Foreign Love (An International Sports Romance) (Love in Shades) (7 page)

Chapter 19

Julia

“
Maman – Il ne faut pas t’inquiéter. Je mange très bien
.”

When I step out of the bathroom, Lucien is standing in front of the open French doors speaking on the phone. He sounds slightly annoyed but his eyes twinkle. I sit on the couch and curl my legs under me, just admiring him.

I love the way his lips curve under the heft of his thick beard. I love how his wide shoulders fall back when he’s happy and relaxed. I love the way his eyes glitter, copper and gold in the moonlight. I love the roughness of his hands on my throat. I love…
him
?

I’m not in love. I’m not in love. I’m not in love.

This thing – whatever it is that I feel – it’s a crush, it’s just hormone-induced delirium.

But I love his quick-witted dry humor. I love the way his sentences sometimes come

out awkward and mangled.

Fuck – I’m screwed.

He ends the call with a “
Oui, je t’aime aussi, maman
,” before he slides the phone into his pocket and joins me on the couch.

“Hey…” I say quietly, completely owned by the butterflies rioting in my stomach.

“Hey…” he says in response. He strokes his finger down the side of my face.

There’s something burning in his eyes, but I’m scared to find out exactly what it is.

“My mother,” he says apologetically as he waves his phone in the air before setting it down on the table in front of us.

I smile. “Oh.” That explains the odd mixture of tenderness and annoyance in his voice as he spoke. He’s a sweet man.

“I have something for you,” he says as he shoves his hand into his pocket and produces a shiny silver key. He places it in my palm and closes my fingers around it.

My heart goes tripping around in my chest. “I – I –”

He just stares at me, a perfectly contented smile on his face.

And then, I utter the words that a girl should never say to a guy. “What does this mean?”

He sighs. “It means…it means that you have a key to my apartment,” he says simply after struggling for a moment.

But this isn’t simple. It’s anything but simple because when I look at him, I see the same heated, swirling commotion that I feel burning my own chest. “What are we doing, Lucien?”

We
just
met. We just fucking met.

He swallows hard, causing his Adam’s apple to jerk. “What I feel for you, Julia…” He slicks his tongue along the expanse of his thick lips. “
Le coup de foudre ne s’explique pas
.”

“What does that even mean?” My lower lip quivers as I speak.

He pulls me into his lap, tucking my head beneath his chin. “Love at first sight does not explain itself.”

Chapter 20

Lucien

We spent the rest of the week wandering around Paris. Eating gelato and holding hands, we strolled through the winding streets with no single destination in mind. Our drifting brought us to the majestic arches of l’Arc du Triomphe, the manicured lawns of Jardin du Luxembourg and the breathtaking exhibits of Musée du Louvre.

After hours and hours of meandering on this particular Wednesday morning, I notice a slight limp in Julia’s step. That’s when I suggest that we find somewhere to sit, eat and relax for a while. We settle on a roadside café with an enormous display case filled with pastries. Julia oohs and aahs and I can almost see her mouth watering. She eventually narrows it down to a single treat. I watch in amusement as Julia stubbornly exerts an ungodly amount of effort to order a chocolate éclair and an iced tea in French. Then, I smile at the young man behind the counter and ask him to give me dozen of his most popular pastries with an espresso. 

Julia turns up her nose at me as I sink into the chair across from her. “Are you actually gonna eat all that?”

“You are going to help me,” I smirk and set the treats down in the middle of the table.

“Uh, I don’t think so. That would cancel out the effect of all the cardio we did together last night.” She winks at me.

“
Tu es mignon
,” I say.

“Mignon?” She quirks an eyebrow and looks at me quizzically.

I laugh. “It means – how do you say? – ‘cute’. It means ‘cute’.”

It’s her turn to laugh now. “I though that ‘mignon’ was the name of a soup.”

“Ah – you mean
soupe à l’oignon
?”

Her face is red from laughing. “I guess so.”

I poke fun at her French skills and she jokes along like a good sport.

But after a while, she settles in her chair and her expression grows solemn. “Tell me about your career. Tell me about soccer.”

I smirk at her. “You mean ‘football’?” It’s a difference in lexicon that separates one side of the Atlantic from the other. To any self-respecting Frenchman, the name of the sport is and will always be ‘football.” My stupid telephone rings and I glare at it as I switch it off and shove it into my pocket.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, football. Tell me about it.”

I pull in a breath and my shoulders hike all the way up to my ears before dropping in defeat. “What is there to say?”

“How did you get started? How did you end up on the French national team? How did you get all those trophies sitting on your bookcase?” She pauses before her voice dips low. “How did you get hurt?”

I take a bite of the chocolate-dipped macaroon sitting on the plate between us. “I’ve been playing soccer since I was a child. I learned from my father. There was not much for children to do
à la campagne
–“

Julia interrupts me. “
À la campagne
? You grew up in the countryside?”

I smile and nod. “À Théoule-sur-mer. A small town in the south-east of France.”

She seems fascinated by this new bit of information. “It must be beautiful,” she says dreamily.

“It is,” I agree. “Golden beaches. Small vineyards. Vaste open fields. I’ll take you there one day.”

Her voice fills with skepticism and amusement at once. “Sure,” she says. I’m serious, though, she just doesn’t know it yet.

I’m realizing that, in most ways, the Julia sitting across from me is not the same girl who lured me into the airplane lavatory, pressing me to the narrow plastic wall with wild kisses. She’s not the girl who’s face I watched contort in the mirror as I fucked her from behind, bracing us both against the turbulent rocking of the plane. I was wild for that girl, infatuated. But the girl sitting in front of me now – demure, hesitant, somewhat reserved – I think I might love her…or maybe, I’m losing my mind.

“So tell me about playing football in…Théo-mer?” Her eyes sparkle with curiosity.

“Théoule-sur-mer,” I correct her before adding, “My father would take me into the field each day after school. He taught me to kick the ball and do tricks to impress all the little girls.”

Julia giggles over the rim of her glass. “Where’s your father now?”

“Still in Théoule-sur-mer. With my mother and sister.”

She nods in understanding. “So, did you get discovered in Théoule-sur-mer?”

I scratch the side of my nose. “I played football all through primary school and my parents saw my potential. They sent me to live with my uncle, Félix, here in Paris when it came time for high school. By the time I got to university, a sports agent found me. Grégoire Pelletier. He got
la Ligue de Football Professionnel
interested in me and I’ve been the number one striker in la Ligue 1 ever since.”

“And how did you get hurt?” She looks tentative to ask the question, but I can tell that her curiosity has gotten the better of her.

“Match against Croatia. Tripped over some asshole, overeager midfielder’s foot.” I don’t lift my eyes to meet her. I don’t want to see her sympathy there. And I don’t offer any more details. Even after all these months, the pain is still too raw.

Silence falls over the table as we both get lost in our thoughts. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, it’s just…silent.

“I twisted my knee while landing from a jump,” Julia says quietly, almost as if she’s speaking to herself. She twirls the tip of the straw around in her drink. “My kneecap slipped out of place. It was
agonizing
. The most painful thing I’ve ever felt. It hurt, but I wasn’t scared because I was so sure that the doctors would fix it. I was sure that they
could
fix it…” Tears spill down her reddened cheeks.

I drag my chair closer to hers and drape my arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Julia,” I mutter into her hair, holding her to my chest.

She pulls away and looks at me. “They can’t fix it, Lucien. Not without ending my ballet career. But if I don’t do the surgery, my knee with continue to dislocate. My career is over either way.”

She looks so distraught, so vulnerable that I’m scared she might break. So, I press my lips to her temples and to her cheeks and to her lips. I taste the chocolate of her éclair on her mouth.

“I believe that you understand what I am feeling,” I whisper against her lips. “And I believe that I understand what you are feeling.”

She nods. “It’s true. It’s only when I’m with you that I don’t feel so alone.”

Chapter 21

Julia

His arm circles my shoulder as we stroll gingerly through the garden just a few blocks from the café where we just ate. I fit perfectly against his side. I press my cheek to his collarbone, wishing that I could melt into him, that his whole being could consume all of me so that I’d never have to face the world again.

“I think I should go home. To New York. And get the surgery on my knee,” I say softly to him in a hoarse whisper. I’ve delayed the inevitable for long enough. It’s time to face the music. I can’t avoid this anymore.

I spoke with Mackenzie today. She’ll be in Paris in a few days and I’ll have to tell her about my injury. I
want
to tell her. She’s one of my best friends and I don’t want to hide it from her anymore. And she’ll yell at me and demand that I get back to New York immediately and let the doctors implant that rod or screw or a lamppost into my leg, if that’s what it takes.

Lucien looks at me, a cloud of anxiety has drifted across his eyes, making his expression gloomy. “You want to go back to New York?”

I shrug my shoulders as we move past a patch of colorful tulips. “If I can’t dance, there’s nothing here in Paris for me.”

And I regret the words the instant they’re out of my mouth. I see hurt flash across Lucien’s features. He offers me a shallow smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s silent for along. “We should head back. Allons-y,” he says in a disconsolate tone.

I pull out of our embrace and he clasps his hand around mine. We walk unhurriedly through the cobblestone street, past the cafés and the artisanal shops. We finally arrive at the métro, still holding hands. We pay our fare and move effortlessly through the turnstiles.

As the train barrels down the track towards us, Lucien wheels around to look at me. He bends towards me, cupping my face in his big, warm hands. “Come back…For me, Julia.”

I look up at him. “What?”

“Once you have the surgery. Come back to Paris. For me.”

His phone rings just then. He doesn’t even glance at it. He just stares at me, his eyes pinning me expectantly. The train grinds to a halt and the doors crawl open. Commuters bustle by us, jostling my messenger bag slightly and stepping on my canvas sneakers as they go. We stand there facing each other, eyes locked on one another.

“That’s crazy,” I say quietly. “I can’t stay here.”

“You say you have no reason to stay in Paris if you can’t dance,” he says quickly. “But you have me. I need you. I want you, Julia. Come back for me.”

I should tell him that that’s too much to ask.  I should say that we’re moving too fast and warn him to slow down. But somewhere inside of me, Lucien’s suggestion echoes in my blood, hums through my veins and  whispers to me that what he said is the best damn idea I’ve heard in a while.

But instead of saying that out loud, my head snaps in the direction of the train doors as the slide shut. “We missed our train,” I say quietly. “Now, we have to wait for the next one.”

I leave him standing there on the platform and walk over to a nearby bench, taking a seat.