Playing Dirty: A Second-Chance Sports Romance (Playing to Win)

by Alix Nichols

  My timing is impeccable.

  The sun is cresting halfway on the horizon, bejeweling the sea and the sky—the whole world—with magic. The weather is as balmy as you’d expect for mid-September in the southern Mediterranean. I smell salt and watch a flock of remarkably silent gulls. A sense of wonder and awe fills me at the splendor of the sunrise unfolding in front of my eyes. It makes me feel small—but also a part of something big and beautiful. My heart swells with the honor of living on planet Earth with its cycles of day and night, summer and winter, life and death.

  And the gift of love she’s given to its babies.

  As I return to our cabin and crawl back between the sheets, I wonder if Julien remembers Lise’s spiteful put-down or any of the other taunts the Cats and I subjected him to. One day, when we’re older and when that drama-filled final school year is truly water under the bridge, I’ll ask him.

  Or maybe not.

  Because if I do and if we start talking about that year, there’s no way he won’t mention my eighteenth birthday party. The one I invited him to… and made him the laughing stock of the entire school.

  I’ve been working on erasing that episode from my memory ever since. Good thing Julien is mature enough to see it for what it was—an ill-advised childish prank. The one time we came close to broaching the topic, he smiled and said he’d gotten over it by the time he’d recovered from his pneumonia.

  Thank God.

  If someone had done to me what the Cats and I did to Julien, I would’ve needed therapy to get over it. What went down at my birthday party was awful for Julien, but the part I’m least proud of took place a couple of weeks earlier.

  “I think Julien has the hots for me,” I announced as Lise, Tanya, Irene, and I perused Tanya’s copy of Elle. “I think he’s going to make a move any day now.”

  Beats me why I said those things. The only explanation I can give is that Julien’s and my mutual staring was becoming too obvious and I feared the Cats would suspect me of returning Julien’s feelings.

  The ignominy! The mortification!

  I couldn’t allow that.

  “You can’t be serious.” Lise looked up from the fashion pages she was studying. “You guys barely talk to each other.”

  I smoothed my hair back. “That was true last year. But this year, we’ve done quite a bit of talking.”

  Lise arched an eyebrow.

  “In September,” I said, “he and I were on the same debate team. In October, Madame Fonteneau put us on the same chemistry project. And last month, we spent three afternoons together preparing a World War 2 presentation for Monsieur Narboni.”

  Lise nodded. “I see.”

  “Is he so stupid he doesn’t see how far out of his league you are?” Tanya said.

  I shrugged.

  Lise shut the magazine. “It makes me so angry.”

  I turned to her. “What exactly?”

  “That boys like him dare to fancy girls like us.” She sighed. “It’s like they believe they deserve us, you know?”

  “Er…” I wasn’t sure I did.

  “I do!” Irene cried out, giddy in her obsequiousness. “I know exactly what you mean!”

  “Will you please explain it to Noemi here?” Lise pointed to me, an angelical smile on her face.

  “When boys like Julien dare to pursue one of us,” Irene said, aping Lise’s smile, “it lowers us to their level. It cheapens us.”

  “Let’s teach him a lesson,” Lise said.

  Tanya clapped her hands and Irene squealed with delight.

  I tried to look appropriately thrilled. “What do you have in mind?”

  Lise laid out her idea.

  It was surprisingly well thought out and uniquely cruel.

  “Oh, come on.” She nudged me with her elbow, seeing my hesitation. “It’ll be fun. And it’ll send the right message to all other losers who might be thinking of trying something like that with one of us.”

  Tanya raised her hand. “I’m in!”

  “Let’s do it!” Irene said.

  The three of them trained their eyes on me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  In the middle of my recollections, Julien opens his eyes and stretches before giving me a dazzling smile. “Did you sleep well, sweetie?”

  If I were wearing underwear, it would’ve melted at the seams.

  “Better than ever,” I say. “You?”

  He nods. “I ordered us some breakfast. It should be here any minute.”

  “Ooh, you don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

  He slips a hand between my legs and cups me. “Actually, that was a mistake. I thought we’d be famished when we woke up, but now I’m hungrier for you than for food.”

  There’s a knock on the door, and I scoot away from him.

  Julien pulls on his boxers and heads for the door.

  I watch his broad well-muscled back. At this distance, you can’t see the tiny spots and scars left by the tattoo he had removed from his upper back. One day, I’ll ask him when he removed it and how—laser, most likely—and if having it burned off his skin hurt as much as having it needled in.

  One day, when I’m ready.

  But right now, we’re about to feast on a delicious breakfast of eggs, ham, smoked salmon, buttered toasts, croissants, orange juice, and three kinds of jam. Mmm. As I pick up the coffee pot to fill our cups, I notice a small note behind it.

  Mademoiselle Dray and Monsieur Boitel,

  May I have the honor of your company at my table tonight?

  Please RSVP.

  I lift my eyes from the note. “It’s signed by the ship’s captain!”

  Julien grins.

  “I always thought his table was reserved for his personal friends and VIPs,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Guess it wasn’t.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Is this your doing?”

  “I plead innocent!” He claps his hand to his chest before bunching his eyebrows. “Come to think of it, maybe, indirectly.”

  “Because you booked one of the most expensive suites?”

  “Could be.” He butters his croissant. “Or because we treated the guests to a heartwarming show last night.”

  “I should’ve said no,” I say, chuckling. “Just for kicks.”

  My grin fades when I see the expression in his eyes. Stung, angry—like a wounded beast.

  Stupid cow!

  I, of all people, should know it’s no joking matter for Julien, not after that horrible birthday party. So what that he’d told me he was over the whole thing? That doesn’t mean it’s an open invitation to rub salt in his wound.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” I say, touching his hand. “I shouldn’t joke about that.”

  He plasters a smile on his face. “Nonsense. Of course, you can joke about that and anything else you want to joke about. It’s my problem if I can’t handle it.”

  We spend most of the day off the boat, enjoying a guided tour of Rome.

  In the evening, we dress up—Julien dons a chic suit and me, an evening gown—and join today’s crop of the lucky guests gathered for pre-dinner cocktails in the lounge. We’re quite a mismatched group of different ages and nationalities, but it only takes a complimentary cocktail or two for the conversation to flow. It never halts once we join the captain at his table, and he treats us to a couple of colorful tales to match the superior quality of the wine poured by white-gloved servers.

  It turns out that one of our tablemates used to play handball in college. One of the women was a decent tennis player, and—lo and behold—our captain played water polo in his youth. Quickly, Julien becomes the center of attention with everyone curious to know what it’s like to be an athlete on the national team, how he prepares for the Olympic Games, and what exotic places he gets to travel to.

  Usually discreet, my fiancé regales the company with hilarious stories and witty quips, all while stroking my thigh under the table.

  �
�You’re so lucky to have snagged a man like that,” a retired career woman on my right whispers in my ear.

  “I know,” I mouth to her, unable to wipe the smug grin off my face.

  After dessert, everyone poses for a group photo.

  “You are all invited to a tour of the bridge tomorrow,” the captain says before wishing us good night.

  “I’m so looking forward to that,” Julien says to me as we stroll to our cabin. “Can’t think of a better way to finish this amazing cruise.”

  I sigh. “I wish it were longer.”

  “What?” he asks in feigned surprise. “You aren’t eager to go back to work?”

  I roll my eyes. “Unlike some people present, my job consists of fattening my ass and wearing down my brain so I can help the rich partners of my law firm get even richer.”

  The fake surprise in Julien’s eyes turns real, and I regret my words immediately.

  What’s wrong with me today?

  The only thing Julien had heard about my job until now was how much I loved it. And I do. How can I not? Being an associate in a big law firm is a dream come true. The job is demanding, but I know if I work hard enough, network harder and lick my boss’s bespoke Italian shoes harder still, one day I’ll be promoted to partner.

  Yay, right?

  Exhaling a heavy breath, I wave my hand. “I didn’t mean what I just said. Decidedly, my tongue is full of poison.”

  “Your tongue is full of honey,” he says, flashing me one of his devastatingly sexy smiles.

  Only this time, it misses its mark, and my panties stay firmly sewn together.

  Whether it’s because my distress served as a shield against his charm or Julien’s eyes didn’t truly partake in his smile remains to be seen.

  3

  Julien

  Isn’t it ironic that the run-down McDonald’s where Noemi and I sealed my fate eight years ago is just three blocks from the swimming pool where I’ve trained for the last two years?

  When we were eighteen, Noemi lived farther down the street. My parents’ apartment was spitting distance from hers, and our school was no more than ten minutes away.

  After my failed suicide attempt, we moved to Belgium, and I never set foot in this neighborhood until I returned to Paris and joined Lucas’s up-and-coming club. And now I pass this calamitous spot every day except Sundays or when we travel. That must add up to something like four or five hundred occasions to recall a certain windy December afternoon and shake my head at my incredible naïveté.

  Today is no different.

  I park my car in the first available spot, grab my duffel bag, and hoof it to the pool. As I pass the McDonald’s, I forget I’m a self-assured twenty-six-year-old athlete admired by thousands of fans and rid of my aggressive cystic acne for five years.

  I’m eighteen again, sitting across the table from an angel in skinny jeans and white sweater at this very McDonald’s.

  I’d planned to take Noemi somewhere nicer, but she said she didn’t have time, what with today’s homework, the papers to finish and hand in before the Christmas break, and the exams to prepare for.

  “So, what is it you wanted to tell me?” she says, glancing at her watch. “Make it snappy.”

  I’d prepared a speech filled with pearls of eloquence from the “Top 10 Most Romantic Love Declarations No Woman Can Resist” article from the Internet. I’d learned it by rote.

  But I can’t remember a word of it to save my life.

  Noemi taps her fingertips on the table. “So?”

  “I’m in love with you,” I say.

  She sighs and stares out the window. Her expression tells me she expected me to say something like that. Small wonder, with all the yearning looks exchanged between us since September. True, I’ve done most of the looking and, especially, the yearning. But she did return quite a few of my stares, especially when we worked on that history presentation in her room.

  I would’ve never dared to do what I’m doing now if she hadn’t.

  With my gaze trained on my Christmas blend, I wait and lose hope with every passing second. I’m so screwed. She must be searching for words to break it to me gently. She’s going to say she’s sorry but she doesn’t feel the same way about me. Given the way I look these days, who can blame her?

  “Are you sure what you’re feeling is love, and not… you know… hormones?” Noemi asks.

  I look up from my paper cup, flabbergasted. She didn’t say no. She’s trying to gauge the depth of my feelings.

  Could that mean…

  Noemi cocks her head, prompting me to answer her question.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I say.

  “Are you willing to prove it?”

  “Of course. How?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know… Do something that will leave no doubt in my heart that you’re truly in love.”

  “I’ll do anything,” I say. “Name it, and I’ll do it.”

  She gives me a mischievous smile. “Will you dye your hair bright green?”

  I smirk. “As if I didn’t look vile enough with my zits… But yes, sure.”

  “Will you go out in yellow briefs?”

  “Sure.”

  “And nothing else.”

  I picture myself walking the streets of Paris in my underwear. “Can I have my sneakers on?”

  She nods. “Will you get a tattoo on your back?”

  “Absolutely. Anything specific?”

  She describes what she has in mind and surveys me for a long moment. “Will you write me a love letter?”

  “Already have.”

  I reach for my jacket to pull the folded sheet with my “speech,” but she catches my hand. “Don’t give it to me now.”

  My mind draws a blank, and all I can think of is her hand on my wrist. This is our first time touching. It feels like heaven.

  “Did you swipe it from the Internet?” she asks.

  I smile apologetically. “Writing isn’t my strong suit.”

  “I don’t care if your letter isn’t elegant,” she says. “But I want your words to come from the heart. They have to be sincere.”

  I stare at her hand on top of mine. “OK… I’ll write it in my own words. Then what?”

  “I’ll invite you to my birthday party next Saturday,” Noemi says, shifting her hand ever so slightly.

  Was that a caress? My eyes drill into hers, looking for a clue.

  She holds my gaze and shifts her hand again, this time applying more pressure, stroking my hand. My lids drop, and my cock stirs against my thigh.

  “You’ll come in yellow undies,” she says, “with green hair and the tat on your back, and you’ll bring your love letter. We’ll go to my room once my parents are out and everyone is dancing, and you’ll read it to me. If I find your letter heartfelt and passionate enough, I will…” She blushes and looks at our hands on the table.

  Emboldened, I reach over and touch her cheek. “Noemi…”

  “I’ll kiss you,” she says, leaning her head into my touch. “And… more.”

  Holy. Cow.

  This is so much more than what I could have hoped for that a part of me wants to jump on top of the table and yell my joy for the whole world to hear. The other part wants to lean forward and kiss the hell out of Noemi. But I do neither of those things. She has stated her terms. I’m not enchanted with them, but clearly, they mean a lot to her. So, I’m going to play by her rules and hold my end of the deal.

  And she’ll hold hers.

  Except, she didn’t.

  She had never meant to.

  The whole thing had been intended as a lesson: How dare you hope a girl like me would want anything to do with a loser like you!

  As I step into the locker room, my teammates attack me with confetti guns.

  “Congratulations on your engagement!”

  “Woot! Woot!”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  News travels fast.

  Jean-Michel shakes his head. “Lucky bastard
, snagging a girl like that. I was hoping she’d dump you and go out with me…”

  “Luckily for Julien, his girl is too smart to fall for a horndog like you,” Valentin says.

  Zach, our hole-set and team captain, pats my shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man.”

  I feel bad because I know Zach means it. He always means what he says. Recently married himself—and happily so, judging by the way he and Uma dote on each other—he’s thirty-three. That makes him the oldest player and the only “veteran” on the team.

  But the club’s longest in the tooth is our coach Lucas, who could’ve still played at thirty-seven if it wasn’t for his injuries and all the other shit he went through a few years back.

  Everyone else is in their twenties, which means a couple of Olympic Games and at least half a dozen seasons to look forward to.

  Today’s workout begins with weight lifting and stomach exercises before we jump into the tank for leg conditioning. In this game, everything comes down to strength and endurance. After my attempted suicide, I set out to harden myself mentally and physically. I did tons of research on various sports. Water polo looked like the toughest of them all, so I chose it. I’ve never regretted my choice.

  What happens above the water is bad enough, but the real effort—and the real fight—takes place beneath the surface where the public and the refs on their walkways can’t see.

  We tread water all the time—even during time-outs—to keep ourselves afloat since we aren’t allowed to touch the bottom of the pool. We position ourselves so we can make plays on offense or defense with one arm out of the water at all times and ready to handle the ball.

  No one gets to rest if they’re in the game.

  Even in peaceful moments when players are “just” swimming across the pool, things are not what they seem. Suddenly, two or three guys come up from underwater, and there’s blood everywhere. Only no one rolls on the grass screaming and weeping like those clowns do in soccer.

  We take our lumps and carry on.