Chapter 201: [201] "Box with Valérie 2"
Luc’s gaze shifted to the center of the pitch. Hugo Blanc was stretching his hamstrings. The seventeen-year-old maestro looked unbothered by the noise cascading down from the stands. Just days ago, Hugo had capped off a brilliant performance with a world-class knuckleball volley. Now, he was back in his traditional central midfield role, tasked with feeding Idriss Konaté.
Finally, Luc looked at the penalty area.
Pinto was taking practice shots from the goalkeeper coach.
The backup keeper was diving aggressively, tipping the balls around the posts. He looked sharp, but shot-stopping in warm-ups was a vastly different psychological test than commanding a penalty area in a live Ligue Alpha match.
Valérie stepped slightly closer, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Luc at the glass.
"The commercial numbers from the GQ issue are getting better and better," Valérie said, her voice dropping the tactical edge and shifting into the corporate realm. "We are breaking every projected metric. Merchandise sales across Europe have spiked by four hundred percent. The international broadcasting rights for our remaining fixtures are being renegotiated at a premium. You and Fresko sharing that cover engineered a narrative that the market found irresistible."
Luc gripped the handle of his crutch tighter. The mention of Fresko immediately soured his mood.
"Did Phocéen play yesterday?" Luc asked.
Valérie looked at him, her expression completely unreadable. "They played AC Nord yesterday evening. They won three-one."
Luc felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "Fresko?"
"He scored a brace," Valérie confirmed smoothly, delivering the math without an ounce of hesitation. "One tap-in from a cutback cross. One penalty in the eighty-ninth minute. He is currently sitting at twenty-nine league goals."
Luc closed his eyes for a second, exhaling through his nose.
"Thirty to twenty-nine."
The comfortable four-goal cushion he had built by grinding himself into dust against Dijon and Belleville had evaporated. The Phocéen striker was a relentless, mechanical byproduct of his team’s own high-possession system.
Luc was currently standing on one leg, physically incapable of defending his lead. If he missed the next match as well, Fresko would undoubtedly overtake him.
"He’s one goal away," Luc muttered, staring down at the green grass below.
"He is," Valérie agreed. She turned her head, looking at Luc’s side profile. "But Phocéen also has to play Paris Royal before they play us. Fontaine is sitting at twenty-six goals now. He scored too and probably feels erased from the conversation. Fontaine will not allow Fresko to walk into Paris and score freely. The title race is cannibalizing itself."
"I don’t care about Fontaine," Luc said, the competitive paranoia fully reinstated in his brain.
Valérie didn’t bother telling him to relax, nor did she remind him that the medical timeline would allow him to play the next match. She simply watched the tension coil into the muscles of his jaw. She needed that energy.
"I demanded maximum points from Henri for the month of March," Valérie said. "I told him not to rotate you. I needed the brand to solidify. I needed the media to understand that SC Valois was the apex predator of this league. You delivered the points. You delivered the goals, before you were taken off for injury. You bought us this point lead at second, we are not too far from Paris either."
Luc shifted his weight slightly on the crutch, uncomfortable with the sudden shift in tone. "I just played the fixtures in front of me, Valérie. It’s my job."
"You fought for the team," Valérie corrected him, her eyes locking onto his. There was a rare sincerity in her gaze. It was the look of a ruthless executive acknowledging the blood and bone required to build her empire. "You dragged us to where we are. From a bottom mid-table squad reliant on counter-attacks to title contenders operating a Champions League-caliber system. I know what it cost you to secure that."
She paused, looking down at the compression brace visible beneath his tracksuit pants.
"Thank you, Luc," Valérie said simply.
Luc blinked, genuinely taken aback. Valérie Laurent did not offer gratitude lightly. She viewed players as assets, commodities to be bought, sold, and leveraged for commercial gain. To hear her acknowledge the toll he had paid to secure her vision was...unprecedented.
"We aren’t done yet," Luc replied, his voice steadying. "We still have the semi-finals. We still have Phocéen later too. The title isn’t ours until the math says it is."
"No, it is not, not yet," Valérie smiled, a sharp curve on her lips. "But we are closer than this club has ever been in its recent history."
Down on the pitch, the referee blew his whistle, signaling the end of the warm-ups.
The SC Valois players gathered their loose balls and began jogging back toward the tunnel. The Olympique Nantaise squad followed suit, their faces focused. They looked exactly like a team fully prepared to suffer for ninety minutes in order to secure a single point.
The stadium seating was now filled to capacity. The sea of black and gold was a vibrant, moving entity now. The ultras had ignited their flares, sending thick plumes of yellow smoke drifting across the lower tiers of the southern stand.
"Sit down, Beaumont," Valérie instructed, gesturing toward the armchairs positioned directly in front of the glass. "Standing for two hours is not on Juliette’s approved list of activities, and I am not dealing with her wrath if your recovery regresses."
Luc hobbled over to the nearest armchair, lowering himself carefully into the deepness of the leather. He propped his crutch against the side of the chair and extended his right leg, allowing the joint to rest.
Valérie took the seat beside him, crossing her legs and resting her glass of sparkling water on the small table separating them.
The television monitors mounted in the upper corners of the suite flickered to life, displaying the live broadcast feed and the official starting lineups incase the view was too microscopic from up where they were.
Luc verified the tactical shape one last time.
Pinto in goal.
Zack Florez on the left, Kévin Aubert on the right.
Leo Hernandez and Amadou Fall in the center of the defense.
Klaus Becker, Bense Baini, and Hugo Blanc forming the midfield triangle.
Dário Ferrão, Gabriel Assis, and Idriss Konaté leading the line.
It was a lethal formation, but it required discipline. If Klaus and Baini failed to cover the extra space created by the deeper defensive line, Nantaise would find pockets to initiate counter-attacks. If Gabriel played selfishly again, the right flank would stagnate. If Idriss failed to occupy the center-backs, Hugo would be suffocated in the middle.
The next ten minutes passed in a blur of anticipation.
The stadium’s public address system announced the starting lineups, the home crowd roaring with approval for every name read over the speakers. The loudest cheer, noticeably, was reserved for Hugo Blanc.
The kid’s knuckleball against Aquitaine had clearly cemented his status as the new darling of the ultras... atleast while Luc is absent.
Then, the official Ligue Alpha anthem began to play.
The two teams emerged from the tunnel.
Klaus Becker led the Valois squad out, the captain’s armband strapped firmly to his bicep. He literally looked like a warlord marching into battle, completely ignoring the Nantaise captain walking beside him.
They lined up on the pitch, facing the main grandstand. The cameras panned across their faces. Pinto looked nervous, rapidly chewing on a piece of gum. Idriss looked hungry, bouncing lightly on his toes. Hugo stared blankly ahead, his mind already calculating the opening passes.
The pre-match handshakes were executed quickly. The teams broke apart, scattering to their respective halves.
Luc leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the armrests, his eyes locked onto the center circle. The pain in his leg faded into the background like it always did when watching his guys, overridden by the adrenaline of the impending kickoff. He wasn’t on the grass, but mentally, he was standing right next to Idriss, waiting for the whistle.
Idriss stood over the match ball, waiting for the referee’s signal. Gabriel Assis was positioned wide on the right, already leaning his weight forward, ready to initiate a blistering sprint the moment the ball moved.
The referee checked his watch, raised his arm, and looked at both goalkeepers.
Pinto offered a firm thumbs-up. The Nantaise goalkeeper mirrored the gesture.
The official brought the whistle to his lips. He took a deep breath.
Piii.
The piercing blast of the whistle cut through the roar of thirty thousand fans.
Luc and Valérie said simultaneously, "C’mon team."