Chapter 119: [119] "Bizarre ritual"
Valérie reached out, tapping the bold typography on the mock-up that read THE NEW KINGS.
"By pairing the current top scorer with the second top scorer...who is also the man who just humiliated Paris Royal, we are completely bypassing Fontaine. We are establishing a duopoly. We are telling the world that the era of the solitary King is over. Stade Phocéen gets the mainstream exposure they desperately crave, and SC Valois firmly establishes itself as a global brand. Fontaine is left completely out of the conversation. It is an assassination of his market dominance."
Luc looked at the cover again. He understood the business aspect of it. Quite franky, it was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of boardroom warfare Valérie thrived on.
But the competitor in him, the striker who had emptied his entire TES balance to win, chafed at the idea of sharing the spotlight with a man who was beating him by two goals.
"I’ll do the shoot," Luc said. "But I’m catching him. I am not finishing this season in second place."
Valérie’s lips curled into a deeply satisfied smile. "I wouldn’t have you on my payroll if you felt any other way. The photoshoot is tomorrow morning. My assistant should have already emailed the address to your phone. Don’t be late, and for God’s sake, let Juliette put some concealer on those bruises under your eyes."
Luc turned and walked towards the door.
"And Beaumont?" Valérie called out just as his hand touched the handle.
Luc paused, looking over his shoulder.
"We have AS Garonne as the last fixture of the matchweek on Monday," Valérie said, all traces of amusement vanishing from her face. "They beat us 4-0. I do not forget humiliations. Enjoy the flashing lights tomorrow, but on Monday, I want them dead and buried."
"You’ll get it," Luc promised, and walked out.
---
Thursday evening was a slow comedown from the adrenaline high of the Cup victory.
Luc spent the afternoon almost exactly as Juliette had instructed, submerged in a freezing ice bath at the complex after forgetting to do it that morning, followed by a brutal, agonizing deep-tissue massage from one of the junior physios. By the time he returned to his own apartment...the one Valérie paid the lease on, the sun had set, casting the city in a cold, glittering twilight.
He ordered food, ate in silence, and collapsed onto the sofa.
The apartment was deafeningly quiet compared to the roar of sixty thousand people. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the sports feeds on twitter. Valérie was right. The media narrative had violently shifted.
THE FALL OF THE EMPIRE? read one headline from L’Équipe.
BEAUMONT’S HAT-TRICK EXPOSES PARISIAN FRAILTIES, read another.
But tucked away in the side, quietly accumulating numbers, were the updates from Stade Phocéen. Fresko had scored a brace over the past weekend. The man was a machine. 23 goals.
Luc had the points. He had the capital to buy upgrades that would guarantee him goals. He could purchase the First Touch Goal consumable again, or invest in passive shooting modifiers.
He was actually beating Fontaine by one goal now, that in itself was a huge positive.
TES had forced him to evolve from a raw, physical athlete into a calculated, tactical player. He understood the weaknesses of center-backs, he understood the scope of the game.
He was a complete forward.
He was going to catch Fresko, no doubt.
He closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling him under, the sound of the crowd after Bachra’s rainbow flick and Fontaine’s furious silence echoing in his dreams.
---
Friday morning.
The transition from the muddy fields of Ligue Alpha to the hyper-curated environment of high fashion was deeply jarring.
Luc parked his Porsche outside an unmarked, industrial-looking building. From the outside, it looked like an abandoned warehouse. Inside, it was a well lit up, meticulously organized hive of activity.
The studio was massive. Banks of heavy, blindingly bright photography lights were suspended from the ceiling on heavy metal rigs. Racks upon racks of designer clothing.
Suits, jackets, silk shirts that cost more than a standard used car lined the perimeter of the room. Music pulsed from unseen speakers, creating an artificial, frantic energy.
The moment Luc stepped through the steel doors, he was swarmed.
PR agents with earpieces, stylists with measuring tape draped around their necks, and makeup artists holding brushes descended upon him like vultures. He was ushered past the photography set and pushed into a brightly lit dressing room separated from the main floor by a heavy velvet curtain.
"Sit, sit! We are on a very tight schedule," a woman with a clipboard barked, pushing him toward a leather chair set in front of a massive, well-illuminated mirror.
Luc dropped into the chair, letting out a long sigh as a makeup artist immediately began dabbing something cold and powdery under his eyes to hide the dark circles of his physical exhaustion.
"Is Fresko here yet?" Luc asked, looking at the PR woman through the mirror.
"His private car is five minutes away," the woman replied without looking up from her clipboard. "The Phocéen handlers are demanding a closed set, but Valérie’s people have already vetoed it. We shoot the solos first, then the joint cover."
Luc closed his eyes, submitting to the bizarre ritual. He was a footballer. He was meant to be sweating on a pitch, not having his hair styled with imported products.
"I told them the contouring wouldn’t hide all the bruised spots, but they insisted on trying."
The voice cut through the sound of the blow dryers and the chatter of the stylists. It was smooth, distinctly amused, and somehow entirely out of place in the chaotic dressing room.
Luc’s eyes snapped open. He looked in the mirror.
Standing in the doorway of the dressing room, leaning casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed, was Rose Montgomery.
She looked radically different from the last time he had seen her. The oversized hoodies and casual sweatpants were gone.