Chapter 139: [139] "Morning after"
The transition from sleep to waking was usually a violent, jarring process for Luc Beaumont. For months, his mornings had been dictated by the blaring of alarms, the immediate, anxious scanning of his physical condition, or the intrusive, glowing blue text of The Everything System projecting whatever directly into his retinas.
This morning was entirely different.
He woke up naturally, the ambient light of the early dawn filtering softly through the curtains of the apartment. There was no alarm. There were no flashing blue notifications demanding he optimize his use of points or warning him about locker room cohesion dropping. The system was dead silent, respecting the profound, mental hard-reset he had forced upon it the night before.
Luc lay perfectly still on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He took a slow, deep breath, letting the cool morning air fill his lungs. He felt different.
He felt twenty-one.
The number itself was just a metric, a biological milestone that held far more cultural weight back in the United States than it did here in Europe. Back home, turning twenty-one meant access. It meant legally sitting at a bar, stepping into the realm of full adulthood. Here in Ligue Alpha, twenty-one meant you were no longer a prospect. You were no longer the kid with potential who was allowed to make amateur mistakes. At twenty-one, as the captain of a Champions League-chasing squad, you were expected to be a finished product. You were expected to lead grown men, manage millions of euros worth of ego, and deliver results with mechanical consistency.
He turned his head slightly to the left.
Juliette was fast asleep beside him. She was lying on her stomach, her face turned toward him, half-buried in the white pillows. The severe, tightly pulled ponytail she wore at the training complex was gone, her dark hair spilling in chaotic, relaxed waves across the sheets. Her breathing was slow and incredibly peaceful.
Looking at her, the residual tension that usually coiled at the base of his neck completely evaporated. The previous night had been exactly what they both needed...a sanctuary entirely removed from the flashing cameras, the tactical whiteboards, and the relentless corporate expectations of their respective careers. They had carved out their own isolated universe.
He didn’t feel the urge to immediately visualize the opposition’s defensive shape. He didn’t feel the compulsive need to review his goal tally. He just felt grounded.
Moving with deliberate, practiced silence, Luc slipped out from under the heavy duvet. He made sure the mattress didn’t creak, stepping onto the floor barefoot. He paused for a second, watching to see if the sudden absence of his body weight would wake her. Juliette shifted slightly, letting out a soft, incoherent murmur, before settling back into a deep sleep.
Luc smiled faintly and turned toward the bedroom door.
He walked down the quiet hallway into the kitchen, the wooden floor boards cool beneath his feet. The apartment was entirely still, the only sound coming from the faint, distant hum of the city beginning to wake up outside their windows.
He moved through the motions of his morning routine entirely on autopilot. He filled the coffee machine, pressed the button, and leaned against the marble counter, watching the dark liquid slowly drip into the glass. He rolled his shoulders backward, testing his mobility. He felt completely recharged. The deep, restorative rest had done more for his body than any pneumatic compression device or ice bath could have ever achieved. His muscles felt loose, responsive, and primed for the evening’s match.
He poured himself a cup of black coffee and carried it into the expansive walk-in closet attached to the master bedroom.
He set the mug down on the central island and began selecting his clothes for the day. Matchday attire for SC Valois was no longer a casual affair. Valérie Laurent’s rebranding of the club meant that the squad was expected to arrive at the stadium looking like stars stepping into a media fest.
Luc pulled a tailored suit from the rack. He selected a crisp white shirt and a slim, matte-black tie. As he dressed, moving methodically in the quiet space, he thought about the evolution of his own mindset.
When he had first arrived in France, putting on a suit felt like wearing a costume. It felt like an imposition, a distraction from the actual football. He had been a raw athlete relying on instinct and speed, resisting the polished, corporate exterior that European clubs demanded of their stars. But after the GQ cover, after stepping into the role of captain, the suit no longer felt like a costume.
It was a uniform that signaled to the opposition, to the media, and to his own teammates that he was in absolute control. He buttoned his shirt, the fabric resting comfortably against his skin. He knotted the tie with practiced efficiency, slipping the suit jacket over his broad shoulders. He checked his reflection in the full-length mirror.
The bruised jaw from previous weeks had faded. His eyes were clear, devoid of the frantic, hyper-vigilant exhaustion that had plagued him during the winter transfer window. He looked exactly like what he was...a captain ready to go to work.
He picked up his coffee mug and walked back into the bedroom, moving silently to avoid disturbing the stillness of the room.
Luc sat down on the very edge of the mattress, his weight creating a slight dip in the bed. He took a slow sip of the bitter coffee, letting the warmth spread through his chest. He looked over his shoulder at Juliette. She hadn’t moved. The tranquility of the room was a stark, beautiful contrast to the deafening roar of thirty thousand fans that awaited him later that evening.
He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his phone.
The screen was dark. He had put it on ’Do Not Disturb’ mode the moment they had walked into the apartment the night before, completely shutting out the noise of the outside world. He swiped his thumb across the screen, unlocking the device.