by Alix Nichols
But time has been kind to him.
Now a heartthrob and formidable water polo defender, Julien has no trouble with the ladies.
That means, he can finally get back at Noemi.
Only... he hadn't expected her to have grown from a shallow girl to a caring woman.
A woman with feelings.
Nor had he anticipated the bitter aftertaste of his revenge, or how empty his bed--and his life--would be without her.
Might she still have his heart?
While Julien ponders the question, Noemi sets out on her own quest for payback...
PLAYING DIRTY is a second-chance sports romance within the PLAYING TO WIN series.
Part I
“The past is never dead. It isn’t even past.”
William Faulkner
Julien
I drop down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”
Noemi’s eyes widen as she stares at the little black case with a big shiny rock I’m holding up. I wait, trying to focus on the warm breeze against my face and the soothing murmur of the water around us.
Inhale. Exhale.
This will be over soon.
Noemi blinks and shifts her gaze from the ring to my face. But she doesn’t utter a word.
What if she says no?
What if she hasn’t fallen in love with me as I was hoping she would? What if she’s just been leading me on for the past three months, playing one of those cruel games she excels at?
Calm down, man. Breathe. Remember who you are now.
She’ll say yes.
I’m no longer that pathetic pimple-faced nerd in an oversized T-shirt who deserved to be taught a lesson. We’re no longer in high school. I’m a medal-winning athlete on the national water polo team. I’m hard-bodied, impeccably dressed, and self-confident. Women beg me for a date and send me naked pics and sex tapes. Men glare at me in envy.
She’ll say yes.
She’s just too dumbfounded to speak.
Our fellow passengers have formed a small crowd around us—some with looks of concern, others grin optimistically, and some women dab their eyes.
The guy from the cabin next door has my phone and snaps pictures, which—if everything goes to plan—will be shared to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and whatever other social media accounts Noemi and I have. They’d be the kind of pics that crash the Internet. The sun setting over the dark expanse of the water, the deck railing of a magnificent cruise ship, and a stunning woman in a shimmery cocktail dress saying yes to her tall, handsome boyfriend…
That is, provided Noemi says yes.
If she says no, I’m in for another public humiliation despite my looks, medals, and self-confidence.
As the seconds tick by, said self-confidence shrinks at an alarming rate, to put it mildly.
This was a mistake.
I shouldn’t have listened to Roland. I should’ve proposed in private. Or not proposed at all.
“Oh my God, Julien, I didn’t… I didn’t expect this at all!” Noemi finally says.
I do my best to keep my cool. “So, what’s your answer?”
“Are you sure about this?” she whispers, her eyes darting to the onlookers. “We’ve been dating for only three months.”
“But we’ve known each other for eight years. That counts for something.”
She nods.
I force a smile, bracing myself for something like “I can’t marry you because deep inside you’re still as pathetic as you were in high school.”
“Yes,” she murmurs.
It’s my turn to blink.
She grins. “You look surprised.”
“Can you say it again?”
“Yes,” she says louder. “I’ll marry you.”
My shoulders sag with relief.
Noemi’s beautiful face expands into a big, toothy smile. I would’ve bet anything it was genuine if I didn’t know better.
People around us clap and cheer.
“Dude, this is the part where you put the ring on her finger,” someone in the crowd prompts.
My hand shakes as I slip the diamond ring on Noemi’s delicate finger. The rock cost me a small fortune, but I didn’t hesitate for a second when I purchased it. Just like I didn’t hesitate when I booked us in the most expensive cabin on this luxurious cruise ship. Knowing what I know about my sweetheart, the slightest suspicion on her part that I’m still a loser would’ve sent my three months of hard work out the window.
Forget three months—try eight years.
I wasn’t taking any chances.
Noemi lifts her hand to her face and gazes at the ring. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I stand up. “You make me very happy.”
Her eyes water. “You make me happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Kiss her, genius!” my self-appointed prompter says, chuckling.
The crowd begins to chant, “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!”
I pull Noemi close and brush my lips against hers. There’s no need to go full French in front of an audience.
After we kiss, bow to the crowd to signal that the show is over and take a bunch of selfies, I grab Noemi’s hand and lead her to our cabin.
Once inside, she claps her palm to her mouth. The space has been transformed into something out of a tacky romance movie. Rose petals litter the room, soft music plays, and a fine vintage champagne sticks its long neck out of the ice bucket.
If she had said no, I was going to spend the night in an armchair in one of the lounges rather than rush here and un-decorate. But luckily for me—and unluckily for my betrothed—there’s no need for either of those unpleasant options. I can enter the cabin with my head high and a smug grin on my lips.
Roland will be pleased to hear that the first stage of my Payback Plan went without a hitch.
I pop the bubbly and move on to stage two.
“To our future,” I say, raising my flute.
Noemi smiles and touches her glass to mine. “To our happiness.”
We drink.
“Want to sit on the balcony?” she asks.
I grab the ice bucket, and we step out on our private balcony just big enough for two chairs. But that’s as good as it gets on a boat.
Setting the bucket on one of the chairs, I sit down on the other and pat my lap. “Come to daddy.”
I should’ve said, “Come here, my love,” but there are limits to the amount of kitsch a man can handle in one day.
Besides, if there’s one thing I won’t do even if it ends up raising Noemi’s suspicions and ruining my perfect plan is utter the word “love.” That word is a taboo, given our history. Noemi seems to get it, because she hasn’t said it either, not once since we started dating. Nor has she asked me if I love her.
Smart girl.
She lowers herself onto my lap and turns her head toward the purple sky. “So beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you,” I say, recovering my romantic groove.
She glances at me, shaking her head in feigned reproof. “There’s no need to go over the top.”
“Sweetheart, less than an hour ago, you had me on my knees, begging you to marry me.” I arch an eyebrow. “There’s no bigger proof of a man’s sincerity.”
She smiles.
Is it tenderness I discern in her eyes?
It can’t be. The Noemi I had the misfortune of falling in love with eight years ago is incapable of such emotions.
Besides, if I’m being honest, I don’t want her to have them. Because if she’s changed, if she isn’t faking it, this proposal—and what I plan to do in a few weeks—becomes even more vicious.
Fair and deserved, but vicious.
Despite Roland’s protests, I’ve taken to calling it “the deed of darkness.” It doesn’t make me feel good about myself.
But, I’m used to not feeling good about myself.
Noemi runs her hand down the side of my neck to the collar of my dress shirt. As her delicate fingers undo a
button and then another one, the affection in her eyes gives way to something different.
Desire.
A sigh of relief escapes me. I must have dreamed up the tenderness. Just like my fevered eighteen-year-old brain had imagined all those little signs that Noemi liked me back in high school. They were nothing but self-delusion.
But this—this is the real Noemi.
My Noemi.
The girl I’ve been obsessed with ever since I laid my eyes on her when we were seventeen. The princess I thought I’d never have the privilege of touching except in my fantasies, but who is now my fiancée.
The woman I’m about to fuck.
“I want you,” she murmurs against my mouth as her hand slides under my shirt.
In reply, I grip the back of her head and claim her mouth in a wet, languorous kiss. Our tongues dance together, stroking and teasing, a brief prelude to the ravenous sex that will follow. Her taste invades my senses, making my need to fill her deeper, stronger. I fight it, like I’ve been fighting it for three months now, letting her take the lead, letting her decide when, in what position, and for how long we do it.
I believe letting Noemi be in charge has been the key that softened her heart of stone just enough to let me in. Not that I don’t enjoy this kind of sex—I’ll probably enjoy any kind of sex if Noemi is involved—but I do wish I could let my dominant side out every now and then. Nothing crazy, just… take her a little harder. A little rougher. Deviate from “the missionary” on occasion. Explore and penetrate more of her.
But I keep a tight rein on those urges. Can’t risk losing her now that I’m so close.
She draws back to catch her breath and slides off my lap. With a seductive smile, she moves inside the cabin and crooks her index finger to invite me to follow her. I do.
The next hour is filled with kissing and stroking; buttons, cufflinks, and clasps popping open; zippers lowering; Noemi’s fingers digging into my back, and my cock thrusting into her heat.
I’ll miss this when “the deed of darkness” is done.
But it needs to be done.
I need closure, so I can forget this woman, forget what she did to me, and move on.
“So beautiful,” I murmur as I roll off her, spent.
I mean it, just as I mean every word of what I’m about to say. “Eight years, and not a day went by when I didn’t look—at least briefly—at your face. It never fails to take my breath away.”
She frowns. “What do you mean? We were apart most of those eight years. I didn’t even know where on earth you’d gone after your family moved abroad.”
I reach over and pull my phone from the pocket of my jacket.
“See this?” I point at a photo of her in a red T-shirt. “I took it at the teacher appreciation picnic when we started our final year of high school.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Are you saying you looked at this pic daily for eight years?”
I nod.
She rolls her eyes. “Please.”
“You don’t have to believe me, but I did, every fucking day.” I shrug. “Guess I never tired of your beauty.”
What a shame the world’s prettiest girl has its ugliest soul!
That same comment, word for word, was how I’d started my long-winded suicide note. I didn’t keep it, and I remember only part of the sad ramblings of an eighteen-year-old desperate enough to hang himself.
I begged Mom and Dad to forgive me and make sure they didn’t raise Flo to be a pathetic loser like their older son. “Hurt his feelings, betray his trust, teach him that nobody loves anyone,” I’d counseled them. “Tell him that if he gives his heart to someone, they’ll walk all over it with muddy boots until it’s just a pile of stinky, bloody gunk.”
Stinky, bloody gunk, huh?
Mom and Dad shouldn’t have allowed me to watch so many zombie apocalypse movies.
Anyway, the letter went on and on over several pages, imparting teenage wisdom mixed with gallows humor. In conclusion, I warned my parents that if they tried to make another kid, and it was a girl, she’d better be plain. That would diminish her destructive capacity and maybe save a man’s life.
What a drama queen!
I smirk and run my hand through Noemi’s honey-colored hair. Here I am, the boy who almost succeeded in taking his life because of her unique cruelty. The boy who would’ve broken his parents’ hearts and never had a chance to become a man.
The boy who spent the last eight years plotting how to make the beauty in his arms pay for what she’d done.
Noemi
A morning lark for as long as I can remember, I wake up at dawn and beam happily the moment I find my bearings.
Life is good.
Unable to stop grinning, I lift my left hand and stare at my gorgeous engagement ring. If the size of the rock reflects the depth of Julien’s feelings, then I’m a lucky girl. He must love me, even if he hasn’t uttered those words since his disastrous declaration back in high school. Can’t blame him. In his place, I would probably be wary, too.
Besides, men are known to have trouble voicing their feelings. They express them through gifts and tokens of their commitment instead. Since Julien and I started dating, he’s taken me to the most expensive restaurants, bought me costly trinkets, and paid for this pricey cruise.
He’s asked me to be his wife.
As he said, what more proof do I need?
Turning quietly to my side, so I don’t wake him up, I survey my fiancé.
Even up close, it’s hard to spot a trace of the ills that blighted him in high school. Today, Julien is a magnificent man with a gracefully muscled body you’d expect in a pro swimmer. As for his face, apart from a few faint scars on his cheeks, it’s spotless.
Who knew the ugly duckling of Lycée Molière would attain this level of hotness in his mid-twenties?
The only thing he had going for him in those days was his height. And even that… I remember how he suddenly lengthened in a violent growth spurt that neither he nor his mom, who still bought his clothes, were prepared for. Julien’s response was to stoop. He never seemed to know what to do with his long limbs—with his whole body. Come to think of it, being tall only made things worse for him.
In addition to his teenage clumsiness, he was saddled with metal braces.
But the thing that made him truly stand out—not in a good way—was his acne. God, it was awful. Oversized red zits all over his face, neck, and shoulders. He was painful to look at.
“Hey, Julien, do you ever wash?” Lise asked him once.
He gave her a wounded look and turned away. Lise, Tanya, and Irene burst out laughing. I did, too, proud to be part of the school’s in-crowd, “the Cats.” I should’ve known better than to delude myself into thinking those girls liked me and were my friends. But I was stupid. And I did something truly mean to Julien in my eagerness to be part of Lise’s gang.
A fat lot of good it did me in the end.
As quietly as I can so I don’t wake up Julien, I slip out of bed, wrap a bathrobe around me, and head out of the cabin. The hallway is empty. Treading softly, I climb up to the deck where Julien proposed yesterday. The boards are darker and wetter than usual, but I’ve never come up so early just after the deck was hosed down.
The clinking of tableware from the buffet area draws my attention to the restaurant staff, who are preparing the tables for early risers like myself. I smile to them. They smile back. I turn away and lean on the railing.
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 an
d 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.”
