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

by Alix Nichols

She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “If there’s a loser in this room, it’s me.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You’ll know in a sec.”

  She goes to the bedroom and returns a couple of minutes later with an old notebook.

  Thumbing through it, she finds a page. “Read from here.”

  The notebook is a diary written in a neat, pretty handwriting. The way Noemi used to write at school. The entry she’s opened begins by summarizing her day and then talks about me.

  I glance at her, a question in my eyes.

  She nods. “It’s OK, read on.”

  I do, and I can hardly believe what I’m reading.

  I miss him so much! … Why did his stupid parents have to move? … How I wish he hadn’t blocked me from all his social media, so I could tell him that I’m sorry. And that I’m in love with him.

  “How is this—” I stare at her, flabbergasted. “How is this possible? I had no idea!”

  “I paid a price for those confessions. Remember ‘the Cats’? They stole this diary from my schoolbag and…” She expels a ragged breath. “They stole it and—”

  “It’s OK, sweetie, you don’t need to give me the details.”

  “I do,” she says with a faint smile. “I want to. But I’ll do it another time, when I’m feeling a little less emotional.”

  Taking a step toward her, I pull her to my chest. “Will you marry me, for real?”

  She looks up.

  “I know it’s too soon to ask,” I say, stroking her hair. “Please don’t feel like you have to say yes just because you said you love me.”

  Noemi tips her head back and draws in a deep breath as if bracing herself to say something difficult.

  Damn my impatience!

  “I’m getting ahead of myself,” I say quickly. “You want me to earn your trust first, to prove that—”

  “I still have your ring,” she says.

  I peer into her eyes. “Does that mean…”

  “Yes.” She grins. “It means yes. But no big wedding.”

  I frown.

  “Not that I don’t trust you to show up—I do—but I’d rather not go through the motions again.”

  “Got it,” I say. “It’ll be just you, me, and the mayor.”

  She smiles. “Our parents and siblings can come, too, if they want to. And your friend Roland. I might even invite Melissa.”

  “That’s almost a crowd.”

  She gives me a mischievous smile. “May I see your tat? I wonder if it’s as impressive up close as it was on the screen.”

  I yank off my sweater and T-shirt and turn around.

  She trails her fingers along the outlines of the petals, the leaves, and the words on my back.

  “Still impressed?” I ask teasingly.

  “More than impressed,” she says. “I’m awed at how similar it is to the one you had eight years ago.”

  I spin around. “I went to the same parlor and picked an identical pattern for the double rose.”

  “Of course.” She steps back and pulls her sweater off.

  I admire her pretty bra for a half second before I free her yummy breasts. My eyes, hands, and mouth have been deprived of them for two weeks. And a month before that. Much too long.

  Not happening ever again.

  My eyelids grow heavy as I fill my palms with her soft flesh. “I have another, more mystical explanation to the tat. Are you up for it?”

  “Try me.”

  “It isn’t actually similar, or even identical to the old one,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the same tattoo.”

  Her eyes bore into mine, searching.

  “It was there all these years, gone into hiding so it wouldn’t confound our rational minds. But it hadn’t been erased. It couldn’t be erased as long as its message remained true.”

  She reaches up for a kiss, her eyes watering with emotion.

  My eyes threaten to follow suit as I encase her face with my hands and voice that indelible message. “I love you, Noemi Dray.”

  < <<>> >

  Epilogue

  Noemi

  A Year Later

  “I still can’t believe you’ve never been to a Christmas market!” I shake my head at Melissa as we climb the stairs of the Concorde métro station toward the bright lights of the Champs-Elysées.

  She arches an eyebrow. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Christmas markets are just such an institution…”

  “We didn’t have them in Paris growing up,” she says. “They’re a recent institution.”

  “Really?”

  She nods. “And, besides, I just… I don’t like Christmas.”

  Coming out of the mouth of the métro, I draw in a breath of crispy late-afternoon air and give Melissa an incredulous look.

  “Before you call me a monster,” she says, “I’ve never let my strained relationship with Christmas ruin Ben’s holiday.”

  “Oh good! You had me worried for a moment there.” I point to the wooden chalets lining the sidewalk all the way from Concorde to the Champs-Elysées Roundabout. “Meet the best marché de Noel of the capital.”

  “Pleasure.” Melissa sticks both thumbs up theatrically and bares her teeth. “Charmed.”

  I ignore her hints at impending martyrdom. “It’s going to be fun. Besides, you could find a present for Ben or your mom.”

  “I buy their Christmas presents in the summer.” She gives me a sly smile. “Online.”

  As we reach the first set of booths, a cheerful tune drifting from the vendor’s sound system lifts my slightly dampened spirits. Four or five chalets away, a food stall fills the air with delicious scents of fresh coffee, waffles, and mulled wine.

  Too bad there’s no snow!

  But a white Christmas is a rare occurrence in Paris, so the artificial snow on chalet roofs is what we have, and what we’ll work with.

  Melissa halts in front of a costume jewelry stand and begins to sort through a collection of funky rings. “They’re cute!”

  She buys one with a big blue flower, not unlike the ring she’s been wearing lately.

  I scan the booths around us until I spot the unforgettable pashmina stand from last year. Woohoo! When we get there, I begin to finger the soft wool wraps on display. The astute vendor sees my picks and then pulls out another pashmina wrap from a shelf and unfolds it for me.

  It’s perfect.

  I turn to Melissa. “Look at this one! Touch it. What do you think?”

  “It’s gorgeous.” She strokes the intricate reddish patterns on the azure blue wrap. “And it’s soothing to the touch.”

  Even though I know for a fact she loves big wraps and this particular color combo, I still hesitate. She could have said those things just to be polite. I steal a look at her face. It never lies.

  One of the many reasons I hired her four months ago.

  At present, Melissa’s face tells me she really likes the wrap.

  “Pure cashmere wool from India,” the vendor says. “It’s my most expensive pashmina, but it’s worth the price!”

  I pay him, and hand the garment over to Melissa. “Merry Christmas!”

  “What? No! You shouldn’t have! And… and…” She gives me a panicked look. “You’re my boss!”

  “I am, and this is my first ever Christmas present to my first ever employee.” I give her a big-eyed Puss-in-Boots look. “I wanted it to be memorable.”

  Her expression changing at once, she gives me a bear hug. “I love it. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I turn away quickly to hide my self-satisfied smile.

  Noemi Dray hasn’t lost her cunning.

  Yep, still got the touch.

  As crafty as ever.

  The Forces of Good are lucky to have me, if I say so myself.

  “Come on, I’m buying you a treat,” Melissa says, pointing to the food booth I’ve been eyeing since we got here.


  The cinnamony smells wafting from it are too mouthwatering to ignore.

  Melissa and I spend another hour at the market, sipping vin chaud from paper cups and nibbling gingerbread cookies, as we stroll in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. Melissa often stops in front of handmade accessories, crafts, and regional food specialties.

  Looks like online shopping doesn’t cut it on its own after all.

  As we get nearer to the roundabout, I glance at my watch to see if it’s time to head to the 9th arrondissement.

  As if on cue, Melissa pulls out her phone and makes a phone call.

  “Everything OK, Mom? Is Ben on his best behavior?” she inquires.

  Her mom seems to answer both in the affirmative. I can tell from Melissa’s follow-up questions that she’s trying to find a reason to skip the second part of today’s program, and go home. Except, it sounds like her mom is telling her to relax and enjoy herself.

  Enjoying herself is something Melissa has yet to learn to do.

  When she hangs up, I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t even think of bailing this time!”

  “I wasn’t…” She gives me a pleading look. “It’s just… I don’t know anyone except you and Julien.”

  I put my hands on my hips in mock reprimand. “And why is that? Huh?”

  “Because I always find an excuse to stay home,” she admits with a sigh.

  I peer into her eyes. “You said the other day that you missed dating, and sex.”

  “I do.”

  “There will be seven or eight single hunks at the party tonight.”

  She studies her feet. “They’re younger than me.”

  “Only by a few years. It’s nothing!”

  She looks up. “OK.”

  “That’s my girl!”

  “Where’s the place again?”

  “In the 9th. It’s a bistro suggested by the team’s main sponsor, so obviously, no one dared come up with an alternative venue.” I check my watch again. “We better get going.”

  Melissa tugs off her gray scarf, shoves it into her tote bag, and wraps her new pashmina around her neck. “I’m ready. Let’s do this!”

  When we enter the charming little bistro, Julien and the team are already there. To my great relief, Jean-Michel—my third least favorite person after Hitler and Bertrand—is absent.

  Fingers crossed he doesn’t show tonight.

  I introduce Melissa to the guys and their plus-ones, and then to Nageurs’ main sponsor, Sebastian Darcy, and his wife Diane.

  “You’re the goalie’s oldest brother, right?” I ask him after we exchange cheek kisses.

  He nods.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what’s your connection with this bistro?”

  “The owner, Jeanne, is a good friend.” Diane answers for him. “Come on, you’ve got to meet her!”

  She marches to the bar area.

  Melissa and I follow her with Julien and Sebastian in tow.

  Behind the counter, a perky young woman is chatting with Lucas, Valentin—the smiley Nageurs singleton I particularly wanted Melissa to meet tonight—and with another guy who turns out to be Jeanne’s hubby.

  When I hear what Lucas is saying, my heart sings with joy.

  Jean-Michel called him this morning to announce he’ll be joining another club starting January.

  I glance at Julien who looks as if Lucas just announced he had irrefutable proof of Santa’s existence.

  This Christmas season just got even better.

  A short time later, the group around the counter has swelled to over a dozen people.

  We’re talking about the club, and about the new changes Lucas will have to make.

  Like recruiting someone to replace Jean-Michel, for starters.

  He also needs to find a new hole-set who’s as capable as Zach. The club’s captain recently announced his plan to retire at the end of the season so that he can focus on his business and spend more time with his family.

  In addition, Lucas must find a new publicist to fill Isabelle’s shoes. The mother of his adorable twins went to work for a media company after her maternity leave, despite Lucas’s and the team’s pleas to stay with the club.

  With a Kir Royale sparkler in her hand, Isabelle points out, for the umpteenth time, that she was ready for a new challenge.

  Except no one’s buying it.

  “You just don’t want to call your husband ‘boss’,” I say, voicing the general consensus.

  The tiniest of smiles curves her mouth before she lifts her Kir to her lips and takes a slo-mo sip.

  While we’re discussing all of that, I catch Valentin staring at Melissa. In fact, he’s doing more than just stare. Having discreetly edged to stand by her side, he bends his head toward her every now and then to whisper a funny comment in her ear. She giggles and whispers back.

  Her cheeks are flushed, and so are his.

  I can’t vouch for their future together, but Melissa’s prolonged dating hiatus might come to an end before New Year’s Eve.

  “So, you guys specialize in providing legal aid to those who can’t afford a lawyer, right?” Valentin looks at Melissa, then at me, and then at Melissa again, admiration in his eyes.

  “Yes.” She flashes him a proud smile. “But we do more than that, seeing as Noemi is a brilliant defense attorney!”

  I wave her complement off, but I can’t help blushing a little.

  “We represented three whistle-blowers this year,” Melissa said excitedly. “Their companies had fired them in retaliation.”

  Valentin offers her a stuffed olive on a toothpick. “And?”

  “Noemi won all three cases,” Melissa says, taking it from his hand.

  He turns to me and drops his head to his chest. “Respect.”

  “And, since September,” Melissa plows on, “our office joined the Paris Bar Solidarity Scheme, and Noemi has been doing pro bono work at the legal clinics they run.”

  Jeanne taps Julien’s shoulder. “Sounds like you married a saint. The Mother Teresa of Paris.”

  I choke on my drink and go into a coughing fit.

  Julien rubs my back before turning to Jeanne. “Nah. She’s no saint.”

  “Permanently disqualified,” I manage between two coughs.

  Julien’s eyes crinkle with mirth as he adds, “My wife is way more badass than Mother Teresa. She’s Superwoman slash Daredevil.”

  Tickled pink, I grin.

  Julien’s teammates nod in approval and smile, interpreting his comment as praise for my vigilante legal eagle skills.

  I have no doubt he was also referring to those skills.

  In addition to the other ones, which earned me the Superwoman title.

  He takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze, before lacing his fingers through mine.

  I return the squeeze.

  Without needing to look at each other, we both know exactly what our nonverbal exchange signifies:

  A brilliant defense attorney will be going Superwoman again tonight.

  And the guy with the rose tattoo can’t wait.

  Author’s Note

  One of the earliest Olympic sports, water polo is a national pastime in Hungary, Serbia and Montenegro, and is very popular in most of Europe. But it’s incomprehensibly under-funded in other parts of the world, including France and the United States. Things are changing in the US, though, where water polo is the fastest growing sport. No wonder, considering the achievements of the national men’s team (Olympic silver at Beijing) and, especially, women’s team (Olympic gold at both London and Rio).

  For the purposes of this story, I invented several water polo clubs, tweaked the schedules of various competitions and championships, and threw in a fake fact or two.

  But I’ve tried to stick as close to reality as possible.

  My wonderful readers,

  I hope you enjoyed PLAYING DIRTY, the final installment in the PLAYING TO WIN series!

  If so, please spread the love by telling your
friends about it, and consider leaving a review on Amazon to help others discover my work.

  Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your continued support — I would be nowhere without it.

  Much love,

  Alix

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  What does it take to fall in love with your enemy?

  a) His private jet.

  b) His six-pack abs.

  c) His unsuspected charm.

  Read on for an excerpt from Find You in Paris

  (The Darcy Brothers #1)

  If there's one man that store clerk and amateur photographer Diane Petit really, really, actively hates, it's fragrance mogul Sebastian Darcy who stole her father's company--and wrecked the man's health in the process.

  But the arrogant SOB had better brace himself because Diane has vowed revenge.

  And revenge she will have.

  Chapter One

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young man in possession of a vast fortune must be an entitled SOB born into money. Either that or a rags-to-riches a-hole who bulldozed his way to said fortune, leaving maimed bodies in his wake.

  The ferocious-looking PA returns to her desk. “Monsieur Darcy is still in a meeting.”

  “That’s OK.” I smile benignly. “I can wait.”

  I place my hands demurely on my knees and stare at the portrait adorning—or should I say disfiguring—the wall across the hallway from where I’m seated.

  Pictured is Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice, the oldest son of the late Count Thibaud d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice and the inheritor of an estate estimated at around one billion euros. Said estate isn’t your run-of-the-mill stock holdings or start-up fortune. Oh no. It’s made up of possessions that were handed down—uninterrupted and snowballing—all the way from the Middle Ages.