I pace the office, waiting for Leanne to come up after practice.

Emboldened by how smoothly I’ve steered Lucas to okay my schemes so far, I want to run one specific idea by Leanne before bringing it to the Big Man.

Shit.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t think about him, even indirectly, for the next hour. Not the whole week, or even the rest of the day. Just one hour.

Should’ve been easy, right? A small, realistic, achievable goal.

The hell it is.

I can’t go ten minutes without thinking about Lucas.

Or about what we did—and didn’t do—on Nova Icària Beach.

It’s been two weeks since that evening, and we’ve been excessively polite and professional toward each other. I’ve avoided one-on-one situations. He’s given me a wide berth, which was easy to do now that he’s preparing for the European Championships. With the club season over, Lucas spends a lot of time away from the Paris office so he can train the men’s national team for the European playoffs.

He doesn’t talk about it—nor do Eric, Leanne, or any of the players—but everyone at the club knows putting France up on the podium this season is Coach’s big endgame.

It was one thing to get Nageurs de Paris, a club that boasts the country’s top scorer and the best goalie, to the second place in the French playoffs. Far be it from me to trivialize that achievement—and no one in their right mind would—but snagging a European medal for a country that hasn’t been in the top eight in decades is a whole different story.

The leadership of the French Swimming Federation has put its faith in Lucas. So have his men and thousands of fans. The last thing he wants is to let all those people down.

So yeah, Coach has a lot on his plate, and the best way I can help him is by staying out of his hair.

I glance at my watch. Leanne should’ve been here twenty minutes ago. The team workout is taking much longer than usual—or something is wrong.

I head downstairs to the pool where the smell of chlorine and amount of water on the floor increase with every step.

The girls are gathered around Leanne at the edge of the pool, their expressions grave.

“I don’t want to see that happen ever again,” Leanne says. “You hear me?”

They nod.

The former player in me can’t help wondering what my ex-coach is so riled up over.

“Suit holding is unsportsmanlike, unacceptable, and downright nasty when it results in exposure!” she booms.

I agree with every word.

The girls nod. Two of them—Nat and Corinne—look down.

“You wouldn’t want that done to you, would you?” Leanne asks the offenders directly.

They shake their heads.

“I have yet to meet the woman who plays water polo for the opportunity to flash her tits,” Leanne says, too livid to let her team off the hook. “So, once and for all, don’t do it!”

“But other clubs do,” Magali says. “I had to get a new suit after we played against Marseilles, remember?”

Leanne sighs. “Of course, I remember that. And I resent their coaches for not reining in their players.”

“It gives them an advantage.” Corinne shrugs. “As long as it’s done underwater and the refs can’t see it.”

Something like rage flashes in Leanne’s eyes. “There are people who mug other people and get away with it. Does that mean you should do it, too?”

Corinne draws her brows. “No. Of course not.”

“Women’s suit holding is in the same league as mugging,” Leanne says.

There’s a long silence, during which Leanne’s expression softens. “OK, before you go, I want you to tell me what you can do when someone’s going for your suit.”

“We can leg up to show the holding to the ref,” Nat says.

Leanne nods. “What else?”

Corinne raises her hand. “As center forward, I should focus on the ball, hold position, spin to get the defender off my back, and try not to get worked up.”

“That’s right,” Leanne says. “And no retaliation. Under no circumstances will you react by holding a defender’s suit. Is that clear?”

Corinne drops her head with a sigh.

“Good girl,” Leanne says. “It isn’t just a matter of principle. At the end of the day, it’s in our own interest. If you respond to holding by holding, the ref might not know or care who started it. He might call you and not the other girl, or he might eject both of you.”

“That’s exactly what happened to me last year when I played for Nice,” Suzanne cuts in.

Leanne points to her, while looking at Corinne. “See? What I’ll do next time we play against Marseilles and any other clubs that treats suit holding as just another defense tack is to tip off the refs to keep a close eye on the confirmed grabbers.”

“Will they listen?”

“Oh yes. Suit holding in the women’s game has gotten enough spotlight lately that no ref can ignore it anymore. It makes women’s water polo look like mud wrestling.”

A few of the women giggle.

“Off you go, see you tomorrow!” Leanne shoos them with a wave of her hand, and the two of us go up to the office.

“I’m glad I caught you chastising the girls,” I say, pouring her a glass of water from the fridge. “You never seem to do that anymore. It’s all about praise and encouragement and positive feedback.”

She gives me a what’s-your-problem look.

“You were much harder on us,” I say. “It was all about tough love.”

She tut-tuts. “Are you jealous?”

“Nah, just teasing. I’m happy for them. It’s much more fun this way.”

“The coaching mantra today is five praises to one criticism,” she says. “Lucas barely manages four to one. I aim for seven.”

“No kidding.”

“I’ve come to realize with age and experience I get more out of my girls that way.” She gives me a wink. “Positive learning environment and such.”

I nod and grin.

Leanne drains her glass. “So, that thing you wanted to talk to me about, does it start with an L?”

An L? Oh my God!

She thinks I want to talk about Lucas! Is the tension between us obvious? Or has she been duped by the chill? Does she think we’re on the outs again?

Whatever it is, I need to set things straight. “If you’re worried Lucas and I are derailing again, let me set your mind at rest. There have been zero disagreements, and we’re completely on the same page.”

She gives me a noncommittal look. “If you say so.”

“Trust me.”

“OK, what is it you wanted to discuss?”

“Sponsor logo placement.”

She furrows her brow.

I lean forward. “You know how I’m hoping to sign with either Cleona Bank or National Assets Insurance?”

She nods.

“Offering to place their logo on our players’ suits would be an additional carrot in our sponsorship proposal.”

“I see.”

“Problem is, the men’s suits aren’t much use, seeing how minimalistic they are.” I trace an imaginary line across my hips. “But the girls’ suits offer more advertising space.”

“Hmm,” Leanne says.

“There are the caps, too,” I add quickly, “And Lucas has no objections to that. But I haven’t shared the women’s suit idea with him yet. I wanted to run it by you first.”

“Stick to the caps,” Leanne says.

“Oh, come on! At least Lucas is trying to keep an open mind.”

Leanne smirks. “I’m sure he is. But not open enough to stamp National Assets on his men’s crotches.”

“Which is a shame, between us,” I mumble. “Would make a brilliant marketing campaign.”

I picture the same logo on the backside of the guys’ Speedos and crack up.

A second later, Leanne is guffawing, too. I guess she pictured the same thing.

“Whatever you do…,” she begins, before stopping for a fit of laughter. “For Christ’s sake…” She stops and shakes with laughter again, her eyes tearing. “Go with the Cleona Bank!”

* * *

In bed that night, I replay the Barcelona scene again in my mind as my hands go to my breasts, and then down my stomach. Until recently, my go-to nighttime fantasy was The Famous One Night with Lucas. I relived it over and over again in my head while my hands got busy. I relived it even when I shared a bed with Sylvain.

Do I regret chickening out in Barcelona and forfeiting the possibility of a second chance with the man who still matters so much to me? God help me, I do. My body weeps for him, begs for him, aches for him. These last two weeks have been dreadful. So bad I’ve envisaged turning up on Lucas’s doorstep with a bottle of wine in my hands and a toothbrush in my purse.

I’ve envisaged it more than once.

But I didn’t do it.

I can’t risk another “this didn’t mean anything” from him. My stupid, sissy heart may not survive it.