“Your first time in Montpellier?” Zach’s wife Uma asks me.

She and her stepson are on my right in the premium seating area of the town’s aquatics center. They are wearing blue jerseys, caps, and Nageurs de Paris team jackets. To top it off, Uma is armed with pompoms, and the little boy, a foam hand and a bag of confetti.

What adorable fans they make!

“Yep, first time,” I say before turning to the boy. “Your name’s Sam, right?”

He holds out his little hand. “Samuel Monin.”

“We’ve met before,” I say, shaking it. “I’m Noemi.”

He shrugs as if to say he doesn’t remember me. That’s a relief. It means I won’t have to explain to this six-year-old that I’m no longer Julien’s fiancée, but Jean-Michel’s date.

I picture myself saying to him, Aww, don’t look so flummoxed, young man. Grown-ups do worse things to each other. All. The. Time.

Shooting Uma a sidelong glance, I wonder if she knows about my recent “transfer.”

“Julien is extra combative today, huh?” she says, pointing her chin to the pool.

So, she doesn’t know.

“If by ‘combative’ you mean brutal and aggressive,” I say, “then yes, he is.”

Uma’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, before she collects herself. For a few minutes, we watch the game without saying anything. It’s a rough one, the players of both teams pushing, grabbing, tugging, and shoving each other above the water. I don’t even dare to imagine what goes on under the surface where the referees can’t see.

Towering above Montpellier’s hole-set—who is by no means a small guy—Julien does more grabbing and shoving than any other player in the tank. More than I’ve ever seen him do even in a match that Paris was losing.

He thrashes and wrestles with the hole-set, and wraps his arm around the guy’s neck, before both disappear under water. I panic for a moment when they don’t resurface. But they do. The hole-set coughs up water and flails his limbs while Julien looks in control. Just as ferocious as before the mutual sinking. And just as magnificent.

Stop right there! Rewind. Delete the last part.

“Predatory” is a much better qualifier than “magnificent” for who my ex-fiancé has become. The former dork morphed into a mean son of a bitch who spent years plotting revenge over a teenage prank. He’s become a dirty-playing asshole who didn’t turn his nose up at proposing marriage to the object of his obsession—because let’s face it, he is obsessed with me—even as he planned to jilt me at the altar. A man who got a woman to fall for him even though he had no intention of catching her.

And that’s why he deserves to watch me hook up with Jean-Michel, the team’s resident jerk, a man he despises.

I exhale a ragged breath. OK, back to the dilemma at hand.

Should I inform Uma without warning or preamble like I did last week in Paris when I ran into the goalie’s wife, and she asked about Julien?

“We’re not together anymore,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’m with Jean-Michel now.”

To her credit, she didn’t blink. Even if she thought I was a slut, she didn’t show it. Not that I care what Julien and Jean-Michel’s teammates or their wives think. I don’t envision a future with either man.

“Paris has had five straight wins and appears hungrier than ever for the Pro A league gold,” the commentator says.

I refocus on the game.

Instinctively, my eyes find Julien. In the middle of yet another nasty-looking tussle, he dominates the other team’s hole-set in every way. Part of it is thanks to his speed of reaction and movement. But the main reason is his disregard for injuries and pain, be it the opponent’s or his own.

With Julien neutralizing Montpellier’s scorer so completely, the rest of the Paris team play with a level of precision and efficiency I’ve never seen before. Noah guards the cage like a lioness protecting her cub. The driver and perimeter players sprint up and down the tank, passing the ball to their own hole-set, Zach.

Uma’s hubby, helped by another player, manages to fight off the other team’s defenders and shoot every two or three minutes, widening the gap between the two teams.

“Nageurs’ hole-set Zach Monin is amazing this season,” the commentator says. “He keeps rewarding us with the kind of play we’ve come to expect from the country’s top scorer.”

I glance at Uma and Sam, both of whom look like they just learned they’d won 10 million euros.

“But it’s Paris’s stalwart hole-D Julien Boitel,” the commentator goes on, “who sets the pace of today’s semifinal. The defender is on fire, smothering hole-set Serge Luciano’s every single attempt to shoot. Actually, Boitel’s coverage is so aggressive one wonders why he isn’t getting called for more fouls.”

One does, eh?

If you ask me, it’s because the bastard is skilled enough to do it in a way that looks like he isn’t breaking the rules. From the refs’ vantage point, he’s just cutting off passes and wrestling a bit. But if you watch him more closely, you’ll notice he also shoves, jostles, and even headbutts Montpellier’s scorer. In fact, he’s so rough with that Luciano guy, I wouldn’t be surprised if punches have been dealt.

It is safe to assume the commentator wouldn’t be surprised, either.

“Boitel’s play today reminds me of the infamous Russian defender Aleksandr Dolgushin,” he says. “Dolgushin was so savage in the field that Italian players, followed by everyone else, dubbed him assassino.”

Toward the end of the game, one of the refs begins to pay closer attention to my ex. He ends up awarding Julien a penalty foul and two major fouls that send him to the ejection corner. Except that doesn’t really help Montpellier, what with water polo exclusions lasting only twenty seconds. As for penalties, the southern squad would need a dozen of them at this point, all successfully converted, for a chance to win.

Which, obviously, isn’t going to happen.

As the final seconds disappear on the clock and the horn signals the end of the game, Uma and Sam scream in celebration. They throw confetti all around them—including on me—and do a wave routine.

“Paris just got very close to their coveted trophy with a 15-6 demolition of the Montpellier team,” the commentator says. “They are ready for the finals. They’ve been ready since this season began.”

Uma and Sam finish their thing and sit down.

“Julien won this game,” she says, beaming at me.

Now is a good time to break the news to her. “I’m not here to support Julien.”

She blinks.

“I’m with Jean-Michel now,” I say. “The substitute hole-set.”

“Oh.” She blinks once more, turns to Sam, and smooths his hair.

To say I’ve astounded her would be an understatement.

“Are you coming to the dinner tonight?” Uma asks, avoiding my eyes.

“Rain check,” I say. “Have a stomach bug.”

The truth is that spending two celebratory evenings within the same week in the company of my ex-fiancé and wannabe boyfriend, as well as the rest of their team and their spouses is too much, even for a thick-skinned bitch like myself.

I need a breather.

After texting Jean-Michel that I’m not feeling well, I sneak out of the aquatics center and head to the hotel. Once in my room, I read, watch some TV and order room service.

Someone knocks just as I’m finishing my salad. With a sigh, I head to the door. Must be Jean-Michel hoping to convince me to spend the night with him. When I told him on our first date ten days ago that I was still recovering from Julien’s betrayal and would need time, he was all sympathy and understanding. “Of course,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not the insensitive lech some people paint me to be. Take as much time as you need.”

That was a lot of bull as it turned out.

Jean-Michel began to pressure me to “give it a shot” as early as our second date, and it’s been getting worse. What was it he said yesterday…? Ah, yes. “I’ve been patient enough, babes, and you aren’t an underage virgin.”

So, yeah, he is an insensitive lech.

Then again, I’m in no position to trash him since I have no intention of having sex with him.

“Yes?” I say at the door.

“Will you let me in?”

It isn’t Jean-Michel—it’s Julien.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Oh, I think you have plenty to say to me.”

The cheek of him! “Go away.”

“Tell me,” he says, “why did you book a separate room if you’re here with Jean-Michel?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“That’s not how I see it. The way I see it, you’re using him to win me back.”

“What? No!” I swing the door open. “You’re so wrong about that!”

“Am I?” He cocks his head and smiles.

That infuriates me so much I almost spit in his smug face. “So. Very. Wrong.”

“Really?” He marches past me into the room. “That’s a shame. As it happens, I do want us to get back together.”

Huh? I spin around and stare at him.

“I miss you, Noemi,” he says, all trace of smugness gone from his face. “Very much.”

I blink, processing his words.

Julien’s gaze rakes over my face and body, and caresses me, hungry and hot.

“It’s ironic,” he says. “Twisted even. But here’s the thing—we belong together.”

Yeah, right.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks, a plea in his eyes. “Can we start over?”

I furrow my brow.

This was too easy, suspiciously easy. And sort of anticlimactic.

But, hey, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m going to deliver my punch line and enjoy my revenge. And get this whole stupid, obsessive, and unhealthy thing between Julien and me done and over with.

“No,” I say, stepping toward him so he can see the determination in my eyes. “As in, not in a million years.”