Lucas blows his whistle and yells, “Out of the pool, boys! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Every time he calls us “boys,” I fight the urge to smile. While it’s true that some of our players are in their early twenties, others are closer to thirty. I’m thirty-two, and that’s only four years younger than Lucas.

Then again, I’m a relatively old athlete, having returned to swimming and water polo after a four-year hiatus when Sam was born. Lucas, on the other hand, is a young coach. He founded the club less than two years ago, after disappearing from athletics—and meaningful life—for years while he was in a coma and then full-time assisted care.

As I pad around the pool’s edge toward Lucas, I take a better look at the guy he’s about to introduce to us. Slick and suited up, the man is either a lawyer or a publicist.

“Martin is number one on my short list for the publicist job I’d advertised,” Lucas says when the last player joins the debrief circle.

I hold out my hand. “Zach.”

Martin shakes it.

“Zach is the squad’s center forward and team captain,” Lucas says.

Jean-Michel extends his hand. “Also known as ‘hole-set’ or simply ‘the hole.’ ”

Lucas points to him. “Jean-Michel is the substitute hole.”

Martin and Jean-Michel exchange a handshake.

“The hole-set is a special position,” Lucas explains to Martin. “He doesn’t switch between offense and defense like the field players. His job is to shoot. Period.”

“Got it.” Martin scribbles in his thick notebook.

OK, so he’s not familiar with the basics of water polo. If he’s hired, he’d better be a quick study. Then again, Lucas isn’t recruiting him for his knowledge of the game. It’s his PR skills that the club needs.

Next, Lucas points to Noah and his substitute. “The other single-task player is the goalkeeper. He stays close to the cage, and his performance there can make or break a game.”

“Noah’s always makes it,” Phil, the young substitute goalie, comments, eyeing Noah reverently.

“That’s correct,” I say. “Last year, his saves got us to the finals of the French Pro A league championship.”

Noah turns to Martin. “We’re aiming for gold this season.”

“We are getting the gold this season,” Lucas says in a quiet voice.

Martin gives him a thumbs-up, grinning. “You’ll make my job a lot easier if you do.”

No one smiles back.

Not because we’re antisocial, but because the steel in Lucas’s calmness doesn’t escape anyone’s notice. It reminds us of his determination, but also of the commitment each of us has made. There’ll be no goofing around this season. If a player fails to give it all he’s got, no matter the reason, Lucas will kick him out first, and ask questions later.

That’s the new deal.

Martin turns to Lucas. “I didn’t get a chance to say it during the interview, but I find your personal story singular enough to invest some promotional effort into. You were France’s best scorer, played for Europe’s top clubs, made heaps of money on commercials, and—”

Lucas interrupts him, “Which is how I know we can get the funding we need if you get us on TV and radio. And why not advertise shaving creams and such?”

“I will,” Martin says. “And I’ll get you decent press coverage, too. Mark my words.”

Martin has a point—Lucas’s story is singular, not just because of what he’d achieved before his coma, but—more importantly—because of how he picked up the pieces afterward. When he woke up, Lucas didn’t know who he was. He does now, but only because people told him. His parents, friends and former teammates showed him pictures and recounted anecdotes from his life.

Every year of his life.

Lucas and I played on the same team for three years. He knows it, but he doesn’t remember it. His body and mind lost countless skills, which he had to relearn, not to mention the rules of the game, of the competitions, leagues, and federations, and the general functioning of the water polo world.

Next time Noah tells me he admires me for my discipline and how together I am, I’ll suggest he admire Lucas instead. The man gives the word “discipline” a whole new meaning. As for me… I’m too weak to even make myself stop craving Uma.

What I deserve is contempt.

“I hope that by promoting the club,” Lucas says to Martin, “you’ll help promote water polo in general. People don’t know as much about it as they do football or basketball, but this game is a lot tougher.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Have you tried to dribble without touching the ball?” Jean-Michel asks.

Martin shakes his head. “How is that even possible?”

“As you swim forward, you create waves with your strokes,” I say. “With practice, you get those waves to propel the ball in front of you. You sort of shepherd it in the same direction you’re headed.”

Martin’s eyes widen. “Wow.”

“What about jumping high up without touching the ground?” Valentin, one of our newer players, asks.

Martin smiles. “You’re going to tell me that’s possible, too, right?”

“With sufficient strength training, yes,” Valentin says not without pride.

“The players can only swim or tread water while they’re in the pool,” Lucas explains. “They aren’t allowed to stand or even touch the bottom or a wall.”

We give Martin a couple more examples of how challenging water polo is before Lucas declares it’s enough for one day and sends everyone except Martin back into the pool.

When practice is over, I grab a sandwich and go home, where I head straight to my home office and work until it’s time to read Sam his bedtime story.

Normally, I’d cook and have dinner with Sam and Uma, but that means seeing her, hearing her voice, dying to touch her…

What a mess.

After Sam has shut his eyes, I tiptoe out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. We keep a box of delicious artisanal chocolates in one of the cabinets above the sink, and my intention is to treat myself to one as a consolation prize for not having laid eyes on Uma since this morning.

Making as little noise as I can and without turning the light on, I open the box. A lonely champagne truffle stares at me from the bottom.

The last one.

I’ll have to buy a new box tomorrow. Given how much both Uma and I love these chocolates, I’ve been buying a box every week since Uma discovered the shop on a quiet street behind the market square. We keep them hidden not to tempt Sam, and help ourselves to one or two every night after he’s gone to bed.

“My preeecious,” I whisper to the truffle in Gollum’s voice.

Uma giggles behind my back.

I didn’t hear her come in.

“So, what do we do now?” she asks, looking up at me. “Clearly, we’ve both sneaked in here with the same gluttonous intentions, but there’s only one truffle left.”

“I got here first,” I say.

“Only by a second!” She pouts. “I really need that chocolate at this particular juncture in my life.”

“Me, too.”

She puts her hands on her hips and jerks her chin up. “That’s not very chivalrous of you, Zach.”

“Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you always get your way.” I arch an eyebrow. “Besides, chivalry was made redundant in the sixties.”

“OK, forget chivalry—what about fairness? I’m a featherweight next to your… King Kong weight. As a pro athlete, it would be sporting of you to withdraw from the competition.”

I guffaw at her resourcefulness. “Nice try, Uma. But not a chance.”

She huffs in frustration.

“Well,” I say. “At least, now you’ve seen my true colors and how thin my veneer of gallantry is.”

“Yes. Whatever.” She pinches her chin. “Can we cut it in half?”

Tenacious little thing.

I almost give in, but sparring with her is too much fun to put an end to it by showing mercy.

“Hmm…” I tilt my head to the side and peer at the tiny cocoa-powdered confection as if I were considering her proposition. “Nah. It’s too small.”

“So, you’re really going to eat it now all by yourself?”

I nod. “Exactly. And you can console yourself with a Toblerone.”

She pulls a face. “How can you even compare industrial milk chocolate to this… fountain of flavor and well-being?”

“Fine,” I say, smiling. “Don’t eat a Tob—”

She snatches the chocolate from the box and darts out the door into the garden. I drop the box and run after her. She shoves the chocolate in her mouth.

“Cheater!” I narrow my eyes in what I hope is an intimidating glare. “You’re going to pay for this.”

She bolts, trying to get back into the house.

I block her way, towering over her. Uma retreats, turns around, and runs to the other end of the garden. I follow, hot on her heels. She doesn’t shriek, no doubt, so she won’t wake up Sam, whose window is open above us.

For two or three minutes, I chase Uma around the garden in silence. I’m faster, but she’s nimbler. Besides, I’ve no clue how I’m going to make her “pay” for her theft, so I’m not really putting my heart and soul into the pursuit. On our third round, Uma ducks under my arm and hightails it into the house, across the kitchen, and toward the stairs.

She’s hoping to make it to her bedroom and lock herself in.

Not happening.

Accelerating, I close the distance between us. She scrambles up the steps. I grab her shoulders from behind, putting an end to her delusion that she can outrun me. Giggling, she tries to break free. I wrap my arms around her to hold her. She stops thrashing. I pull her into me, tightening my hold. She stops laughing.

For a few moments, neither of us moves or makes a sound, pressed against each other, panting.

Her chest heaves underneath my forearms.

I press them lightly against her little breasts, her nipples…

My heart throbs in my ears.

A caveman’s impulse to sling her over my shoulder and carry her somewhere private where I can have my way with her surges up somewhere in my gut, both shocking and tantalizing me. To resist it, I plant my feet firmly into the step and refuse to move a single muscle in my body.

With Uma one step higher on the staircase, her nape is perniciously close to my face, making my struggle harder than it already is. Her silky black hair is gathered into her usual bun that’s gotten messy from all the running.

I stare at her delicate neck.

Want to kiss it.

Dying to kiss it.

Can’t.

Because… reasons… good reasons… if I could just recall them.

There!

She’s Sam’s nanny.

That’s good, but not good enough…

She’s my friend’s almost fiancée. She’s inexperienced and clearly not thinking straight right now.

Very good. I relax my embrace enough for her to duck and slip away.

Only she doesn’t do it.

Instead, she leans back into me.

Jesus. Christ.

If we do something now, we’ll regret it in the morning. Uma will hate me, and perhaps herself, for this weakness. I’ll hate myself. She’ll probably leave, and while that’ll be a blow for me, it’s Uma who’ll suffer more of the consequences.

I suck in a sharp breath and let my arms drop to my sides.

She remains motionless for a moment and then scurries to her room and pulls the door shut.