The Athlete and the Aristocrat

by Louisa Masters

  By the time he hung up, Simon had come out of his office, a huge grin on his face. For the moment, the phone seemed to have stopped ringing.

  “Hey! Did you see?” Simon gestured to where Anna was still on the phone, a stack of message slips beside her. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook since the press release went out. At this stage, it’s mostly still the press looking for more information, but their interest has been positive, and some of the news and sports sites have already uploaded short articles. Plus, at least three news programs that I’m aware of included a mention in their noon reports.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Lucien said, smiling, a little weight lifting off his chest. They’d been prepared to artificially stir media interest if necessary, but this was so much better—and easier. Still, he should warn Simon…. “You know there will be some negative coverage, too? People trying to boost ratings and their own publicity by making nasty comments?” It was a sad reality.

  Simon shrugged. “Yeah. We’ll ride it out, if we have to.” His mobile rang, and he glanced at the screen. “This is the TV interview I was hoping to tee up. I’ve gotta take it.” He swiped the screen and lifted the phone to his ear as he turned back to his office. Lucien watched him go, aware that he was smiling for no real reason, and then turned to catch Anna’s gaze on him. She smiled.

  “Will you be here long enough for me to put you to work?” she asked, and Lucien started and looked at his watch.

  “No, I’m already late. I shouldn’t even be here, I just wanted to see how things were going,” he admitted, heading for the door. He paused at the threshold. “Is there anything I should know?”

  Anna shook her head, just as Michel hung up his phone, crowing in delight. “One of the biggest youth leagues in Italy would like a meeting with Simon.”

  Lucien left the office with a huge grin.

  Chapter Ten

  EVEN though he knew it was happening, it was still somewhat of a shock when Lucien flipped through the satellite TV channels to Sky Sports News and saw Simon being interviewed. He’d flown back to England two days before to do this interview and others, and seeing his face sent a pang through Lucien that he refused to acknowledge. If he did, he might have to do something about it, and that could be disastrous.

  So he turned up the volume and sat back in his favorite chair to watch the interview.

  Simon was a superb face for the program. He was an engaging speaker, enthusiastic about On the Ball, and had a clear rapport with the interviewer, a veteran sports journalist. They discussed the program’s aims, the kind of support it could offer, and the upcoming “showcase” training camp, which Simon was quick to invite viewers to inquire about. Then the interviewer said, “I understand that most of your funding is coming from the Morel Corporation, and that Lucien Morel is heavily involved in the program. Your headquarters are in Paris. Are you concerned that as a result, people may perceive the program as being primarily French?”

  Lucien groaned and gulped back some wine. What a stupid question, clearly designed to plant just such a thought in people’s minds and stir controversy. He picked up his phone to make a note for Anna to make sure On the Ball’s PR company came up with something to balance it.

  On the TV, Simon was speaking. “… actually a brilliant question,” he was saying, and nothing about his tone or expression said that he was being sarcastic. If Lucien hadn’t known him so well, he would have assumed he meant it. “I wish I’d thought of that argument when Lucien and I were debating where to locate the office. I wanted London, but in the end, France was friendlier to our budget and more centrally located. Italy and Germany were also considered for those reasons, but ultimately we decided against them purely because of language. I only speak English, you see. Tim Baker—I think I mentioned that he’s part of our team—is fluent in French, and Lucien is fluent in English, so with both of them helping I’ll be able to get by until I learn the language myself. In any of the other countries, Tim and I would have had to deal with a language barrier from the get-go.”

  The interviewer appeared to consider this. “That makes sense,” he said finally. “What about your funding?”

  Simon grinned widely. “That was amazing luck. I already had commitments from several grant programs, and of course I was investing myself, but I had several large European companies on my list to approach. The Morel Corporation happened to be the first appointment I could get, and Édouard Morel completely blew me away with his generous offer. He was quite excited about it, actually—” Lucien snorted. “—never before supported a recreational charity, but as he pointed out, the Morel Corporation has offices and interests in every EU country. The Morel Foundation already endows charities in those countries for food, shelter, and education, so the next logical step is recreation and professional development.”

  Lucien sat up straight and put his wine down, the thumb of his other hand already dialing Paul. His phone rang before he could finish, his father’s name flashing on the screen.

  “Good evening, Father,” he answered, somewhat distracted by what Simon was saying—something about the Morel Foundation’s work in the Czech Republic. “I’ll have to call you back, I’m—”

  “You’re about to call Paul in a panic and have him ensure we have a PR statement ready regarding our involvement in your program,” his father interrupted. “I too am watching Simon’s interview. We do, by the way. I had it drafted after I saw you earlier this week.”

  Lucien sank back in his chair. “Why?” he murmured. “And thank you. I should have thought of it.”

  “When I was speaking to Simon and Tim, we discussed possible responses should the size of our contribution come up—which it has. Simon and I agreed that it would be politic to emphasize Morel’s European interests. The comment about me being excited was completely his invention. I don’t recall being excited in the slightest.”

  Huffing a laugh, Lucien thanked his father again and ended the call. On screen, the interviewer was asking Simon about him. Simon nodded enthusiastically.

  “The original business plan for the program called for the hire of a management consulting firm. I know football, and I’ve got the education to manage this program, but I’ve never had any practical business experience on this scale—I don’t think managing my personal finances counts. I was determined that everything would be done right, not mucked up because I didn’t know what I was doing, but from the beginning, when I researched the fees those companies charge, it stung. It was enough to put three kids through the program every year. Édouard recognized this, and offered Lucien’s time and expertise as an additional donation from the Morel Corporation. I was happy to accept, knowing that we’d be able to put that money to better use, and that Lucien is an excellent executive consultant—better than we would have been able to afford otherwise. It also turns out that he’s a rabid football fan.” Simon shrugged, as if that was surprising. The interviewer nodded with an “oh, really?” expression on his face. “So Lucien has been really helpful in getting things set up. It’s great to be able to call him when I have a question, and he was able to give me a list of common pitfalls people experience when applying for all the licenses we needed, which helped me avoid them. Who knew ink color could be so important?”

  The interviewer chuckled, and Lucien smiled proudly. With those last two sentences, Simon had cast Lucien into the role of distant advisor. He should have known Simon would have the situation in hand; he’d always seemed particularly adept at dealing with the media.

  The interview came to a close, and Lucien flipped the channel to the business news. His phone rang again, but this time it was Léo.

  “Did you see the interview?” Léo asked.

  “Yes. You did too?” Lucien responded, lowering the volume of the TV and picking up his wine again.

  Léo chuckled. “I was planning to watch it anyway, but Ben insisted. He said we had to be informed.”

  “Informed about what?” Lucien asked. “And if he wanted in
formation, why didn’t he just ask us?”

  “I don’t know, to both questions. It went well, though. I always worry about live interviews.” The underlying note of relief in Léo’s voice reflecting what Lucien was feeling.

  “So do I. I almost advised him not to appear on this program, but it’s so popular, we really couldn’t turn it down.” The program focused solely on football, and had a huge audience throughout the UK and Ireland. Right now, hundreds of thousands of people had just heard all about On the Ball, and would hopefully discuss it with their friends, neighbors, and colleagues.

  “Of course not,” Léo agreed. “What I really called for, though, was because Ben and Dani have been watching social media for mention of On the Ball, and Ben says it’s doing really well. There are the usually prophesiers of doom, and some catty comments about the photos in Monaco, but those are mostly being shouted down. Interest has been growing rapidly over the past several days, but right now, commenters are saying that the website is slow.”

  “We can fix that,” Lucien said. “It’s a good sign—there must be a lot of visitors. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “Ben would have called himself, but he’s using his phone to monitor Twitter.” Léo’s voice was bone dry, and Lucien laughed as he ended the call.

  Quick calls to Paul and Anna set his mind at ease. They were already aware of the issue and working with the site host to fix it.

  Lucien went to prepare himself some dinner. He was just finishing his meal when his phone buzzed with a text.

  Busy?

  He smiled.

  That depends on what you would like.

  He reread the text with smug satisfaction before sending it. His written English had greatly improved since he’d met Simon and they’d started “sexting”—a word he hadn’t know existed before.

  The phone rang.

  “Did you see the interview?” Simon demanded, barely giving Lucien time to say hello.

  “I did. I was very surprised by some of your comments, but my father called and assured me the two of you had planned it together.”

  Simon laughed. “Your dad’s brilliant. When he came in the other day I nearly shat myself, but then he started hatching plots. By the time he left, Tim was convinced that world domination was on the horizon.”

  Lucien propped his feet on the coffee table, something he’d only started doing recently, and only when he was alone. “It may be in his long-term plans. I haven’t read all of the latest corporate forecast yet.” He smiled as Simon laughed again. That sound was addictive. “Are you at home?”

  “Yeah, finally. I feel like I haven’t been here in a million years, and I only get one night before I move on. The publicity in the UK is done for now, and tomorrow I head to Italy.”

  “When is the meeting with the youth league?” Lucien tried to remember Simon’s exact itinerary. He had quite a few interviews set up with the Italian media, and meetings with several of the football clubs, but the youth league meeting was what excited them the most.

  “Day after, at three.”

  The very scarcity of his reply told Lucien that Simon was nervous about the meeting.

  “You’re ready for this,” he assured him. It was true. The league had assured them that they would have an English speaker on hand for the meeting, but Simon had decided to hire a translator anyway, just in case. He’d ensured that the person he hired had at least a basic knowledge of football, and had already spoken to the translator at length about the information that would need to be conveyed, and the kind of questions to expect. The translator, who had been recommended by Paul from his magical directory of contacts, had called Paul to say he’d never been so thoroughly briefed for a job, not even when he’d worked with the United Nations.

  “I know,” Simon said, but there was a note to his voice that left Lucien unconvinced. He decided a change of subject was in order.

  “The seminar I had scheduled for Friday has been canceled,” he said. “I told Paul not to backfill that time. I thought perhaps I could meet you in Italy and we could spend the weekend being lazy tourists.” He found himself almost holding his breath in anticipation of Simon’s response—because, of course, a weekend in Italy together was the sort of thing couples did. It would be a big step for them, and his suggestion had essentially been a declaration that he wanted to develop their still very new relationship beyond friends who had sex.

  Which he did.

  He wasn’t sure when Simon had become such a huge part of his life. They hadn’t known each other that long at all, but the time when Simon had been staying with him had been like a puzzle piece in his life—one he hadn’t known was missing, but that had slotted into place perfectly, completing the picture. It had felt so natural that he hadn’t even realized it was happening until Simon left on the publicity tour, leaving Lucien to roll over in bed, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, or turn to make a comment to someone while watching television, only to find the couch empty.

  He’d even considered getting another chair made, so he wouldn’t have to share his—and wasn’t that foolish, since Simon was looking at apartments to lease.

  But Simon’s celebrity status, especially now, did call for discretion, and Lucien understood that. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize On the Ball. So while part of him waited anxiously for a response, most of him knew that it would likely be no.

  “God, that sounds amazing,” Simon moaned. “When can you get there? On Friday I’ll be in Venice. My last interview is at four, and then I was going to fly back to Paris for the weekend right after, but I can change my flight and just go straight to Budapest on Monday morning. A weekend in Venice with you is like a dream come true.”

  Something lodged in Lucien’s throat, leaving him momentarily unable to respond.

  “Lucien?” Simon sounded uncertain, and Lucien forced himself to swallow the lump.

  “Yes,” he said, and if his voice was husky, it must be because of allergies. “I will go to the office on Friday morning and make certain my desk is clear, then fly to Venice sometime in the afternoon.” Léo had an apartment in Venice, which he had bought years ago when he and Malik had spent a summer there. Lucien knew that with a single phone call, he and Simon could have a beautiful place to stay overlooking the Grand Canal.

  “Brilliant,” Simon enthused, the uncertainty gone. “I can’t wait. Let me check the name of the hotel for you.”

  “No. In fact, you can cancel the hotel. Léo has an apartment we can use. It’s beautiful, far nicer than any hotel. And more private.”

  Those last words hung between them.

  “Are we making a mistake?” Simon asked at last, and Lucien felt it like a fist to the gut.

  “I am not,” he said carefully. “Our personal relationship”—such cold words to describe what was between them—“has no impact on our professional one. I would not welcome the media attention in my private affairs, nor should it be diverted from the good On the Ball can do. That is the only reason I suggest discretion.” He winced and slumped down in his chair. He sounded like an arrogant, pompous fool.

  Simon chuckled. “Sometimes I forget about the silver spoon you were born with, and then you go and say stuff like ‘my private affairs.’ All right, Luc, I’m in this with you. Discreet, but together.”

  The relief that swamped Lucien left him struggling to form sentences. “Luc?” was all he managed to say.

  “Yeah. It was that or Luci, and I like the K sound better. Have you never had a nickname before?” The amusement and warmth in Simon’s voice washed all the tension from Lucien’s muscles. He couldn’t believe that just a few words in a certain tone could make him feel so much more at ease.

  “No one would dare,” he proclaimed, reaching for the wineglass he’d abandoned earlier. “I have always been Lucien.”

  “Really? Even as a little tyke?” The surprise in Simon’s voice was a little more than Lucien felt the situation warranted.

  “Always,” he
reiterated, sipping his wine, wondering how he felt about the idea of Simon giving him a nickname. Maybe if it was just Simon, it would be okay, but he didn’t think he wanted everyone to start calling him Luc.

  “So, even when you were just a tiny little miniature with untidy blond hair—I’ll bet it was almost white when you were a kid, wasn’t it?—and big blue eyes, everyone called you Lucien? Your mum or whoever didn’t have a pet name for you?” He was teasing now, and Lucien relaxed even further, feeling a level of warmth and comfort heretofore unknown. The only thing that could make this conversation better was if Simon was in the room—or maybe even squeezed into his chair with him.

  Lucien considered the idea. No, the extreme comfort of the chair would be negated by having two people crammed into it. But they could cuddle together on the couch.

  “I have never been called anything but Lucien,” he replied, tickled by the idea of his childhood nanny ever giving him a nickname. The woman had been efficient, kind, and even affectionate at times, but had raised him quite formally. He deliberately ignored the comment about his hair having been untidy, although it had been white-blond until he reached school age.

  “Well, first time for everything. A nickname will keep you humble, my nan always said.” Simon paused. “Although I’m not sure how that works, exactly.”

  Lucien chuckled. “Your humility-granting nickname is Si, yes? I heard Tim call you that.”

  “Yep, and that’s how I mostly think of myself. Although my sisters sometimes call me Si-Si, and let me tell you, when I was a teenager, hearing that called out in public took me right past humble to humiliated.” He was laughing, his adult self mocking his teen insecurities.

  “I can imagine,” Lucien said, grinning as he filed the knowledge for future use. “Do you mind that I call you Simon and not Si?”