My gaze wanders past his shoulder to a couple zooming down the winding cobblestone street on an electric scooter. They look happy and carefree. I wish I could feel that again. “Why is it strange to me? Because we had a moment in an airplane washroom and that was enough for me. Why isn’t it enough for you?”

  He looks at me, his eyes scoping out the terrain of my face. He leans across the tiny table between us and his voice becomes dangerously low and raspy. “Because I want to have you on a bed, on your back, with those beautiful legs wrapped around my neck.” I feel his hand under the table. His fingers trail up my thigh. His words and his touch pluck on a string at my core, and I feel the note resonate throughout my body. He continues as his eyes focus on my lips. “Because I want to see your lips wrapped around my cock as I tug on that beautiful, golden hair.” I feel heat warming up my neck. “Because I want to see the way your mouth puckers and your eyes squint when I sink into you, balls deep…is that what you want me to say?” He casually leans back in his chair and glances around at the people strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalk. “But I also just want to know your favorite color.”

  He changes gears so fast it makes my head spin.

  I exhale in a rush, releasing a breath I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding captive.

  “Now that we’ve clarified my intentions, can we please have a normal conversation like two adults enjoying each other’s company at a wonderful little café in beautiful Paris on a sunny afternoon in June?”

  I nod, biting my bottom lip to tamp down a smile. He’s kind of domineering. I like that.

  “So, you’re an athlete?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “...Because Cynthia works only with athletes.”

  I nod again, except this time, there’s no smile trying to force its way to my lips. “I’m a ballerina. A corps dancer for the Opéra Nationale,” I say somberly.

  His eyes drink me in, scrutinizing me in a light of this new piece of information. He brings his espresso to his lips before he continues. “And you got injured?”

  “Dislocated kneecap,” I mumble staring down
into my empty cup. I haven’t said those words to many people and each time I say them, it feels foreign. Like I’m speaking about someone else, some poor unfortunate soul who had her dream snatched away from her because she landed wrong out of a grand-fucking-jété.

  He leans back, his eyes riveted to me. His expression is a mixture of fascination and confusion. “But when we met on the airplane, you said nothing. I told you about my injury. Why did you say nothing about yours?”

  I look up, into his face. In my mind, a take a snapshot of each of his features; his smiling, coppery-gold eyes, his soft, full mouth, that beard, thick and coarse. I imagine it bruising my neck, my stomach, the insides of my thighs.