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down for me.
     
    Least of all, Pierre Saint-Jean, the team’s second-string striker.
     
    The future of Saint-Jean’s career depends entirely on me fucking up and being unable to get back on my feet in time for the Games. As soon as Coach Anderson writes me off for good, Saint-Jean becomes the starting forward for Team France and shoots right to glory.
     
    Before I tore my damn ACL, Saint-Jean was no competition for me and I would easily out-manoeuver him in our team practices, but today, my knee is stiffer than usual and a sharp pain rears its ugly head at the most inopportune moments. And Saint-Jean is playing hard today, trying his best to prove to the coach that he’s the better choice to be first-string striker at the Olympics.
     
    I’m in control of the ball for a fraction of a second before Saint-Jean swoops in, quick and aggressive, his feet battling mine to steal it back. I feel a pinch in my knee and hesitate for half a beat. That’s all Saint-Jean needs to seize the ball and charge towards the goal line.
     
    “Goal!” I hear his victorious roar as the ball soars through the air, flying into the net.
     
    “What the fuck, Beauvier? Are you on your fucking period?” the coach’s voice booms across the field. “ Va t’en! Go change your tampon! Get the fuck off the field! Give me some lunges on the sidelines. C’mon!” he screams at me. “Perrier, you’re in,” he yells at the third-string striker.
     
    By the time practice is over forty-five minutes later, I’m focused solely on hiding my limp as I amble to the locker room behind the rest of the team. All I want to do is shower and check my phone to see if Julia called.
     
    “ Salut, Beauvier .” I glance back and see Grégoire Pelletier, my sports agent, jogging to catch up with me. “ Ça va, mec? ” he asks as he claps me on the shoulder before bending to brace his knees and catch his breath. Grégoire is seriously out of shape and by the looks of him – 5’5”, overweight, receding hairline with a potbelly – you’d never guess how good he is at his job. In addition to getting me into la Ligue 1 at only 23, he’s helped me secure countless endorsement deals that will keep the checks rolling in for quite some time even if my soccer career never rebounds.
     
    “What’s up, Grégoire?” I say looking over at him.
     
    He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me to the corner. “People are talking, Beauvier. They say that Team France is seriously considering dropping you and playing Saint-Jean in the Olympics instead.”
     
    “Oh, really,” I mutter sarcastically. I already feel my stomach knotting and my palms growing clammy.
     
    “Lucien,” Grégoire says. “In all honesty, you are in no shape to play professionally right now. Let us be realistic. You will not be ready for the Olympic Games, mon gars . It starts in a month and you’re still limping around. There is no way. The team is going to drop you. It’s time for you to just accept it.”
     
    Just accept it?
     
    My whole life has been devoted to playing soccer and now, I’m just supposed to accept the fact that it’s over? Hell no.
     
    “You know what, Grégoire?” I growl. “You either find a way to help me or just stay out of my face, okay?” I push past him, slamming the locker room door in his face.

Chapter 13
     
    Julia
     
     
     
    “ Du vin rouge? ” Geneviève offers, glancing over at me and tipping the bottle of red wine in my direction.
     
    I suddenly flush all over.
     
    After last night, I will never look at red wine the same again.
     
    “ Ça va, Julia? ” Alba asks, eyeing my reddened cheeks suspiciously. “You fever?” Her English could use some practice.
     
    “No, I don’t have a fever. I’m fine,” I say shaking my head as I fan my face with my hand.
     
    “Here, have some more quiche Lorraine,” Geneviève insists. A wide smile stretches her face as she slides a small piece of the savory tart off of the spatula and unto