The Athlete and the Aristocrat Read online

  Édouard leaned forward so the microphone would catch his every word. “I have known since Lucien was a teenager that he was bisexual. He came to his mother and me when he was fifteen and told us. He had prepared a presentation, which included referenced information on exactly what it meant to be bisexual, some of the misconceptions around it, and resources to help parents and families of bisexual people understand and be supportive. As I sat there and listened for forty-five minutes, I saw in my son honesty, integrity, intelligence, and attention to detail. These are traits my wife and I passed on to him both genetically and by instilling them in him during his formative years. He’s our son. We love him. And we don’t care if he loves a man or a woman, as long as he’s happy.”

  Lucien made a choked sound and fled to the kitchen. Si followed as Édouard took another question.

  “Hey.” He laid a hand on Lucien’s back where he stood with his fists propped against the counter. Lucien turned and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face against Si’s neck. It was wet with tears.

  Si held him, and they just stood there, breathing together. Eventually, Lucien inhaled a shuddering breath and stepped back.

  “I have never cried so much in my life as I have today,” he declared, scrubbing his hands over his face.

  Si grinned. “Me either,” he admitted. “But how brilliant is it that we’re crying because people love us and want to show support?”

  Lucien turned on the tap and stuck his wrists under the faucet. “It is amazing,” he agreed. “My father…. My parents have always supported me. Even that day, when I told them and I was so nervous, they were unfailingly supportive. They told me they loved me no matter what. But….”

  “But you’ve never been in a position where they might have to prove that? Until now.”

  Turning off the tap, Lucien reached for a dishcloth. “Exactly. It is… so reassuring to know that they are there for me.” He met Si’s gaze. “For us.”

  Smiling, Si took Lucien’s hand. “It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”

  Lucien shrugged and squeezed his hand. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  The sound of a throat being cleared made them both turn to the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” Ben said, “but are you guys all right?”

  Si leaned against Lucien, loving the sensation of his body right there, his warmth, his smell. This was his, forever. “We’re fine,” he said. “It’s been a tough week so far, but it’s going to get better.”

  “You bet!” Dani’s voice said, startling Si yet again. He’d seen the phone in Ben’s hand, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Dani would still be there. “Twitter’s gone insane since the press conference started—don’t worry, guys, by the time the internet is done, that paper will be out of business.”

  “Thank you, Dani, for everything you’ve done,” Lucien told her, his body trembling slightly against Si’s with the repressed amusement he could hear in his voice. “We can’t begin to tell you how much it means.”

  “My pleasure,” she replied, sounding utterly sincere. “I’m going to get a couple more hours’ sleep before work, but keep me in the loop, yeah?”

  “We will,” Si promised, already thinking about what they could send her. He’d have to ask Ben what she liked.

  Ben ended the call just as Malik came to the doorway. “Have we moved the party to the kitchen?”

  Lucien snorted. “This isn’t a party. People don’t cry at my parties,” he declared authoritatively, and Si laughed.

  “Did you really give your parents a forty-five minute presentation on what it meant to be bisexual?” Malik asked, brow raised.

  Shrugging, Lucien took Si’s hand and led him back toward the living room. “Yes.”

  Malik shook his head. “You’re the only person I know who could do that and make it seem cool.”

  A rush of affection swamped Si, and he tugged Lucien to a stop and kissed him. “That’s because he is cool,” he murmured, and warm blue eyes smiled back at him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two months later

  LUCIEN walked into his kitchen and found his boyfriend sitting at the table in his underwear, head in his hands.

  “What are you doing up?” he asked, although he knew. Simon had been worrying himself sick over the training camp for weeks, and it had only gotten worse over the last few days.

  Looking up, Simon sighed. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

  Lucien sat beside him and took his hand. “You know I don’t sleep well when you’re gone.” And didn’t that give him a little thrill? He’d slept alone most of his adult life, but after just a few months living with Simon, he didn’t rest well without him by his side. “You need to let this go. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Simon smiled, but it was so obviously forced that Lucien raised a brow, and he stopped. “I know. I know everything is in place. I know there’s no reason for anything to go wrong. I know I need a good night’s sleep. But knowing all that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.”

  They sat there in silence for a while, just holding hands. Finally Simon sighed again. “Okay. Let’s go over the good things again. The training camp is completely full, has been for months, and there’s a waiting list.”

  “Yes,” Lucien affirmed.

  “Applications for On the Ball’s funding for this season exceeded our estimates by nearly 300 percent. We have a waiting list, and are desperately scrabbling for more money.”

  “Correct,” Lucien said, and wondered if this was the time to tell his lover that he, Léo, Ben, and Malik were in the process of setting up a trust to fund a dozen applicants a year.

  “We have a great team to run the training camp, and because of all the publicity, we were donated the use of a really good facility right outside Paris to run it from.”

  “Not to mention the positive media coverage over the last few weeks,” Lucien added, and Simon nodded.

  “Those scummy bastards at that Italian paper issued an apology and retraction when faced with the threat of legal action,” he continued. “And support for us and On the Ball has been very high. Oh, I forgot to tell you—Dani texted me last week. We’ve apparently been ‘shipped.’”

  Lucien blinked. Shipped? His English had improved dramatically in just a few months, but that didn’t make sense in any way. “Shipped?” he asked. “How…? Isn’t that postage? How would we be shipped?”

  Simon laughed, and watching his face light up made Lucien so happy that he resolved to make it happen more often.

  “It’s a pop-culture thing. When people are in a relationship, their names get mixed together to form a relationship name. They’re shipped.”

  Lucien considered that. It sounded stupid to him. Did people not have anything better to do? What was wrong with using both their names? “What is our ship name?” he asked.

  “Simien.”

  That was just too much. “That’s stupid,” he pointed out, and Simon laughed again.

  “I know! But it makes people happy, and a lot of those people have been donating to On the Ball. I promise you don’t have to answer if anyone calls you that, though.”

  “Good.” Because there was no way he ever would. It was bad enough that Malik and Léo sometimes called him Luc now—to tease, of course. Simon was the only one who called him that naturally. “But do you see all the good things?”

  Simon stood, and tugged Lucien up with him. “Yeah. Come on, let’s go back to bed. Morning will be here soon enough.”

  STANDING off to the side as Simon spoke with the camp’s manager, Lucien struggled to restrain a smug grin. The weeklong camp had flown by with barely any problems, and those that had come up had been easily resolved. Simon had kept muttering about it being too good to be true, but now, just an hour before the camp would officially end, he finally seemed to be accepting its success.

  “I’ll be sorry to see this week end,” a familiar voice said beside him, and Lucien turned to smile at Tim. Simon’s friend had become
a good friend to him, also, and when he was in Paris he often shared meals with them. Lately Lucien had begun to suspect there was something going on between him and Anna, although he wasn’t certain. He hadn’t mentioned it to Simon, for fear of sending his stress levels through the roof.

  “I, also,” he acknowledged. “It has been wonderful to see so much energy and enthusiasm for the sport in the children.”

  “Yep. These camps can often be a little too competitive, but Simon and Coach have done a great job of establishing a friendly environment. Hopefully that will continue next year.”

  Lucien raised a brow. “I thought it was not yet decided whether the camp would be an annual event?” It certainly hadn’t been mentioned to him.

  Tim waved a hand to indicate the hundred or so children ranging in age from seven to seventeen who waited in small clusters to see what the final activity of the camp would be. “After this success, how could it not?”

  He had a point.

  Coach blew his whistle then, and everyone quietened to hear what he had to say—and he handed over to Simon.

  “Hey, everyone! We’re just about done here, and I really hope you’ve had a great week and have picked up some tips and tricks to use over the next year and throughout your playing days.” There was an enthusiastic murmur, and Lucien smiled. He’d noticed that Simon got that response even when what he was said was not at all inspiring. People just loved him.

  Much like Lucien did.

  “You’ve all worked really hard and done a great job. We’ve only got a little bit of time left, but we wondered if maybe you’d like to see your coaches play—” He was cut off by the roar that went up from the kids, and he laughed. “Right, so we don’t have enough coaches—or enough time—for a proper match, but what about some five-a-side?” The whistles and shouts quickly approved the idea, and the camp’s coaches, a veritable who’s who of retired championship players from across Europe, assembled by the side of the pitch. Lucien frowned. There were only eight—two of the men had had to leave the night before due to other commitments, but because the last day was only slated to be a half-day, nobody had considered it a problem. Simon had said five-a-side, though—who would the other two players be?

  His question was answered when Simon stripped off his shirt and joined the coaches. Of course—Simon and Tim hadn’t actively done any coaching this week, but they were both still former professional footballers. He noticed the group was looking in their direction, and he turned to Tim. “They’re waiting for you.”

  Tim shook his head. “Nah, mate,” he said. “This knee means I can’t play, not unless I want to spend a week in bed and face the possibility of more surgery.”

  Lucien looked back at the assembled players. Simon lifted a hand and waved. “Do they know that?” he asked. “Because it looks like they want you to join them.”

  “Not me, Lucien,” Tim said with a laugh. “Get over there.”

  Shock was like a punch to the stomach. Lucien blinked. “What?”

  “You know how to play, right?” Tim asked, and on autopilot, Lucien nodded. “Great. It’s just a friendly kick around, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. Go on, they’re waiting.”

  Forcing his legs to move, Lucien crossed the space between him and Simon, who was grinning broadly.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked, and his lover laughed.

  “Maybe. But mostly I’m crazy about you. Come on, Luc—football is a huge part of my life. Let me share it with you.”

  Despite his better judgment, Lucien smiled. How could he say no to that?

  “Fine. But I don’t want to hear any complaints later,” he warned, and the men around him cheered.

  What an amazing day.

  Surprisingly, he still felt that way ten minutes later as it became increasingly obvious that he was outclassed. He’d expected that, of course—he was playing with former professional athletes, many of them championship players. It was an honor and a privilege to merely be included—and to try to keep up.

  As he accepted a pass from a retired player who’d won two World Cups, he forced himself to concentrate. While he may not be in the same league as the men he was playing with, he didn’t want to completely embarrass himself. Dodging a tackle—barely—he passed the ball forward.

  Phew. He had a few moments now to watch his teammates and opponents play. It was a beautiful thing, but most glorious of all was his boyfriend. Simon practically glowed with joy and vitality as he dodged his opponents and kicked toward goal. His feet moved effortlessly, seemingly without conscious direction from his brain. It was just instinctive, part of him.

  Lucien smiled as the ball sailed into the net and everyone on the pitch—and watching—screamed, either in happiness or disappointment. Simon ran toward him with his arms in the air, and Lucien whistled his appreciation—something his nanny had trained out of him when he was a child, but that he’d started doing again recently.

  “Did you see?” Simon shouted as he got closer, his excitement akin to that of a child scoring for the first time.

  “I did,” Lucien told him, and then opened his arms just in time to catch Simon as he launched himself through the space between them.

  Then, in front of the retired and upcoming stars of the football world, Simon Wood kissed Lucien Morel. Right on the lips.

  And it was glorious.

  Epilogue

  Two years later

  SI glanced at his watch as he hurried back to the office. Pierre Bisset had called last week and asked to meet him and Lucien for lunch today, and he was just about verging on late. Pierre was the father of Antoine Bisset, one of On the Ball’s most promising kids—although at just turned eighteen, he was actually one of their graduates. Since Antoine had first applied for the program, right after it had been launched, Pierre had made a habit of occasionally coming to the office for lunch with Simon and Lucien—which he would cook and bring with him. At first it had baffled them both, but a call from Antoine had clarified. Si would never forget that call. It had been one of those rare times in the early days, not long after their first training camp, that he’d been in the office. Anna had buzzed that one of their kids wanted to talk to him, and his stomach had lurched.

  “Monsieur Wood, this is Antoine Bisset,” the teenager, even then extremely self-assured, had announced himself.

  “Hi, Antoine,” Si had replied. Antoine didn’t sound upset about anything. Maybe nothing was too seriously wrong? “You can call me Simon, remember? What can I do for you?”

  “I was talking to my dad today and he said he’s been having lunch with you sometimes,” Antoine said, his stream of French almost faster than Si’s still-learning ear was able to grasp. “I just wanted to make sure that was okay.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” Si assured him. “Although, to be honest, we’re not sure why he comes. He doesn’t speak to us very much—it doesn’t seem like he’s coming for our company.”

  “He’s not,” Antoine declared bluntly. “He’s bringing you lunch as a thank-you for me being in the program. It kills him that we have to take charity for me to play football, and he feels like by bringing you lunch, he’s balancing the scales a bit.”

  Si felt like he’d been slapped in the face. “That’s not necessary,” he said quietly.

  “I know, Simon,” Antoine replied. “But it makes him feel better. Before On the Ball, he used to eat only once every few days to save money for my football. He hadn’t had any new clothes or shoes in about ten years. This program has changed our lives, but his pride can’t stand taking money from someone else. The only reason he does it is because he wants me to have my dream. If it makes him feel better to bring you lunch once a month, and you’re okay with that, then please let him.”

  Si had swallowed hard and agreed. Since then, he and Lucien had made it a policy to always be available when Pierre called. They sat with him, ate whatever lunch he brought, and made awkward small talk—although that had gotten better when they’d realized th
ey could just talk football with him.

  Now, as Si pushed open the door to the building and raced up the stairs toward the office, he wondered if this would be their last lunch with Pierre. The program had officially stopped funding Antoine last month.

  He entered the office and waved at Anna, who was on the phone, as he strode toward the conference room. “Sorry I’m late,” he announced as he walked in and closed the door. Surprisingly, there were no covered dishes on the table. He shot a questioning glance at Lucien, who shrugged.

  “You are right on time,” Pierre said, then picked up his phone and tapped at the screen. Si took the seat beside Lucien, and squeezed his leg under the table. Although Pierre had enthusiastically congratulated them on their marriage the year before, they’d noticed that he was not comfortable with PDAs, and so they tried not to be too demonstrative in his presence.

  “What’s going on?” Si whispered. He was starving, and had been really looking forward to Pierre’s lunch.

  “No idea,” Lucien replied. “I asked him where he’d hidden lunch, and he said we had to wait for you to arrive.”

  A loud ringing sound made them both jump. Pierre had clearly put his phone on speaker and called someone. He set the handset on the table with a satisfied smirk on his face.

  “Finally!” someone answered the call. Si blinked. Was that Antoine? “Papa, what took so long?”

  “Simon was late,” Pierre told him. “But we are all here now.”

  “Hi, Simon, Lucien.” There was glee in Antoine’s voice.

  “Hello, Antoine,” Lucien replied while Si blinked and wondered what the heck was going on. “How are you?”

  “I’m great. Guess where I am right now?”

  “Do I really have to guess?” Lucien laughed.

  “No, I have a better idea—switch my dad’s phone over to video. He doesn’t know how to do it.”

  Si reached for the phone before Lucien could, and tapped the necessary icon on the screen. Pierre got up and walked around the table to stand behind them as the phone switched modes and the picture appeared.