Clarissa and the Cowboy: An opposites-attract romance

by Alix Nichols

  “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 telling 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.

  4

  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.

  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.”

  Eric gives him a smile. “Makes sense.”

  “None of it,” Lucas says, smiling back, “is my gut feeling or superior insight. I’ve read dozens of coaching books and listened to the world’s best coaches. You should attend some coaching workshops, by the way. I’ll send you to the one in Rome in August.”

  “Cool! Thank you.” Eric grins, his eyes bright.

  They go over the rest of the workout schedule. Lucas asks detailed questions about half-court and full-court scrimmaging, nudging Eric toward more precision and a better handle on his own plan.

  I have to admire the man. He knows as well as I do that with his experience and qualifications, Eric could’ve easily snagged a head coach position in a second division club. But my friend is aiming for the premium division, and he knows that an assistant coach for the national team will land a D1 head coach job more easily than a D2 head coach will. Even if said assistant has less coaching experience and fewer victories under his belt than a veteran D2 coach.

  That’s just how these things work.

  Lucas is far from naïve—he doesn’t expect Eric to still be his assistant a year or two down the road. Yet, he invests precious time and money in Eric as if he’s going to be his sidekick forever.

  Old Lucas would’ve never done this.

  Has he really undergone a personality change? If he has, it isn’t a complete change because he’s still as self-confident, resourceful, and charismatic as the man I fell in love with. But he’s no longer self-centered. It’s as if his head injury blocked from his brain the notion that his goal in life is to look out for himself first, second, and last.

  This man, this new and improved Lucas, deserves my honesty. I should stop lying that I can’t recall why we were on the outs and it had been nothing—just life pushing us in different directions. Smart as he is, I’m not even sure he buys it anyway.

  I should tell him the truth.

  And I will… one day when I find the right words. Because if I don’t, if I just hit him over the head with brutal honesty, my confession will go something like this. We were friends for years. Then we slept together. It meant the world to me because I was in love. To you, it meant nothing—it was a pity fuck. I couldn’t bear it, so I quit water polo and dropped out of your life. Oh, and you’d slept with me while you had a girlfriend you intended to marry one day.

  What havoc this tale would wreak on his sense of self-worth! Learning what kind of guy he was before the coma might completely destabilize him. It would for sure hurt our working relationship, not to mention my pride.

  Yes, my pride.

  I guess it’s my turn now to be selfish…

  “OK, one more thing before you run off,” Lucas says. “Tomorrow I’m going to come down on Denis, real hard. He’s been screwing around, and we just can’t afford that during the playoffs.”

  Eric nods.

  “I’ll need you to be there for him afterward,” Lucas says. “If he comes to you, hear him out, pat his back. You know? Pick up the pieces.”

  Eric tilts his head to one side. “You’re asking me to play good cop to your bad cop, right?”

  “Not exactly.” Lucas’s expression is pained. “I don’t enjoy yelling at the guys. I find praise and encouragement go a long way. But sometimes they need chastisement. And this is one of those times when Denis needs it.”

  “Got it.” Eric smiles. “You feel it won’t help if you do both the hitting and the picking up in one day.”

  Lucas leans forward. “Exactly. It would ruin the effect. But we can’t let him sulk for a week. We don’t have a week.”

  “That’s why you have me,” Eric says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle without pooh-poohing your message.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  Eric glances at his watch. “Your boy will miss his Gaudí tour if he doesn’t take off now.”

  He waves goodbye to Lucas and me, and rushes to the gathering point in the hotel’s large courtyard.

  “You sure you won’t regret skipping the tour?” Lucas asks me. “I took it last year, and I loved it.”

  “I’ve done the Gaudí circuit twice with a guide, once with a friend, and once on my own,” I say. “Those buildings are out of this world, but I’ve reached my limit.”

  He chuckles. “Please don’t say that in front of our Catalan hosts.”

  “Scout’s honor.” I move closer to him. “Besides, I really need to get your take on some of my more daring ideas.”

  For the next hour, I present those ideas to Lucas, and he gives me feedback.

  Around eight, while I’m pushing him to do a TV interview about his impressive recovery, and he’s resisting, Lucas stops mid-sentence and draws his eyebrows together. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “Let’s continue this over a meal.”

  A business dinner between colleagues is just as common and acceptable as a business lunch, right?

  “Sure,” I say. “Do you prefer the ground floor restaurant or the rooftop one?”

  “I had something else in mind.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Last year Barcelona’s coach took me to this little fish restaurant on the beach,” he says. “Great view, not too touristy, and—most importantly—best fish stew this side of the Mediterranean.”

  All right, Isabelle, you better make hay.

  I give him a saccharine smile. “If I agree to go all the way to the beach to taste your fish stew, will you do the TV interview?”


  He feigns indignation. “Blackmailing now, are we?”

  “Just working my half-time advantage,” I say, hinting at my poloist days.

  He grins. “I promise I’ll think about it some more before I say no.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and sit back.

  He sighs. “OK. I promise I’ll think about it seriously before deciding.”

  “That’s better.” I drain my beer and stand. “Let’s go.”

  5

  Lucas

  The best thing about Barcelona—aside from the Sagrada Familia and the city’s strong water polo tradition—is the Catalan capital is on the sea.

  Not near it, like Athens, but smack on it, like San Francisco, which I have yet to visit, with ports and marinas encroaching on its historic heart.

  Since both Isabelle and I are skipping the Gaudí tour for the sake of a working dinner, I figured we could eat on the terrace of a waterfront restaurant, and then stroll back along the city’s lovely beaches.

  On our way out of the hotel, I stop by the front desk and ask the concierge to call a cab and book a table for two at Suquet. A ten-minute ride later, we’re at the restaurant, ordering our stew.

  As the server hurries away, I watch Isabelle out of the corner of my eye. She opens her purse and pulls out her “idea folder.” Except I’m not in the mood for more PR talk. Or for any work-related talk, for that matter. There’s a question that’s been bugging me since our first meeting two months ago, and now seems like a good time to ask it.

  “You’re a very attractive woman, Isabelle,” I say, trying to keep my smile polite and friendly. “Please forgive me, but I must ask. Did we… were we more than friends?”

  She freezes for a split second with her folder midair. Then she slowly sets it on the table and trains her gaze on it. “You didn’t find me attractive in the past.”

  Nice try, sweetheart, but you’ll need a more plausible diversion next time.

  I arch an eyebrow. “You’re skirting my question.”

  “I mean it,” she says. “It wasn’t like that between us. We were pals, nothing more.”