The Athlete and the Aristocrat

by Louisa Masters

  The laugh burst from Si before he could stop it. “I guess not. I think they’ll forgive you, though. Mum thinks you’re ‘awfully fit.’”

  There was a pause, and Si could almost hear Lucien thinking about that. “Is that good?” he asked finally, and Si laughed again.

  “Yes. But if she giggles and blushes when you meet her, ignore it.”

  “When will that be, do you think?”

  Si felt that warm, melty sensation again. He’d never brought anyone home to his parents before. “Soon,” he said through a suddenly tight throat. “Maybe next time I have a meeting in the UK, you can come?”

  “I’ll tell Paul to call Anna and check your schedule.” There was a slight tremor in Lucien’s voice. Was he nervous about meeting Si’s family? That was so sweet.

  They talked for a little longer about nothing important. It was so comforting to hear Lucien’s voice that Si didn’t want to end the call, even though he was tired and knew Lucien must be too. Finally they said good night, and Si went to bed in his impersonal hotel room secure in the knowledge that everything was going to be okay.

  HIS phone woke him at a little before six. Groaning, he squinted at the screen.

  “Lucien? What’s wrong?” He wasn’t awake enough to feel anything other than grumpy, but he knew such an early call couldn’t be good.

  “One of the Italian papers is making some nasty allegations,” Lucien said tersely. “I’m sending you a link. Guy thinks we need to give an interview as soon as possible.”

  Si sat up, blinking away the last of his sleep as his phone buzzed with an incoming message. “What allegations?” he asked. Damn it, things had been good. Why did life have to step in and screw with them?

  “Read the article. I have to make some calls, but I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.” The line went dead, and Simon opened Lucien’s message with his stomach in knots. What did it take to make his scrupulously polite lover hang up without saying goodbye?

  Fuck.

  He skimmed the translated article, bile rising in his throat. Not good. It was all groundless conjecture, but of the kind that could cause maximum harm to On the Ball. Supposition that Édouard Morel had basically bought him for Lucien, who—according to “sources close to Lucien Morel”—had always had a crush on him. Well, that was true, but the idea that Lucien would need to pay for sex was laughable.

  It got worse.

  Aside from earning the money for the program on his back—because apparently ongoing funding for On the Ball was contingent on him “servicing” Lucien—there were also some shady suggestions that participants in the program would be required to provide similar services to earn their funding.

  His phone rang, and he answered it automatically.

  “Simon?”

  “So basically I’m both a whore and a pimp to teenagers,” he said faintly.

  Lucien sighed. “Nobody with any sense believes that,” he answered firmly. “And my father is stepping in since the article impugns both him and the Morel Corporation.”

  “How many people are lacking in sense?” Si asked. He knew how the media worked. Sensationalism was everything, even if there wasn’t an iota of truth in a story.

  Lucien’s hesitation spoke volumes, and Si’s brain clicked into gear. “The morning shows,” he said, and scrambled for the remote control.

  “Simon, don’t—” Lucien began, but Si had already turned on the TV. The hotel had a good assortment of news channels in several languages, and they all seemed to be reporting on the same thing, if the clips of him and Lucien were any indication. He’d never wished more that he spoke multiple languages.

  “Sum it up for me, Lucien. How bad is it? Be honest.”

  “It’s bad,” Lucien said bluntly. “But it’s not terrible. Many of the news outlets are calling the article unfounded, without evidence. The morning show presenters are wondering where the information comes from—and people are calling in. There is a lot of nastiness, but also a lot of support. It’s still early, but I don’t think this is the end.” He hesitated again. “To be honest, I think if they’d stopped at just saying you prostituted yourself for the money, things might be worse. But bringing the kids into it has got everyone up in arms, and they’re questioning the validity of the entire article. Which is good.”

  “Yeah,” Si said, his gaze glued to the TV, where two presenters were shaking their heads as they discussed something—in Spanish?—one of the infamous hand-holding pictures in the background. This was not good, no matter what Lucien said. “So what now? Did you say Guy wants us to do an interview?”

  “Yes, but first my father is going to release a statement. Guy is carefully thinking about the best options for our interview. In the meantime, business as usual, and don’t talk to the press.”

  “Because I was planning an intimate lunch with the paparazzi,” Si snarked, hugging his pillow as he surfed slowly through the channels, seeing more of the same.

  Lucien sighed. “I know you weren’t, but you know they’ll be desperate for something they can use. Don’t let them goad you, no matter how horrible they are.”

  “I won’t,” Si muttered sulkily. He knew he was being a wanker, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Christ, it wasn’t every day a man was called a whore and a pimp.

  He heard Lucien sigh again and felt a pang of guilt. This wasn’t Lucien’s fault—in fact, Lucien was only in this train wreck because of Si.

  “I’ll speak to you later,” Lucien said, and the word tore from Si before he knew he was speaking.

  “Luc!”

  Pause. “Yes, Simon?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m being such a tosser. I’ll get over it, I promise. I love you.” Si could hear the faintly pleading tone to his own voice.

  “I love you, Simon. Even when you are being a ‘tosser.’”

  Si snorted a laugh, feeling better. Things were still shit, but Lucien loved him.

  THINGS were shit, and nothing could make them better.

  Si sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at his phone with loathing. It was stupid, because it wasn’t the phone’s fault that everything was going so badly—no, so catastrophically—but it seemed to Si that every time he answered the damn phone, it all got worse.

  He’d been just about to leave for his first meeting when the bloody thing had rung. It had been the youth club he was meeting with—and they’d canceled. They hadn’t said it was because he was a pimp whore—or should that be whore pimp?—but their hastily mumbled excuses were pretty transparent, especially when they hadn’t been interested in rescheduling.

  No sooner had he hung up than the next call had come, from his appointment for the afternoon—canceling. They’d been more honest than the youth club, outright saying that they were unwilling to be associated with any negative publicity. They did invite him to call them again if the bad press settled down. Si had bitten his tongue to keep from telling them “thanks for nothing.”

  Now he glared at his phone, feeling like an idiot for wanting to smash the damn thing into a million pieces, bury them, and have the “grave” concreted over. He hated that he was in Budapest for no reason, that if he tried to take a commercial flight home—back to Paris, where he could hide in Lucien’s apartment and be cuddled and comforted by the best man in the world—he would be mobbed by the paparazzi as soon as he got to the airport. He hated that he needed to call Lucien and ask for the use of a Morel plane, and he hated that Lucien would know what that meant—that things weren’t okay after all.

  He hated that because of small-minded pettiness and hateful rumormongering, he was denied the joy of basking in his and Lucien’s newfound love.

  It wasn’t fair.

  He’d always been good to the press. During his playing days, he’d never turned down an interview. Never denied them a sound bite after a match, no matter how exhausted or disappointed he was. Same with the public—he’d participated in more fan events and fundraisers than he could count, agreeing to every
one the club’s PR department had suggested. He’d signed autographs when he was out with friends and family, never refusing even when fans interrupted meals or accosted him in airport lounges.

  Yet now that he finally got a chance to realize his dream, to help kids fulfill their dreams, now that he’d finally fallen in love and wanted to be happy… people were shitting all over it. Why? To sell fucking tabloids.

  Life sucked.

  Sighing, he lifted his phone, but he just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to call Lucien and tell him exactly how bad things were. He couldn’t bring himself to call Anna and find out that his program was collapsing around his ears.

  He just couldn’t.

  He swiped the screen, tapped on a contact, and lifted the phone to his ear.

  “Bonjour, Simon,” Paul’s silky voice said. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to a meeting? Is something wrong?”

  It didn’t surprise Si in the least that Paul knew where he was supposed to be. Not only had he and Anna bonded, but Paul was the master of Lucien’s schedule, and how could he ensure Lucien’s happiness if he didn’t know where Lucien’s lover was?

  “I need a favor, Paul,” he said tersely, then stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s been a… rough morning.” He glanced at the clock beside the bed and grimaced. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. “Can you please arrange for me to get back to Paris as soon as possible?”

  Paul didn’t even hesitate, although Si knew he had to have questions. “Of course. I’ll call you back in five minutes with the arrangements.”

  Relief flooded through Si. Yes. He could go home to Lucien, lock the apartment door, and just forget about the world for a little while. “Thank you. Um… could you not tell Lucien? I-I want to… surprise him.” Wow, that was a poor effort. If Paul hadn’t known before that something was up, he did now.

  The long pause said more clearly than any words could that Paul was fully aware of the situation. “I think perhaps Lucien will not be as surprised as you expect,” he said finally, and Si shut his eyes. What the hell was happening? Should he turn on the TV or check the news headlines?

  “Paul, I don’t want to pile anything else on his shoulders until I’m there and can tell him not to worry to his face,” he confessed. “You know him. You know how deeply he feels things, even if he pretends not to. Please, just get me back there, and I’ll tell him everything, but I don’t want him worrying more than he already is.”

  “I will call you back in five minutes,” Paul promised. Si took that as agreement and murmured his thanks.

  While he waited, he packed up the few things he had with him, and checked the weather forecast, forcing himself not to look at any news or gossip sites. It was a little over six minutes later—not that he was keeping track—when the phone rang in his hand. Even though he was expecting the call, knew what it was about, his hand trembled a little as he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Simon, it’s Paul.” He knew that, of course, and Paul knew he knew—the joys of caller ID—but it was oddly reassuring to be told.

  “Hi. Please tell me you have good news.”

  “I do. None of the Morel planes are available until late this afternoon, but I spoke with Léo, and he’s sending the Artois family plane for you. It will be there in a little less than three hours. I called the executive airport and reserved a meeting room for you with butler service. If you want to leave the hotel, you can wait there, and they’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

  Yes. Si wanted out of this hotel. “I’m heading there now.” After the debacle of Sunday, Lucien had insisted he have a security guard and private car at his disposal, so all he had to do was text the driver that he needed to leave.

  “I will clear Lucien’s schedule for the late afternoon,” Paul told him, and Si was assailed by guilt.

  “I don’t want to put anyone out,” he began, but Paul interrupted.

  “It is just a budget meeting, and not one he really needs to go to. They just like to have him there to lend them importance.”

  “If you’re sure,” Si said, both amused by Paul’s perspective and desperately longing for Lucien to be free when he got back to Paris.

  “I am positive. Make certain you take advantage of the butler service. Have you had breakfast? Lucien will be very cross if you come home faint from hunger.”

  Si was laughing as he ended the call.

  HE should have stayed in the hotel room. At least there, nobody had looked at him with curiosity—or accusation. He hadn’t had to face the stares of a thousand questions. No one at the executive airport had dared to ask or comment, but behind their scrupulous politeness he could sense tumultuous opinion.

  Even holed up in the private meeting room, he didn’t feel secure. The butler had been impeccably professional, and he’d had food and coffee, but… was he imagining it? It felt like every time someone glanced at him, they were thinking of that article. Whore. Pimp.

  By the time the butler came to tell him the plane had arrived and was ready for him, Si was on the verge of jumping out of his skin. He followed the man to the correct gate, wishing he’d walk faster, dammit, and then waited impatiently as the airport official checked his ID before escorting him onto the tarmac.

  Nearly there.

  He scaled the steps to the plane, counting each one that brought him closer to Paris. Just a few more hours. He just had to make it through a few more hours, and he would be with people who cared about him, who didn’t judge or believe horrible stories. Just a few more hours.

  He crossed through the doorway—and stopped.

  “I have a message from Paul,” Léo said. “He understands your wish not to worry Lucien, but believes that you should worry about yourself also. And he thinks you should lean on your friends. So we are here for you to lean on.”

  Si dropped his bag and let Léo, Ben, and Malik crowd him into a group hug.

  THE plane took off smoothly, and Si leaned back in his seat. It was so nice not to be alone.

  Beside him, Ben chattered about something or other, Léo smiling indulgently at him while Malik rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, too.

  “As glad as I am to see you all,” Si said, “why are you here?”

  Ben shrugged. “Paul called Léo to ask if you could borrow a plane, since the Morel ones were all tied up. Léo’s sister-in-law had actually brought the plane down to Nice for the day, to visit a friend or go shopping or something—I’m not sure exactly—so Léo said no problem, and then Paul said since the plane was going to be leaving from Nice, would we mind going with it, because he thought you might need some friends.”

  “Thank you,” Si told them sincerely. “You have no idea how much I needed friends. I-I should have called Luc, but he’s convinced himself this is all going to work out okay, and I wanted him to have just a few more hours of that.”

  “What happened?” Léo asked, just as Malik said,

  “Luc? Seriously? We’re calling him Luc now? Since when?”

  “I’m calling him Luc,” Si said. “You and everyone else are calling him Lucien.”

  Malik snorted, a gleeful grin spreading across his face, and Si ignored it to answer Léo.

  “The two appointments I had lined up for the day canceled. One was blunt enough to say it was because of the article. I’m scared to ring Anna and find out what else is happening.”

  Malik whipped out his phone. “I’ll do it. What’s the number?”

  Si hesitated. He really did need to know what was going on… but….

  “Malik, put that away. Simon will call when he’s ready,” Ben chastised, and Si smiled gratefully at him. Still….

  “No, I need to know.” He reached for his phone, glad that being on a private plane meant he could use it, then paused. “It’s easier with you all here. Thank you.”

  Ben squeezed his arm, and a few moments later he was listening to the phone ring in his ear. And ring. And ri—

 
; “On the Ball, this is Tim.”

  Si’s chest squeezed.

  “Tim,” he managed to choke out, but that was all he needed.

  “Si? Mate, is that you?” Tim’s tone changed from slightly brusque to concerned.

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t you been answering my texts? I didn’t want to call because I figured you were getting tons of those, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Si blinked. “I—I didn’t get any texts from you. Wait, let me check.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and navigated to his texting app. Sure enough, there were a half-dozen texts from Tim. Why hadn’t the phone chimed, or left a notification on the screen? He put the phone back to his ear. “I did get them, but I didn’t see them. I’m sorry.”

  Tim blew out a breath. “No worries, as long as you’re all right.”

  Making a face even though Tim couldn’t see him, Si said, “It hasn’t been the best day of my life.”

  “No kidding? Mate, just remember that nobody who knows you would ever believe that tripe. This is going to blow over.”

  A lump formed in Si’s throat. “Yeah, that might be wishful thinking, Tim. I’m on a plane on my way back to Paris. My meetings for today both canceled.”

  “I guessed as much,” Tim replied, surprising Si. “Why do you think I’m in the office? My appointments canceled too. But Si, it’s only a temporary setback.”

  “Right.” Si couldn’t bear to argue the point. Tim had invested so much hope in this program—it was supposed to be a second chance for him, a new beginning.

  Time for a subject change. “Uh, why didn’t Anna answer the phone?”

  Was Tim hesitating? “Anna’s run off her feet, mate. The phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

  That couldn’t be good. “The press?” he asked.

  Another hesitation. “Yeah, partly.”

  Fuck. “How many more appointments were canceled?” he asked. “How many—” Fuck, he was afraid to ask. “How many applications have been withdrawn?”