Isn’t it ironic that the run-down McDonald’s where Noemi and I sealed my fate eight years ago is just three blocks from the swimming pool where I’ve trained for the last two years?

When we were eighteen, Noemi lived farther down the street. My parents’ apartment was spitting distance from hers, and our school was no more than ten minutes away.

After my failed suicide attempt, we moved to Belgium, and I never set foot in this neighborhood until I returned to Paris and joined Lucas’s up-and-coming club. And now I pass this calamitous spot every day except Sundays or when we travel. That must add up to something like four or five hundred occasions to recall a certain windy December afternoon and shake my head at my incredible naïveté.

Today is no different.

I park my car in the first available spot, grab my duffel bag, and hoof it to the pool. As I pass the McDonald’s, I forget I’m a self-assured twenty-six-year-old athlete admired by thousands of fans and rid of my aggressive cystic acne for five years.

I’m eighteen again, sitting across the table from an angel in skinny jeans and white sweater at this very McDonald’s.

I’d planned to take Noemi somewhere nicer, but she said she didn’t have time, what with today’s homework, the papers to finish and hand in before the Christmas break, and the exams to prepare for.

“So, what is it you wanted to tell me?” she says, glancing at her watch. “Make it snappy.”

I’d prepared a speech filled with pearls of eloquence from the “Top 10 Most Romantic Love Declarations No Woman Can Resist” article from the Internet. I’d learned it by rote.

But I can’t remember a word of it to save my life.

Noemi taps her fingertips on the table. “So?”

“I’m in love with you,” I say.

She sighs and stares out the window. Her expression tells me she expected me to say something like that. Small wonder, with all the yearning looks exchanged between us since September. True, I’ve done most of the looking and, especially, the yearning. But she did return quite a few of my stares, especially when we worked on that history presentation in her room.

I would’ve never dared to do what I’m doing now if she hadn’t.

With my gaze trained on my Christmas blend, I wait and lose hope with every passing second. I’m so screwed. She must be searching for words to break it to me gently. She’s going to say she’s sorry but she doesn’t feel the same way about me. Given the way I look these days, who can blame her?

“Are you sure what you’re feeling is love, and not… you know… hormones?” Noemi asks.

I look up from my paper cup, flabbergasted. She didn’t say no. She’s trying to gauge the depth of my feelings.

Could that mean…

Noemi cocks her head, prompting me to answer her question.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say.

“Are you willing to prove it?”

“Of course. How?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know… Do something that will leave no doubt in my heart that you’re truly in love.”

“I’ll do anything,” I say. “Name it, and I’ll do it.”

She gives me a mischievous smile. “Will you dye your hair bright green?”

I smirk. “As if I didn’t look vile enough with my zits… But yes, sure.”

“Will you go out in yellow briefs?”

“Sure.”

“And nothing else.”

I picture myself walking the streets of Paris in my underwear. “Can I have my sneakers on?”

She nods. “Will you get a tattoo on your back?”

“Absolutely. Anything specific?”

She describes what she has in mind and surveys me for a long moment. “Will you write me a love letter?”

“Already have.”

I reach for my jacket to pull the folded sheet with my “speech,” but she catches my hand. “Don’t give it to me now.”

My mind draws a blank, and all I can think of is her hand on my wrist. This is our first time touching. It feels like heaven.

“Did you swipe it from the Internet?” she asks.

I smile apologetically. “Writing isn’t my strong suit.”

“I don’t care if your letter isn’t elegant,” she says. “But I want your words to come from the heart. They have to be sincere.”

I stare at her hand on top of mine. “OK… I’ll write it in my own words. Then what?”

“I’ll invite you to my birthday party next Saturday,” Noemi says, shifting her hand ever so slightly.

Was that a caress? My eyes drill into hers, looking for a clue.

She holds my gaze and shifts her hand again, this time applying more pressure, stroking my hand. My lids drop, and my cock stirs against my thigh.

“You’ll come in yellow undies,” she says, “with green hair and the tat on your back, and you’ll bring your love letter. We’ll go to my room once my parents are out and everyone is dancing, and you’ll read it to me. If I find your letter heartfelt and passionate enough, I will…” She blushes and looks at our hands on the table.

Emboldened, I reach over and touch her cheek. “Noemi…”

“I’ll kiss you,” she says, leaning her head into my touch. “And… more.”

Holy. Cow.

This is so much more than what I could have hoped for that a part of me wants to jump on top of the table and yell my joy for the whole world to hear. The other part wants to lean forward and kiss the hell out of Noemi. But I do neither of those things. She has stated her terms. I’m not enchanted with them, but clearly, they mean a lot to her. So, I’m going to play by her rules and hold my end of the deal.

And she’ll hold hers.

Except, she didn’t.

She had never meant to.

The whole thing had been intended as a lesson: How dare you hope a girl like me would want anything to do with a loser like you!

As I step into the locker room, my teammates attack me with confetti guns.

“Congratulations on your engagement!”

“Woot! Woot!”

“When’s the wedding?”

News travels fast.

Jean-Michel shakes his head. “Lucky bastard, snagging a girl like that. I was hoping she’d dump you and go out with me…”

“Luckily for Julien, his girl is too smart to fall for a horndog like you,” Valentin says.

Zach, our hole-set and team captain, pats my shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man.”

I feel bad because I know Zach means it. He always means what he says. Recently married himself—and happily so, judging by the way he and Uma dote on each other—he’s thirty-three. That makes him the oldest player and the only “veteran” on the team.

But the club’s longest in the tooth is our coach Lucas, who could’ve still played at thirty-seven if it wasn’t for his injuries and all the other shit he went through a few years back.

Everyone else is in their twenties, which means a couple of Olympic Games and at least half a dozen seasons to look forward to.

Today’s workout begins with weight lifting and stomach exercises before we jump into the tank for leg conditioning. In this game, everything comes down to strength and endurance. After my attempted suicide, I set out to harden myself mentally and physically. I did tons of research on various sports. Water polo looked like the toughest of them all, so I chose it. I’ve never regretted my choice.

What happens above the water is bad enough, but the real effort—and the real fight—takes place beneath the surface where the public and the refs on their walkways can’t see.

We tread water all the time—even during time-outs—to keep ourselves afloat since we aren’t allowed to touch the bottom of the pool. We position ourselves so we can make plays on offense or defense with one arm out of the water at all times and ready to handle the ball.

No one gets to rest if they’re in the game.

Even in peaceful moments when players are “just” swimming across the pool, things are not what they seem. Suddenly, two or three guys come up from underwater, and there’s blood everywhere. Only no one rolls on the grass screaming and weeping like those clowns do in soccer.

We take our lumps and carry on.

As the team’s hole-defender, I tend to end up with more lumps than any other player on the squad. While Zach must focus on scoring, my main job is to prevent the opposing team’s hole-set from shooting. The way I do it is by jostling, hurtling myself into the guy, jabbing him, pulling, hanging on him, and doing just about anything short of stabbing to shut him down.

Considering the average hole-set’s size and skill, defending the hole is a job from hell. Good thing I’m just as big as Zach. And twice as mean.

The only other guy meaner than me in the field—and in life—is Jean-Michel. We could’ve been besties if I’d had for him a fraction of the respect I have for Zach.

Zach’s lack of meanness aside, I truly admire our hole-set.

He’s honorable, and he trains like a beast, which is why he’s in top form. Last year, he was named France’s top scorer, and became the first Nageurs de Paris player to be selected for the national team. Our goalie Noah was the second and, once Lucas took over as the national team’s coach, he picked me to be the hole-defender on the main squad and Jean-Michel as a substitute hole-set.

Aside from the fact that it’s an honor to represent France in international competitions, my pay doubled, and I quit my part-time job at my parents’ accounting firm. Mom was OK with that, but Dad wasn’t happy. I had to promise I’d join again when my days as an athlete are over.

What I failed to mention is that I plan to become the longest-playing water poloist in the world.

After the workout, we go for drinks. This time, coach takes us to a fancier place than our usual post-workout brasserie and orders champagne to celebrate my engagement. I had expected this to happen, so I asked my fiancée and my best friend to join us. Noemi had to work late, researching some messy case for her boss, but Roland said he’d come.

True to his word, he did.

“Congratulations!” Roland gives me a shamelessly fake smile and clinks his champagne glass to mine. “Everything on track?”

While my teammates and coach are here to wish me joy and happiness, Roland is asking about the progress of my plan. What with being my best friend since childhood, he’s the only person who knows about it.

“Oh, yeah.” I flash a bright smile that competes with Roland’s in its falseness. “The paperwork is done and submitted to the mairie, and we have a date.”

“When?”

“November 22.”

“That’s two months from now.” Roland frowns. “Will you survive?”

“Are you abstaining until marriage?” Jean-Michel asks, widening his eyes.

I hadn’t noticed him sit next to us.

I rub the bridge of my nose, scrambling for a plausible explanation. “That’s not what he meant.”

“I meant it in the sense that Julien here is way too eager to call Noemi his wife,” Roland says.

“Aww. How sweet.” Jean-Michel gives me a you-poor-lovesick-sod smile. “So, will you survive?”

He wouldn’t be smiling if he knew the real meaning behind Roland’s question. My friend was asking if I can keep up the act for two more months.

I can.

I will.

Even if it’s getting harder by the day.