The Perfect Catch: A Sports Romance (The Darcy Brothers)

by Alix Nichols

  Sophie gives our hostess a surprised look. “A miniskirt? In Lebanon?”

  “Of course.” Juliet shrugs. “Every self-respecting fashionista had one of those back in the day.”

  “You’re the coolest hippie I’ve ever seen,” Sophie says.

  Juliet lets out a nostalgic sigh. “I used to have such pretty legs.”

  “Me, too,” Hamlet echoes from his armchair, misty-eyed.

  Sophie giggles.

  Hamlet turns to his wife. “She thinks I’m kidding. Show her our Saint-Tropez pictures.”

  Juliet turns a few pages until she finds the Saint-Tropez pics. It’s a series of four color photographs immortalizing the couple on the famed Riviera beach. Their bodies are fiercely tanned. Juliet is clad in a tiny, low-cut bikini. Hamlet stands next to his wife with an arm around her shoulders, proudly hairy everywhere with only a tiny scrap of bright blue fabric covering his boy parts.

  My water polo Speedo would qualify as conservative next to Hamlet’s Chippendales outfit.

  I open my mouth to thank God that the Borat-style mankini wasn’t invented until this century, when he gives me a narrow-eyed don’t-you-dare look.

  “It’s true,” I say. “Both of you have pretty legs.”

  Hamlet turns to Sophie. “Told you.”

  “You’re a beautiful couple,” Sophie says.

  Juliet smiles. “We were destined for each other, and not just because we both had Shakespearean names. We were born the same year and our mothers were best friends.”

  “That’s a good start.” I grab the chance to give an outlet to my censored sarcasm. “But from there to call it destiny…”

  Hamlet leans in. “When I proposed to Juliet for the first time, I dropped to my knees and asked her to be my wife before God and man.”

  “I said ‘no way,’ ” Juliet says.

  Hamlet nods. “My heart sank. Had I been blind? Could it be that Juliet didn’t love me the way I loved her? So I asked her, my voice trembling, ‘Why not?’ ”

  He marks a pause.

  I glance at Juliet, expecting her to pick up the tale, but she gazes at her husband, clearly unwilling to interfere with his show.

  “What did she say?” Sophie asks.

  Hamlet waits a few more seconds before answering. “She said, ‘Because proposing on both knees is lame.’ ”

  Sophie gasps at such extreme shallowness and turns to Juliet. “Really?”

  Juliet nods.

  “What did you do?” I ask Hamlet.

  “What else was I supposed to do?” He shrugs. “I rearranged myself in the proper kneeling position and asked her to marry me again.”

  Sophie smiles. “And she said yes, right?”

  “She said no.”

  I wonder why this time. Was he too poor for her liking? A cabinetmaker with no connections and no family money, did she believe he wasn’t good enough for her? Was she hoping to snag a sheik or, failing that, a wealthy homme d’affaires?

  A smile turns up the corners of Hamlet’s lips. “I asked her why not again. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Because we’re twelve, silly.’ ”

  Sophie bursts out laughing.

  I chuckle, too, absurdly relieved.

  “I proposed again when we were eighteen,” Hamlet says, grinning.

  Juliet smoothes her hair back. “I said yes, but I made him wait two more years until we turned twenty.”

  Hamlet reaches over and pats her hand. “You were totally worth the wait, sweetheart.”

  Sophie and I thank our hosts and stand up.

  “She’s a keeper,” Juliet whispers in my ear while she cheek kisses me good-bye. “Don’t mess it up, boy.”

  I think of all the omissions, half-truths, and outright lies I’ve fed Sophie about who I am and where I come from, and my stomach knots.

  It’s quite possible I’ve already messed it up.

  EIGHTEEN

  SOPHIE

  Noah opens the door and glances at his watch. “We’re back home and it’s only nine. Three cheers for same-landing dinner parties.”

  “I like your neighbors,” I say.

  He smiles. “You might like them less next time when Juliet will keep you hostage until you’ve seen her children’s albums. An album per child per year.”

  “Why didn’t she do it this time?”

  “She knows I have an important game tomorrow, so she took pity.”

  Tomorrow, Noah, Zach, and the rest of the team are playing the first national championship game of the season against Olympique Toulon. The game will be in Paris. And Noah gave me a premium ticket.

  “See?” I say. “Your neighbors are lovely and they really like you.”

  “They really like Oscar.”

  “Him, too, but if I didn’t know, I’d assume they were your family.”

  Noah’s expression grows bleak, and he quickly crouches to pet Oscar. Clearly, he doesn’t like to talk or even be reminded about his family. Since we met, I’ve told him tons about my mom, my dad, my friends, and my childhood. He’s told me almost nothing. I’ve pieced together that he grew up in Burgundy and later in Nepal where he hung out with Uma before returning to France. His mom stayed back in Nepal. He loves her. His father died years ago, I’m not sure from what. Noah hates him because he refused to help his ex-wife and his son when they were in a tight spot.

  That’s about it, really.

  Could Noah be embarrassed by his modest origins? He doesn’t strike me as a status seeker, and he talks about his pizza delivery job without a problem. Not that he talks about it much. The only things he’s always happy to discuss are Oscar and water polo. And maybe the Derzians—at least, until my uncalled-for comment.

  I chide myself for being so gauche, but when he nudges Oscar toward his crate and stands up, there’s no unease or hesitation in his eyes.

  Uh-oh. It looks like someone remembered the plans we made for tonight.

  Noah runs the tips of his fingers over my cheeks, jawline and lips, featherlight. “Are we still on?”

  I nod, taking deep breaths so I won’t tremble.

  He steps back and scoops me up into his arms and carries me to the bedroom.

  I ask him to pause as soon as we’re inside and pull the door shut behind us. When my feet touch the floor, I decide I’m going to be adventurous. I know I can trust Noah not to hurt me. He’ll stop the moment I say stop. Granted, I haven’t known him very long, but I know the important part. The part that matters, the part that defines him.

  Noah wants me, but he won’t let his desire control his actions. After all, I spent two nights in his arms without him trying to cajole me to have sex or—worse—force himself on me. And without me having to say no more than once.

  You can do it, Sophie!

  Tentatively, I cup his bulge through his jeans.

  Surprise flashes in his eyes before his face relaxes into a satisfied grin. “Just so you know, I totally approve of the way you’re going about this.”

  “Shut up and unbuckle that belt,” I say, settling into my brand-new seductress persona.

  He executes.

  I undo his jeans and slowly push them, together with his underwear, down his narrow hips and muscled thighs. He loses his T while I’m at it. When he’s stark naked, I zero in on his proud manhood and touch it. Reveling in the wonderful contrast between the warm, velvety skin and the hardness it encases, I run my fingers up and down before wrapping them around him.

  His flesh throbs against my palm.

  My core grows heavy in response, pulling, aching for him.

  Suddenly, his hands are everywhere. Noah unbuttons, unclasps and pulls my clothes off, stroking every part he uncovers. All the while I keep pressing my palm against his length, letting go of it only for two brief moments so he can strip my bra and shirt away.

  He rakes my bared body with a scorching gaze. Then he bends down, his mouth closing over my right nipple and his big hand cupping my breast. His other hand rubs my belly and slides between my legs
.

  Ooh, it’s welcome there. So very welcome.

  Noah’s gaze is scalding when he lifts his head and stares into my eyes. “You’re dripping wet for me.”

  “So are you,” I say, running the pad of my thumb over his tip.

  He grins.

  I give him a satisfied smirk. Who knew Frigid Sophie had a sex kitten in her?

  Suddenly, Noah lets go of me and jumps onto the bed. The next moment he’s flat on his back, a condom in his hand. “Come here.”

  I climb on the bed and sit on my heels next to him.

  He rolls the condom on and lays a hand on my hip. “Ride me?”

  That’s not quite how I expected him to initiate our first full-blown lovemaking, but I’m game. I straddle his hips and begin to lower myself on him, very slowly, listening to my body’s reactions. There’s no trace of pain, no discomfort—just pleasure. Noah’s hands are on my hips, hot and strong, but he isn’t trying to accelerate my descent by pushing me down. Nor does he lift his hips.

  When I’m fully impaled, I wiggle a little, loving the feel of him inside me. He thrusts tentatively. I push down to meet him.

  Soon, we establish a rhythm, moving in perfect synch.

  “Bébé,” he rasps after a while. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

  I bend over him and kiss his lips. “That’s OK. I don’t know if I can come like this, anyway.”

  His expression is still hesitant, so I add, “But I’ve really enjoyed this ride.”

  He nods, and tightens his grip on my hips. I let him lift me up a little and hold me steady where he wants me. His thrusts come faster, harder, the cadence accelerating to frantic. A minute later, his face contorts and he groans his pleasure.

  I climb off him.

  He turns on his side and puts his hand on my mound. There’s a question in his eyes.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  He begins to caress, varying the amount of pressure and the pace, asking me if he should move left or right, go faster or slow down. Inhibited as I am about dirty talk, his simple questions make it incredibly easy to guide him, coaxing more and more joy from his hand.

  Something begins to build inside me, and then I come, gasping at the sweetness of the release.

  When the last wave of pleasure subsides, I turn to Noah. “Good job.”

  “Sorry you didn’t get a vaginal orgasm.” He strokes my upper arm, before resting his hand on my shoulder. “I was hoping we’d come together.”

  I blink. “Are you kidding me? I’ve just had penetration, and I enjoyed it. I loved it. You have no idea what that means to me.”

  He smiles. “Tell me.”

  “It means I can stop lying to myself that being frigid is great, that frigidity rocks, because it gives you protection against dumb choices.”

  “It doesn’t?” he asks with fake innocence.

  I roll my eyes. “Only death gives you protection against dumb choices. All frigidity has really given me so far is a feeling I was missing out on a lot of fun and on an important part of human experience. A feeling that I was… defective.”

  “You’re perfect, bébé,” he says.

  I give him a mischievous smile. “Maybe I am now that you’ve untwisted my vagina.”

  His grin becomes so big I fear the corners of his mouth might crack.

  Pressing a hot kiss to its left side and then the right, I add, “This bébé will always be grateful for that, Noah Masson, no matter how things end between us.”

  When I find my seat on the deck level, Uma and Sam are already there. Uma is armed with blue pom-poms and Sam, a blue foam hand. Sam is wearing a jersey with a big three on the front. I imagine it’s Zach’s number.

  “Hey!” Uma greets me with a bear hug. “I’m glad you made it. This is going to be fun.”

  Her warmth and genuine friendliness make it hard to resent her, and yet I do. For what she means to Noah. For the possibility of their future together and even for their shared memories.

  Why couldn’t this Himalayan rose be less sweet? Or less pretty?

  Thirty minutes later, the game is in full swing, and the three of us are cheering our heads off. Noah’s team is winning. All the white caps seem to be in top form, but Noah’s and Zach’s play is wicked. By the second quarter, Zach has scored four goals and Noah has saved as many. He’s on fire. I can see now what he meant when he told me about the importance of a big arm span, strong hands, and “explosiveness” in the goal cage.

  And he’s cunning.

  Time after time, I watch the goalie of Nageurs de Paris lure Toulon’s attackers into aiming at the side of the goal cage he’s left unprotected. Only he hasn’t. The moment they take the bait and shoot, he leaps out of the water and blocks the shot with an incredible precision.

  It’s also fun watching him get all bossy and bark at the defense players to move left or right, keep their eyes on the ball, or slow down a specific attacker.

  The commentator raves about Noah.

  “Tremendous save by the goalkeeper!”

  “Strong hands!”

  “Noah Masson continues his amazing set of saves!”

  “Goalkeeper did well—what a fabulous stop!”

  The man is in love.

  Unfortunately, Toulon’s players are just as inspired as the Parisians, if not more. They dominate the field, shooting so often and in such a perfectly coordinated and well-practiced way that they net the ball as often as the Parisians, even with Noah guarding the goal.

  At the very end of the final quarter, one of the Parisian players commits a major foul, and Toulon sets up for a penalty. Everyone in the audience holds their breath. Noah explained to me that a water polo penalty shot is so hard to stop, it’s almost always a sure goal. And to make matters worse, the score is tied. If Toulon scores, they win the match.

  The attacker takes his time preparing, and then fakes a shot. Noah hardly budges, his eyes glued to the ball. After two more fakes, the real shot comes, powerful and precise. I brace for the worst.

  Noah blocks with his head, rushes to the ball, catches it, swims forward, and passes it to a teammate. The player passes it on to Zach, who slams it into Toulon’s cage.

  Everyone freezes, watching the trajectory of the yellow ball as if in slow motion. The second it flies above the goalie’s hand and hits the net, the arena roars with excitement.

  “What a save!” the commentator shrieks. “What a shot! Unbelievable!” He chokes on his delight and begins to cough.

  The white caps cheer and throw up their arms, fists clenched. It’s over. Time to pop the bubbly.

  Nageurs de Paris won.

  NINETEEN

  NOAH

  Nageurs de Paris opened the season with a win against Olympique Toulon and went on to defeat three more clubs—on their home turf, as it were.

  Today we played in Paris again, trouncing Aix-en-Provence, 14–6. Lucas is very happy. As per our recently established tradition, he’s treating all his men, together with their partners and children, to celebratory drinks. We’ve already finished the requisite bottle of champagne and switched to beer, wine, and sodas for the kids.

  All four of them are having a blast at the moment with a silly game organized by Denis.

  He’s placed four small paper bags on the floor—one for each kid—and has them take turns at picking theirs up with their mouths. They aren’t allowed to touch the bag, or the floor, with their hands. When they fail, Denis asks them to jump on one leg while singing. When one of them succeeds, Denis picks up his scissors and cuts a centimeter or two from the top of that kid’s bag.

  “What’s the point of this game?” Uma asks him.

  “The one with the shortest bag when I say stop, wins.” Denis smiles. “Want to play?”

  Turns out she does, and so do Sophie, Zach, and all the other adults in our group.

  When the children are done, we line up by the wall and look at Denis.

  “What’s the prize?” Julien asks.

  Den
is pulls a small bag of gummy bears from his backpack.

  Jean-Michel stares. “Seriously?”

  “I’d planned this for the kids, remember?” Denis shrugs before scratching his head. “Hmm… I got only one more paper bag.”

  We wait for him to find a miracle solution.

  “OK,” he says. “Different rules for grown-ups. This will be an elimination contest. If you pick up the bag when your turn comes, you stay and I crop it. If you fail, you’re out.”

  Over the next forty-five minutes the café’s patrons witness a competition almost as fierce as the one we just had in the pool. Only this time it’s every man for himself.

  Lucas is the first to be eliminated, followed by Jean-Michel and his girlfriend, Valentin, Julien, Denis’s wife, Uma, Zach and the others. Sophie and I are the last men standing.

  The bag barely rises above the floorboards now.

  Valentin moves from one eliminated contender to the next, taking bets. Sophie gives me a mischievous look and begins to circle around the bag, swinging her arms to encourage cheers.

  “Go Sophie!” Zach shouts.

  “Traitor,” I mouth to him.

  Only I’m the traitor, seeing as I’ve stolen his would-be girlfriend. And he’s being remarkably gracious about it.

  Sophie rolls up her sleeves and does a few ear-to-shoulder stretches. “Fifteen years of beach yoga, people!”

  The masses cheer.

  She waits for them to go quiet before adding, “Four years of cheerleading!”

  The audience chants her name.

  “Heading to the top, U-S-A!” she chants, launching her fists in the air.

  Watching her enjoy herself like this, completely uninhibited and infectiously exuberant, is a pure joy. If I wasn’t her opponent, I’d be cheering her at the top of my voice.

  But as it is, I have to defend the Tricolor.

  I strike a bodybuilder pose exhibiting my biceps. “Vive la France!”

  “Go Noah!” Uma hollers.

  I put my hand over my heart and drop my head in recognition of her support.

  “Mesdames, Messieurs,” Denis says, taking on a commentator’s voice. “We are about to witness the final round of this tournament. A battle of the titans. A battle of civilizations! Eagle versus rooster. Doughnut versus croissant. Marilyn Monroe versus Brigitte Bardot. Elvis—”