The horn marks the end of the game, and the guys shout and throw their fists up.

“Go France!” our fans in the arena chant.

The Czech fans show remarkable restraint in expressing their disappointment.

I glance at Michel and Frederic from the French Swimming Federation. They give me the thumbs up, and I nod, beaming.

This wasn’t just any victory.

The men’s national team, which I’ve had the honor of coaching since last season, just qualified for the knockout stage of the European Water Polo Championship.

Eric, who’s been screaming his head off for the last thirty seconds, pulls himself together and nudges me with his elbow. “We did it.”

“It’s huge.” I smile before arching an eyebrow. “But this is not our endgame.”

He nods. “I know, I know—our endgame is the podium. We’ll get there.”

My assistant coach is a former Pro A player just like me, even if we’ve never played for the same club.

But I knew him Before Amnesia. The pro water polo world being so small in France, everybody seems to know everybody. Besides, Eric and I had a common friend, Isabelle Ferrand. She used to play for the women’s team in my club, but she quit water polo and went back to school to get a degree in marketing a few months before my attack.

Four years back, I looked her up and arranged a meeting. Encouraged by my therapist, I was on a mission to talk to everyone from my past in the hopes of triggering a memory—any memory. But we didn’t connect. Isabelle was aloof. I was still weak and easily overwhelmed. We soldiered through a disjointed conversation for half an hour, at the end of which we bid each other a relieved farewell and went our separate ways.

Beats me how she and I could have been friends when we had nothing to say to each other.

Then again, perhaps Before Amnesia, we did.

I’ve collected so many facts about the first thirty years of my life, I sometimes tell myself it doesn’t matter anymore that I can’t recall things. But most of the time, when I’m at a loss about what kind of person I used to be, I’m reminded just how much it matters.

If only I hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time that night!

The police reconstructed the events leading up to my attack with very few holes. I’d had a regular day. I’d worked out at the pool in the morning. Then I’d grabbed lunch with a couple of my teammates. I’d gone home and had a video chat with Angie, who was doing a beachwear shoot in Brazil. Back to the pool for the afternoon practice. Nothing special, no tiffs with anyone.

In the evening, Eric and Isabelle had spotted me in Le Poivre, waiting for someone. We’d exchanged a few words, and they’d left. Unfortunately, I hadn’t told them who I was meeting.

The cops were unable to establish that, either.

No one knows if that person ever showed and if he’s the one I had a fistfight with. When I fell, hit my temple against the curb and passed out, there was so much blood, he might’ve assumed I was dead. He might’ve freaked and hightailed it out of there, taking my wallet to make it look like a mugging.

Or, more likely, whoever I was waiting for never showed. I’d had too much to drink, and some asshole in the bar marked me as easy prey and followed me outside.

A regular mugging, with a very unfortunate outcome, but no mystery behind it.

“I hear you’re dining with the Swimming Federation reps tonight,” Eric says, breaking me from my thoughts.

There’s a tiny hint of envy in his voice.

“It’s to talk shop,” I say. “I’d rather be celebrating with you guys.”

“I bet you would,” Eric says.

This time, both his smile and his tone are earnest, and I chastise myself for my earlier discomfort. So what if Eric feels a little resentful about being left out? Anyone would in his place. The man is ambitious and serious about his career. I can relate. And I can certainly understand his wish to be involved when the “grown-ups” talk shop.

“I’ll give you a detailed account,” I say. “And next time they invite me, I’ll insist you come along.”

He waves dismissively. “Don’t. Someone needs to keep an eye on the guys, so they don’t get too carried away.”

“Zach can do it,” I say. “He’s the oldest and wisest of the lot.”

Eric nods. “I guess he can.”

* * *

In the evening, I join the Federation reps at the hotel restaurant.

“I just wanted to say, once again, what an honor it is for me to coach the national team,” I say while we wait for our food to be served. “You entrusted me with a huge responsibility, and you won’t regret it.”

Michel raises his glass. “Amen to that. The decision wasn’t Fred’s and mine alone. It was the entire board’s. Everyone was inspired by how you’d started a brand-new club and taken it to national silver in two years.”

“It was my luck players like Zach Monin joined from the outset,” I say.

Frederic takes a sip from his glass and swishes the wine in his mouth. “Zachary Monin’s joining you had nothing to do with luck.”

His tone is sardonic and cold, the only way the Chairman of the Federation ever sounds. But he’s a good sort—fair and unburdened by any of the prejudices people of his generation sometimes harbor.

Not my parents, thank heavens.

Besides, Frederic does have a point. Zach “The Nuke” Monin and Denis Milevic joined Nageurs de Paris because the three of us used to play together for Boulogne back in the day.

My genius goalie Noah and a few younger players signed up because Zach is the country’s top scorer and a demigod in the water polo world.

Our talented hole defender, Julien, assures me he joined after he watched recordings of my own exploits back from when I played hole D on the French Olympic Team. He says he was impressed by my endurance. Hell, I’m impressed by it every time I watch those old games. Without false modesty, I was good—a top-notch hole D fans worshiped and several premium division European clubs warred over.

Shame I don’t remember that.

But, yeah, it does look like my past as a good player had more to do with the club’s success, than dumb luck.

“Your job is cut out for you, Lucas,” Michel says. “Get the French water polo team to where it was six years ago, before you and Zachary took a break. And then take it further. We want a European medal, my boy. We haven’t had one in decades.”

Funny how what Michel speaks of as a “break,” Frederic, who’s blunter, calls a knockout. As for Zach’s hiatus, he refers to it as a knockup. Zach had put his life on pause for four years after his newborn son was diagnosed with epilepsy and his ex had left the two of them to fend for themselves.

I guess Zach and I would finish pretty close if we contended for the “Shittiest Water Polo Break of the Decade.”

“A European medal for this year, if you can,” Frederic says, giving me an emphatic look. “And next year, aim for the World.”

I nod. “The best way to make water polo as popular as handball is in France is to get our guys up on the podium.”

Michel arches an eyebrow. “You think your team can pull it off?”

“I know they can.” I give him a hard stare. “And I’ll do what it takes to help them.”

“That’s the spirit.” Frederic pats my shoulder before tilting his head. “What do you think of your assistant coach?”

At the Paris club, Leanne and I agreed not to hire assistants for now. The budget we’re working with permits only one additional employee, and that’s going to be a publicist as soon as we find a replacement for Martin. But things are different with the national team. The money comes from the Swimming Federation, and—frankly—I’m happy to have an assistant coach. I wouldn’t be able to train two teams at once without one.

“Eric is doing great,” I say. “He’s just as driven as I am.”

Michel chuckles. “He certainly is.”

Our server turns up with the appetizers.

“You’ve got to love beer cheese!” Michel points to his plate.

Frederic adjusts his napkin. “Is this your first time in Prague?”

“First time post-amnesia.” I pick up my fork and knife and smile. “So yeah, first time.”