Chapter 137: [137] "Mateo!"
For the past month, Luc hadn’t been a twenty-year-old kid. He had been a machine. A commodity. A weapon.
[System Notification: Stress levels at 84%. Recommendation: Go home.]
"Yeah, no kidding," Luc thought, dismissing TES.
As his teammates pulled him into the fray, slapping his back and shouting over the music, Juliette masterfully slipped out of the crossfire, giving him space. He watched her navigate toward the bar, striking up an easy conversation with the wives and girlfriends of the other players. She held her own perfectly, her sharp, scanning eyes taking in the room.
"Yankee!"
The voice cut through the heavy bass of the music, hitting Luc like a lightning bolt. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in the locker room for a long...long time.
Luc spun around. Standing there, holding a beer and wearing a massive, ear-to-ear grin, was Mateo.
"No way," Luc breathed, stepping forward and pulling his former captain and teammate into a fierce embrace. "Mateo? What the hell are you doing here?"
Mateo laughed, clapping Luc hard on the back before pulling away to look at him. "You think I’m going to miss the twenty-first birthday of the guy who’s terrorizing Ligue Alpha? Henri reached out to my agent. Said the boys were throwing a private thing. I took the first flight from Saudi."
Luc shook his head in disbelief. Seeing Mateo instantly brought back the early days of his career, the grueling trials, the uncertainty, the moments before the wager with Fontaine had turned his life into a high-stakes circus.
"It’s good to see you, man. Seriously. How are things at the new club?"
"I’m playing, I’m earning shit tons of money, things are greater than great," Mateo smiled, though his eyes carried a seasoned look. "But let’s not talk about me. Look at you. Twenty-four goals, Luc. The whole country is watching you right now. I watch your matches and I’d be lying if I said I barely recognize the guy playing up top. Same old Luc Fucking Beaumont."
"Is that a compliment?" Luc asked, taking a sip of his water.
"It is," Mateo said, his tone turning a fraction more serious. "You used to play like a pure athlete. Speed, running past guys because you could. But now? The way you anchor the attack, the way you’re holding up the ball... you’re playing like a European, Luc. But you’re playing with American muscle. It’s terrifying."
Luc sighed, rolling his shoulders instinctively. "It hurts, Mateo. Every week, it’s a physical war. I’m taking elbows to the spine, getting clipped on the ankles. Valérie wants first place, and she doesn’t care how many ice baths it takes to get me there."
Mateo nodded slowly. "That’s the ocean getting deeper, my friend. You wanted to swim with the sharks. Fresko, Fontaine... they are monsters. But you’re right there with them. Just don’t let it break you. You have to remember why you play." Mateo tipped his beer bottle in the direction of the bar. "Speaking of which. She’s looking at you again."
Luc glanced over. Juliette was indeed looking his way, her eyes tracking him with that familiar gaze, though softened by the ambient light of the lounge.
"She’s something else," Mateo noted quietly. "Keep her close, Luc. The higher you climb, the harder it is to find people who look at you like a person instead of a paycheck. Hope she becomes a wife as good as mine."
"Alright alright, enough drinking," Luc said softly.
---
For the next hour, Luc allowed himself to just be human. He argued about Champions League with the reserve players, laughed at a ridiculous story Henri told about a disastrous away game in the nineties, and caught up properly with Mateo. But no matter who he was talking to, his internal clock was ticking, and his eyes kept drifting back to the woman in the emerald dress.
Eventually, he felt a light touch on his arm. Juliette had materialized beside him, smelling faintly of expensive perfume and the crisp outdoor air.
"Having fun?" she asked, her voice easily cutting through the noise.
"I am," Luc admitted. He checked his watch. His stomach dropped. It was 9:45 PM. "Shit."
"What?"
"The reservation," Luc said, groaning and rubbing the back of his neck. "We missed it. They hold the table for fifteen minutes max. It took weeks to get that booking, Juliette. I’m so sorry."
Juliette looked at him, her expression completely unbothered. She tilted her head, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. "Luc. Look at me."
He met her gaze.
"Do I look like a woman who cares about a Michelin-star dinner?" she asked. "I spend six days a week smelling Deep Heat and listening to grown men cry over blistered toes. I don’t need a ten-course menu to have a good night. I just wanted to dress up and spend time with you."
The sincerity in her voice hit him harder than any center-back could. All the residual stress...it all faded into background noise.
"Let’s get out of here," Luc said quietly.
Juliette’s smile widened into something a little sharper, a little more expecting. "I thought you’d never ask."
Saying goodbye took another fifteen minutes of handshakes, back-slaps, and a final, lingering hug with Mateo. By the time they stepped back out into the freezing Parisian night, the silence of the street felt absolute, wrapping around them like a heavy blanket.
They didn’t speak much on the drive back to his apartment. They didn’t need to. The air in the car was charged with an unspoken anticipation that had been building since she first stepped out onto the pavement in that dress.
---
When he unlocked the door to his apartment and ushered her inside, the quiet of the empty space was instantly shattered by the heavy click of the deadbolt sliding into place.
Luc turned around. Juliette was already stepping out of her heels, kicking them aside with a soft thud against the floor. Without the added height, she had to look up at him, but there was nothing submissive about her posture. She stepped into his space, her hands reaching up to grip the lapels of his overcoat.