I regretted the self-righteous tone of my letter on the flight to Belgrade.

The letter itself didn’t strike me as an immature and ill-considered act until I got back to Paris five days later. Three weeks after I’d penned the unfortunate missive, I had trouble seeing why it had been so necessary that I dump Noemi. Since I’d given up on the end game, anyway, I could’ve come clean instead and suggested we cancel the engagement.

But not the nightly sex.

Or our weekends and vacation together.

Or the living under the same roof.

Fact is I miss her.

I miss Noemi in my arms, against my chest, impaled on my cock, kissing me, moaning, and digging her fingers into my back. Sex aside, I also miss her conversation, the smell of her, the shape of her…

To be honest, there isn’t a thing about Noemi that I don’t miss. To be even more honest, this past month without her has been shit.

I park the car and run the few blocks to the pool in a rainstorm that soaks my clothes. We’ve had this weather for a couple of weeks now, which is unusual for early November. Being drenched doesn’t matter right now, since I’m headed for the pool, but getting into damp clothes after the workout isn’t something I look forward to.

Not that I’ve looked forward to anything of late.

The realization hits me, and I halt in the middle of the lobby, bumping into and apologizing to a group of teenagers heading out after their session.

A month is thirty days.

Thirty. Fucking. Days.

Nonstop games and travel notwithstanding, I didn’t need thirty days to own the monumental failure of the whole revenge operation. Nor did I need thirty days to admit what I’ve known in my gut since my first date with Noemi back in June.

Life without her sucks.

So what if I haven’t completely forgiven her for her so-called “joke”? I may never get over it, resentful bastard that I am. So what if she isn’t the flawless, perfect human being I’d imagined her to be? She may never come anywhere near perfection, no matter how hard she fights her natural meanness.

But what matters is that she is fighting it.

And what matters, even more, is that no other woman has ever fascinated or aroused me like she does.

I want her back.

Clasping my hands around the nape of my neck, I squeeze my head between my elbows and take a long, deep breath.

Permission to surrender.

I’m going to suck up my pride and ask Noemi to take me back. Beg her, if necessary. Hell, I’ll grovel at her feet if that’s what it takes.

The weight that falls off my shoulders is so big I gasp. Ooh, the relief! Now I know why Lucas has been sending me to extra massage sessions lately. I’m surprised I could play at all with that load on my back.

“You’re smiling,” Zach says as I enter the locker room. “It’s good to see you smile again.”

My teammates obviously know about the “breakup,” but they don’t know who dumped whom. I didn’t offer any detail or explanation when I announced it was over between Noemi and me. They didn’t ask. There’s something to be said for male discretion about matters of the heart.

In the pool, we start the warm-up routine, while waiting for Lucas to arrive. He’s been busier than ever this season. He coaches the club’s men’s team, and the national men’s team, and now he also manages the women’s team for the club.

Because, as of September of this year, Nageurs de Paris has a professional women’s team.

The girls are a vivacious and highly motivated bunch, all of whom he handpicked and began to train last year. Now they have their own coach, Leanne, a fifty-year-old veteran who won several European championships with an Italian club in her day. Lucas stole Leanne from Nice, offering her better pay and a “virgin” team to mold and shape as she pleases.

We also have a new publicist now, Isabelle, who may or may not be Lucas’s girlfriend.

He fired our previous—and first ever—PR guy, Martin, at the end of last season over a misdemeanor that’s never been explained to us. Naturally, everyone is curious. At some point, Jean-Michel circulated one or two outrageous rumors, but Zach shut him up.

Nobody really regrets Martin’s exit, because he was sleazy, and because he made us pose for a calendar in our birthday suits with only a water polo ball to cover the privates. That calendar sold like hotcakes, fetching the club some welcome cash. Triumphant, Martin began to talk about doing the same with the women’s team, until they impressed on Lucas how profoundly they abhorred the idea.

Lucas heard them, and Martin never made a calendar with the girls.

As we lift weights, Jean-Michel gives me a funny look. I must admit he’s my least favorite person on the team. Even Martin had more redeeming qualities than this guy. They’re both skirt-chasers, but Martin was less of a jerk than Jean-Michel. He never tried to hit on another man’s girlfriend or wife.

Jean-Michel hit on Noemi several times while she and I dated.

I forget my unpleasant recollections as soon as Lucas arrives and orders us into the pool. We train like there’s no tomorrow. The stakes are high for everyone this season whether they’re on the national team or not. In December, the team will go after the elusive gold in the first division French league games, the Pro A Championnat de France. We came in second two years straight, so now we really want it.

And in January Zach, Noah, Jean-Michel, and I will go to the world championships with the national team.

When the workout and scrimmages are over, I don my damp clothes and head out for the traditional beer with the rest of the team. Noemi is rarely home from work before eight, so I have time for a beer and a bit of mental conditioning before I show up on her doorstep.

When we enter the brasserie, a painfully familiar figure stands up from the stool at the bar and moves toward us.

Holy cow! It’s Noemi.

Did she read my mind? Or has she simply realized she’s too miserable without me and she wants me back? With a bit of luck, I might not need to grovel.

I beam. “Hi there.”

“Hi, you,” she says, smiling.

Only her words and her smile aren’t addressed to me.

Her eyes are on Jean-Michel as he goes up to her and plants a long, unambiguous kiss on her lips.

When they’re done exchanging saliva, he turns toward the guys. “You remember Noemi, don’t you? She recently put her qualms aside and made the right choice.” He winks and points both his index fingers at himself. “So I suggest you get used to seeing her around again.”

My hands ball into fists.

Jean-Michel stares me in the eye before adding, “I repeat for those who need it spelled out: Get. Used to. Seeing her. With me.”