The French Fling

Romance. So fleeting. So intoxicating. So… full of red flags that you only notice once you're ankle-deep in Jäger and regret.

Let’s rewind to the beginning, shall we?

It all kicked off after a sweaty, gloriously exhausting morning of sport. I’m talking real commitment here — running, diving, competitive yelling. The usual. Our motley crew headed to the pub to refuel, and that’s where he joined us. French. Charming. A twinkle in the eye and that unmistakable “I make croissants with my bare hands” energy. Let’s call him Frenchie.

Now, this wasn't some magical rom-com meet-cute. He’d actually been playing with us earlier, so it wasn’t completely random. But when he slid into the booth next to us, I clocked him. And more importantly — I gave him the look.

Yes, that look.

My sacred talent. My signature move. A mixture of curiosity, danger, and "you won't know what hit you." Apparently, it worked. Because days later, he confessed that my look could bring even the most committed of men to their knees. (Cheers for the warning, mate.)

Fast forward a few days — I’m hobbling around with a mildly tragic ankle injury (sport: the gift that keeps on giving), and we’re exchanging messages on Facebook. He’s checking in on me, being all sweet and attentive. I happened to be near the pub where he and the lads were playing again, so naturally, I popped in. Just for one.

Cut to me inviting him and two of the other guys back to mine with the promise of a bottle of Jägermeister. Because nothing screams good decisions like warm Jäger on a weekend.

The party’s in full swing — think music, dancing, the faint whiff of bad choices — when Frenchie and I saunter into the kitchen for "supplies." Next thing I know, we’re snogging against the fridge like we’re in some steamy European arthouse film. The other two got the memo and made a swift exit.

Frenchie stayed. All night. And let me tell you — wow doesn’t even begin to cover it.

After that? Messages. Flirty. Fun. Hopeful. But — and there’s always a "but" isn’t there — he never asked me out. Odd. Mysterious. A bit annoying. The plot thickened when we crossed paths again at a tournament. Sparks flew. Lips met. Everyone noticed. We were like two magnets, drawing sidelong glances and whispers from across the room.

Later that night, on the tube home, high on adrenaline and possibility, I turned to him with full boldness and asked if he fancied coming back to mine.

His reply?“I need to behave myself.”

Excuse me?

Cue the heartbreak playlist and the emotional whiplash. I couldn’t make sense of it. Turns out, Frenchie had a long-term French girlfriend. Oh, and here’s the kicker — apparently, he would never consider dating anyone who wasn’t French.

Honestly. What the hell.

But the plot doesn’t end there (because of course it doesn’t). Over the years, he continued to pop into my DMs like a ghost of bad decisions past. Random questions. Little inside jokes.

Breadcrumbs. Stale little morsels designed to keep me interested. And like a hopeful idiot, I nibbled. Until one day, I just… didn’t. I ghosted. Hard.

It took time. Hope lingers, doesn’t it? Like glitter after a party. You think it’s gone, then BAM — there it is again, hiding behind your confidence.

Oh, and just to salt the wound, he was also acquainted with my ex. Would randomly drop info like, “Oh, I saw your ex doing this…” or “Your ex was here the other day…” Like some kind of twisted French gossip courier.

Why? Who knows. Maybe he got a kick out of it. Maybe he thought it made him seem relevant. Maybe he was just a walking ego in tight trousers.

Whatever the reason — au revoir.

Moral of the story? Never trust a man who won’t date you because of your passport. Or one who uses Jäger as a flirtation tactic. Or one who thinks DMing you three years later with “what’s up” is anything less than emotional sabotage.

And if you’ve got the look? Use it wisely. Because it’s a powerful thing, darling — but even superpowers can’t save you from a Frenchman with commitment issues.

Feeling seen? Furious? Fantastically vindicated? Good. Stick around for the next tale — I’ve got a whole archive of romantic disasters, emotional entanglements, and pub-fuelled revelations that’ll make your love life look like a Jane Austen novel.

Until next time. 💋