Chapter 98: [98] "Club Dinner"
Thursday evening arrived.
Inside the training complex, the temperature had been artificially raised in more ways than one.
The main dining hall of the facility, a space that usually smelled faintly of boiled pasta, steamed chicken breasts, and citrus-flavored drinks, had been entirely transformed.
The long cafeteria tables had been removed, replaced by a series of circular tables covered in black linen. Low, ambient lighting had been installed, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. At the center of the hall, a catered buffet of roasted duck, truffle-infused risotto, and prime cuts of beef steamed.
Valérie Laurent didn’t do casual team bonding. She did things... like this.
Luc Beaumont stood near the entrance, leaning slightly against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his dark sweater. He watched the room fill up. Twenty-three players. It looked like an entirely different football club than the one he had walked into back in August.
The sheer density of egos, anxieties, and unproven loyalties bouncing off the walls was almost suffocating.
The squad was naturally attempting to segregate itself into comfortable, familiar cliques, but Valérie and Henri had anticipated this. Place cards bordered in gold foil sat at every table setting. Nobody was allowed to sit where they wanted.
Luc walked toward his assigned table near the center of the room. He was seated with Klaus Becker, the new La Masia winger Bachra Goza, the veteran free-agent midfielder Bense Baini, and the sixteen-year-old American, Max Caster. It was a perfectly engineered seating arrangement.
"I don’t understand the merit of duck," Klaus said as Luc pulled out his chair and sat down. The massive German was staring at his plate with profound suspicion. "It is heavy. It sits in the stomach. A professional requires lean protein few hours before a match."
"It’s a dinner, Klaus, not a pre-match meal," Luc said, picking up his fork. "We play SC Corse on Saturday. Your stomach will have processed the duck by then."
"In Munich, we ate poached fish," Klaus muttered, though he eventually picked up his knife.
Across the table, Bachra Goza let out a soft, highly condescending chuckle. The nineteen-year-old winger had shown up wearing a designer silk shirt unbuttoned dangerously low, displaying a thin gold chain. He carried the distinct, unmistakable arrogance of a teenager who had been told he was a genius since he was nine years old.
"In Barcelona, we ate whatever we wanted," Bachra said, his English heavily accented with Spanish lazily dragging the syllables. He leaned back, swirling sparkling water in his glass. "But I suppose in this league...mmhmnm--."
He was trying to talk while sipping water.
Klaus stopped chewing. His eyes locked onto the teenager. The temperature at the table dropped by ten degrees.
"Your job is to dance with the ball after someone else wins it for you," Klaus said, his voice a terrifying rumble. "Do not confuse your step-overs with my labor, boy."
Before Bachra could fire back, Bense Baini intervened. The twenty-eight-year-old Algerian midfielder placed his cutlery down gently. He had a thick, neatly trimmed beard and eyes that had seen a decade of brutal European top-flight football.
His voice was incredibly calm, acting as an immediate soothing agent to the German’s aggression. "Klaus is right. The 4-3-3 Henri wants requires the wingers to track back. If you stay high or lose the ball while ’dancing’, we will get overrun."
Bachra looked away, clearly irritated to be lectured, but he didn’t argue with Baini.
There was an authority to the veteran free agent that commanded respect.
Luc watched the exchange, analyzing the new dynamics...and loving every second of it. Baini was going to be crucial. They needed him if they were going to survive the transition without Mateo.
"So, Mr. Luc," a nervous voice piped up.
Luc turned his head. Max Caster, the sixteen-year-old American striker promoted from the youth setup, was staring at him.
The kid hadn’t touched his food. He looked like he was vibrating at a cellular level, completely overwhelmed by the proximity to players he had previously only watched on television.
"Yeah, Max," Luc said, softening his tone just a fraction.
"How... how long did it take you to get used to the pace here?" Max asked, his voice cracking slightly. "In the youth league, I had a second to turn. In the 11-versus-11 scrimmage this morning, things were a bit difficult for me."
Leo Hernandez, the twenty-four-year-old center-back Valérie had ruthlessly poached from Stade Phocéen, had indeed been terrorizing the attackers in training. He was eager to prove his multi-million euro price tag.
Luc told the kid honestly. "You have to adapt in your thinking. If you are waiting for the ball to reach your feet before you decide what to do with it in Ligue Alpha, you’ve already lost the ball. You need to know where your pass is, or where your shot is going, while the ball is still yards away from you."
Max swallowed hard, nodding furiously as if trying to permanently etch the words into his brain. "Right. Got it."
"And put your body between the defender and the ball before it arrives," Luc added. "Make Hernandez foul you if he wants it. Don’t make it easy for him."
---
At another table across the room, a sudden burst of loud, booming laughter erupted.
Luc glanced over. Gabriel Assis, wearing a bright orange sweater that violently clashed with the elegant decor...who really knows why he loves bright ass colours.
He was gesturing wildly, telling a story to Cillian, Hugo, and Alex Sordell. Sordell, the twenty-six-year-old Italian winger signed from Intermilani, was chuckling politely, though his eyes remained cold whenever they flicked toward Dário Ferrão sitting quietly at the next table over.
The left-wing rivalry. Sordell and Dário. The right-wing rivalry. Gabriel and Bachra.
And then, there was the striker rivalry.
Luc’s eyes drifted toward the far corner of the room. Idriss Konaté was sitting with Samir Hadj and Amadou Fall. Idriss wasn’t laughing. He was eating his meal, his gaze occasionally lifting to stare directly at Luc.
The 4-3-3 formation was a guillotine hanging over both of their heads. One striker. One focal point. All the service in the world from these new wingers, but only one man allowed in the center of the box to finish it.
The doors of the dining hall opened, and a sudden hush fell over the room.
Valérie Laurent walked in. She didn’t head for the buffet. She glided through the tables with a glass of red wine in her hand, a silent, terrifying ghost haunting her own banquet.
She stopped briefly behind Henri’s chair, leaning down to murmur something in the manager’s ear that made his posture stiffen, before continuing her patrol.
She passed Luc’s table. Her fingers brushed lightly against the back of Luc’s chair as she walked behind him.
"Keep them hungry, Captain," Valérie whispered, the words meant only for his ears.
She exited through the side door a moment later, leaving the room to slowly exhale and return to its normal volume.
Bachra didn’t care if people saw him looking at her ass. He looked, like he paid good money to look.
A few minutes later, Juliette approached.
The league’s head physio was dressed in a simple, elegant black dress that drew more than a few discreet glances from the new signings, though one look from Luc usually sent their eyes snapping back to their plates.
Juliette leaned down between Luc and Bense Baini.
"How’s the integration going?" she asked, her tone entirely professional, though her green eyes sparked with hidden amusement.
"Egos are clashing marvelously, babe," Luc replied.
"Give it time," Juliette murmured. She leaned in a fraction closer to Luc. "Keep an eye on Sordell. He was masking a slight tightness in his left hamstring during the sprint drills this morning. He wouldn’t let me assess him. He’s terrified that if he misses the SC Corse match, Dário will lock down the starting left-wing spot."
"I’ll note it," Luc said quietly. Players hiding injuries to secure starting spots was the oldest, most dangerous trick in the sport
"And keep an eye on the kids," Juliette added, nodding her head toward a table near the back.
Luc shifted his gaze.
Zack Florez, the eighteen-year-old left-back promoted from the youth squad, was sitting across from Yannick Cabral, the equally young, newly promoted center-back. Neither of them was eating. Their faces were flushed, their voices rising above the ambience of the dining hall.
The tension from Henri’s brutal 11-versus-11 morning scrimmage had apparently not been left on the pitch. Henri had tested the 4-3-3, putting Zack at left-back and Yannick at left center-back on the reserve team. They had been tasked with stopping Gabriel Assis.
It had been a massacre. Gabriel had shredded them for forty-five minutes straight.
"You stepped up when you were not supposed to!" Zack hissed, slamming his fork down onto the table. "You left me on an island against the Brazilian! I had no cover!"
"I stepped up because you kept backing off him!" Yannick shot back, leaning across the table, his chest puffed out defensively. "If you didn’t drop ten yards every time he looked at you, I wouldn’t have had to break the defensive line to stop him from crossing!"
"He has Olympic track speed, you idiot! I can’t just dive in!" Zack’s voice cracked slightly, the sheer stress of the promotion and the fear of failure boiling over into raw anger. "You--you abandoned the tactical shape!"
"I abandoned it because you’re a fucking coward!" Yannick snarled.