by Alix Nichols
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.”
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.”
“In three years, I never hit on you?”
She shakes her head. “Ask Zach or Denis. Ask your parents.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“They all say the same thing. You were ‘like a little sister’ to me.”
“See?”
“I just…” I exhale a frustrated breath. “I just find it hard to b
elieve.”
“What are you saying, Lucas?”
“I guess I’m saying that I’m drawn to you in a way I haven’t been drawn to a woman since I woke up six years ago.”
She fidgets with the rubber bands on her folder and refuses to look at me.
I run my hand through my hair. “You have nothing to worry about, Isabelle. I won’t act on my… urges.”
“Good,” she mumbles.
Our food arrives, and for a good five minutes, we eat in silence.
“You were involved with a woman,” Isabelle says suddenly. “Angela. You called her Angie. Hasn’t she…? Haven’t you seen her since waking up?”
I shake my head.
“How come?” she asks.
“She was modeling in New York when I woke up.”
“Didn’t she travel to France occasionally? Not even for Christmas?”
“Apparently not.” I shrug. “Or if she did, I didn’t get a heads-up.”
She touches my hand. “I’m so sorry, Lucas.”
“Please, there’s no need.” I stare at her hand and then into her eyes.
She pulls her hand back and down to her lap.
“When I recovered enough to reach out,” I say, “I called her. That was four years ago.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much. Our conversation barely lasted five minutes. We exchanged some platitudes, she said she was sorry she couldn’t come see me because of her insane schedule, and then she said she had to run.”
Isabelle clenches her jaw, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen her.
The server returns with the menu and asks if we’d like a dessert. Neither of us fancy any, as it happens, so I pay the check and we leave.
“The fish stew was amazing,” Isabelle says, turning toward the sea.
I watch the soft summer breeze play with her shoulder-length hair, and I know I’m not prepared to go back to the hotel just yet. Whether it’s the feeling something’s been left unsaid or just a selfish desire to spend more time with her one-on-one, it’s stronger than the rational voice telling me to run from temptation.
Taking a breath, I say as matter-of-factly as I can. “Fancy a walk on the beach before we head back?”
She nods.
The beach is still full of people, but not the noisy teenage crowd which gathers closer to Port Vell. This end is much more peaceful and less crowded. The families with kids who frequent it in daytime have left by now, and the remaining beachgoers stroll or sit around in small groups, enjoying hushed conversations or just gazing at the sea.
“I love this beach,” Isabelle says as we amble past one such gracious group. “So quiet. What a change from Paris Plage!”
“Which isn’t even a real beach,” I say. “You can’t smell the sea because there is none.”
She turns to me, smiling. “Nor can you go in ankle-deep and let the waves lick your feet.”
“Would you like to do that?”
“Do you mind?” She points at the sneakers I’m holding. “We’re barefoot already.”
I head toward the water.
She catches up.
As we stand next to each other, warm waves caressing our feet, the temptation to take her hand in mine grows stronger by the minute. When my fingers start to twitch, I curl them into a ball and take a few steps back.
She turns around, a question in her eyes.
“I’m going to sit here and let my feet dry.” I point to a spot a few meters from the edge of the water. “Take your time.”
Five minutes later, she plonks herself next to me. “That was nice.”
She’s sitting too close to me—way too close.
I can smell her delicate perfume. I can see every delicious curve and muscle of her athletic, lithe body. Her flawless skin, her hair, her elegant neck, breasts…
Suddenly, I remember a dream from last night. I was kissing Isabelle and pushing into her, hard and deep. It felt so incredibly good… And so real.
Was it a dream or a memory?
While I ponder the question and valiantly ignore my arousal, Isabelle plants her palms into the sand behind her back and leans into her stretched arms. Dropping her head back, eyes shut, she stretches out her legs, and wiggles her toes.
I don’t even try to pretend I’m not leering.
My body is so tense, I feel like it’s going to snap any moment now.
Being alone with her here, away from our usual professional setting, was a big mistake.
What was I thinking?
Clearly, I was thinking I could handle my lust.
I still think I can, even if I begin to suspect she’s lying about us, and the images in my head aren’t fantasies or figments of my imagination, but true memories.
No matter what we used to be to each other, right now she works for me. I guess it’s OK for us to be friends—I’m friends with Leanne, Zach and Denis, after all—but we can’t be lovers.
Even if I crave it.
Even if it turns out she wants it, too.
After all, I fired Martin for hitting on a female player. True, she was only a teenager, but still. What message would it send to my team if I become too chummy with Isabelle?
Move away, Lucas.
But my body refuses to budge.
Isabelle opens her eyes and turns her lovely face to me.
Touch me, I beg her in my head.
Touch my foot, my knee, my hand—anything. Tell me you want me like I want you.
She moves her leg just a tiny little bit, and her thigh touches mine. I shift, too, pressing my leg against hers. The next moment, my hand covers hers. We both turn to gaze at the sea, fooling ourselves that no lines have been crossed yet.
Isabelle’s breathing comes fast and shallow.
Mine quickens, too.
I turn back to her.
She looks at me. “Don’t kiss me.”
“Izz—”
“It’s not that I don’t want to…” She hesitates. “It’s the garlic.”
I pull back and stare at her.
“The fish stew we ate,” she says, smiling her adorable smile. “It had tons of garlic in it.”
I do my best to keep a straight face. “Yes, it did. That’s why it was so good.”
She widens her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I mimic her expression. “May I point out we both ate it?”
“So what? It doesn’t cancel it out.”
“No, but it puts us in the same aromatic class.” I beam despite my best efforts. “It would’ve been worse if you smelled of garlic and I of vanilla.”
I cup her face.
A smile flashes across her face before she bunches her brows again. “It isn’t just the garlic.”
I wait.
“It’s…” She huffs, frustrated. “I don’t want to go there, Lucas.”
Go where, exactly? Explaining the non-garlic-related reasons why she won’t let me kiss her? The kissing itself? What that might entail?
The latter, most likely.
She’s right. If I could think clearly right now, I wouldn’t want to go there myself.
She pulls her hand from under mine and stands up.
I stand, too.
We return to the hotel in silence with Isabelle keeping her arms crossed over her chest and a distance between us big enough to fit another person. A corpulent other person.
“Good night,” she mumbles the moment we enter the hotel, and ducks behind the door that leads to the staircase, forgoing the comforts of the elevator.
And the dangers of riding it with me.
Isabelle
I pace the office, waiting for Leanne to come up after practice.
Emboldened by how smoothly I’ve steered Lucas to okay my schemes so far, I want to run one specific idea by Leanne before bringing it to the Big Man.
Shit.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t think about him, even indirectly, for the next hour. Not the whole week, or even the rest of the day. Just
one hour.
Should’ve been easy, right? A small, realistic, achievable goal.
The hell it is.
I can’t go ten minutes without thinking about Lucas.
Or about what we did—and didn’t do—on Nova Icària Beach.
It’s been two weeks since that evening, and we’ve been excessively polite and professional toward each other. I’ve avoided one-on-one situations. He’s given me a wide berth, which was easy to do now that he’s preparing for the European Championships. With the club season over, Lucas spends a lot of time away from the Paris office so he can train the men’s national team for the European playoffs.
He doesn’t talk about it—nor do Eric, Leanne, or any of the players—but everyone at the club knows putting France up on the podium this season is Coach’s big endgame.
It was one thing to get Nageurs de Paris, a club that boasts the country’s top scorer and the best goalie, to the second place in the French playoffs. Far be it from me to trivialize that achievement—and no one in their right mind would—but snagging a European medal for a country that hasn’t been in the top eight in decades is a whole different story.
The leadership of the French Swimming Federation has put its faith in Lucas. So have his men and thousands of fans. The last thing he wants is to let all those people down.
So yeah, Coach has a lot on his plate, and the best way I can help him is by staying out of his hair.
I glance at my watch. Leanne should’ve been here twenty minutes ago. The team workout is taking much longer than usual—or something is wrong.
I head downstairs to the pool where the smell of chlorine and amount of water on the floor increase with every step.
The girls are gathered around Leanne at the edge of the pool, their expressions grave.
“I don’t want to see that happen ever again,” Leanne says. “You hear me?”
They nod.
The former player in me can’t help wondering what my ex-coach is so riled up over.
“Suit holding is unsportsmanlike, unacceptable, and downright nasty when it results in exposure!” she booms.
I agree with every word.
The girls nod. Two of them—Nat and Corinne—look down.
