Chapter 128: [128] "Carving Out Normalcy"
The lock on the front door of the apartment clicked, breaking the silence of the living room.
Luc didn’t look away from the tablet resting on his knees. The glowing screen illuminated his face in the dark.
Footsteps padded softly across the hardwood floor. A moment later, a heavy leather tote bag dropped onto the kitchen island with a tired thud.
"If you are watching matches of that Phocéen striker again, I am going to throw your tablet off the balcony," Juliette’s voice drifted over from the kitchen.
Luc finally paused the video, locking the screen. He turned his head and looked over the back of the sofa.
Juliette, leaning heavily against the marble counter. She was wearing a sharp, tailored navy suit that mirrored the corporate altitude of her new league-wide position, but her posture was exuded exhaustion. She rubbed her head, her green eyes weary. It was nearly one in the morning on a Thursday.
"I wasn’t watching," Luc lied smoothly, setting the tablet face-down on the cushion. "I was watching Bretagne, they’re our next match."
"You are a terrible liar," Juliette said, walking over and dropping onto the sofa next to him. She didn’t bother giving him any distance. She leaned into his side, resting her head against his shoulder with a heavy sigh. "You’re obsessed with goal number twenty-four aren’t you."
"I’m tied for the Golden Boot," Luc replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her closer. "Tied means I currently share the position with someone else."
"You will get it on Sunday," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Against Bretagne you’ll surely get a chance."
Luc kissed the top of her head. He could smell the clinical scent of hospital-grade sanitizer mixed with her usual perfume. "How was the board meeting?"
"A nightmare," she groaned. "Valérie was right when she warned me about the politics. Half the club executives in the league are trying to hide their club injuries to artificially inflate player valuations for the summer transfer window. I spent six hours explaining to fifty-year-old men that a Grade 2 hamstring tear doesn’t magically heal because they have an important game coming up."
"Did you win the argument?"
"I threatened to leak the real medical reports to the press if they fielded compromised players," Juliette said, a faint, ruthless smile curving her lips. "So, yes. I won."
"That’s my girl."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the exhaustion of their respective ascents pinning them to the sofa. They were both at the absolute pinnacle of their careers in France, yet it felt like they were constantly treading water just to keep their heads above the surface.
Juliette shifted slightly, her hand sliding up Luc’s back. She pressed her fingertips into the muscles just below his shoulder blades, immediately finding the tight, bruised knots left over from the AS Garonne match.
Luc winced, his breath catching as she dug her thumb into a particularly violent knot. "What are you doing?"
"You aren’t icing this properly," she scolded, her tone instantly shifting from exhausted girlfriend back to head physiotherapist. "Your muscle is completely locked up. The new formation must be taking a toll on you."
"I’m practically playing as a human shield for ninety minutes. It comes with the territory."
"No, it comes with a spinal injury if you’re not careful," she countered, easing the pressure but continuing to massage the muscle. "You have to communicate with Klaus and Hugo. If you’re taking too much physical punishment holding up the ball, they need to support you so that you can release the ball faster."
"I’ll tell them."
Juliette pulled her hand away, shifting so she could look at him properly. The ambient light from the city outside caught the sharp angles of her face.
"I didn’t just rush home to harass you about your back," she said quietly. "I looked at the calendar today."
"The calendar?"
"Next week," Juliette said. "February 28th."
Luc stared at her blankly. His own mental calendar was strictly segmented by matchdays. He knew they played Sporting Bretagne on Sunday the 22nd. He knew they had a midweek tactical review on the 25th. The 28th didn’t immediately trigger any football-related alarms in his head.
"What happens on the twenty-eighth?" he asked.
Juliette rolled her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. "You turn twenty-one, Luc."
Luc blinked.
The realization hit him finally. Twenty-one. In the absolute whirlwind of TES, the concluded wager, the Champions League push, and the GQ cover, he had completely forgotten his own birthday and the fact that he was only twenty. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was a final boss of a college kid back in the States. Now he was the captain of SC Valois, staring down the barrel of a European golden boot race.
"Right," Luc said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Twenty-one. In the States, that means I can finally buy a beer."
"You are a professional athlete, you shouldn’t be drinking beer anyway," she shot back quickly. "And in France, you’ve been legal to drink for years and you already have. So the novelty is entirely lost."
"I guess it’s just another day then."
"Absolutely not," Juliette said, her voice firm. She sat up straight, crossing her legs on the sofa. "We are going to celebrate. I don’t care if Valérie schedules a marketing gala, or if Henri demands a triple training session. You and I are carving out one evening of actual, genuine normalcy."
Luc looked at her. He could see the determination in her eyes. It wasn’t just about a birthday. It was about proving that the sport hadn’t entirely consumed them. They needed an anchor outside of Stade Valois.
"Okay," Luc agreed softly. "What do you have in mind?"
"Dinner," she said, already drafting plans. "No cameras. No club executives. No teammates making stupid jokes. Just us. There is a private restaurant I know. I’ve already pulled a favor with a board member to secure a table in the back room where the paparazzi can’t get a sightline."
"You planned this during your six-hour argument about hamstring tears?"
"I am excellent at multitasking," she smirked. "Mark it down, Luc. The twenty-eighth. You are mine for the evening."
"I wouldn’t miss it for anything."