Chapter 120: [120] "Fresko Part 3"
She was dressed in a sharp, immaculately tailored white pantsuit that contrasted violently with her bright pink hair. The cut of the suit was aggressive, high-fashion, and demanded its wearer get immediate attention.
"Rose?" Luc asked, genuinely startled. He pushed the makeup artist’s hand away gently and turned around in the chair. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Rose smirked, pushing off the doorframe and walking into the brightly lit room. She moved with the athletic grace of a professional, completely unbothered by the frantic stylists buzzing around her.
"I’m a commercial asset, Mr Beaumont," Rose said, picking up a designer silk tie from a nearby rack and inspecting it with a critical eye. "Paris Royal may have lost Fontaine, but they still have me."
Luc frowned, his confusion deepening. "I don’t follow. This is a GQ cover for the top scorers of the men’s league. That’s me and Fresko."
"It is," Rose agreed, tossing the tie back onto the rack. "But GQ is doing a massive spread on the ’New Royals of French Football.’ Fresko represents the top scorer. You represent the new insurgency that just beat Fontaine." She paused, her smirk widening into a full, brilliant smile. "And I represent the absolute pinnacle of the women’s game. I’m shooting the alternate cover."
Luc stared at her, the pieces slowly clicking into place. Rose did play for Paris’ womens team, the undisputed titans of women’s football in Europe. She was a superstar in her own right, with a massive commercial following and a brand that rivaled more than half the men in Ligue Alpha.
"You’re the Queen of the spread," Luc deduced, a slow smile finally breaking through his exhaustion.
"Exactly," Rose said, walking over and leaning against the edge of his makeup station. She looked down at him, her pink hair catching the harsh light of the mirror. "Though, technically, you aren’t even the King yet. Fresko is beating you by two goals. How embarrassing for you."
"I was busy trying to destroy Fontaine’s entire career and your worthless club to even notice," Luc shot back, though the banter felt incredibly grounding.
After the high-stakes politics of Valérie and the crushing pressure of the locker room, talking to Rose was like breathing fresh air.
"I’ll catch the Phocéen guy soon, only a matter of time."
"I’m sure you will," Rose said softly, her eyes tracking the faint, yellowish bruising along his jawline, a remnant of an elbow he had caught from a Parisian center-back. "You look like you went twelve rounds in a boxing ring, Luc."
"Felt like it."
"I watched the match," Rose admitted, her tone shifting from playful to quietly serious. "The penalty at the end. The pressure of taking it after what happened to the kid... it was good. You play like a captain now. Not just a striker."
Before Luc could respond to the compliment, the velvet curtain was violently swept aside.
The atmosphere in the room instantly changed, the temperature dropping as the air was sucked out by the arrival of a massive, undeniable ego.
Luc looked past Rose.
Standing in the doorway, flanked by three massive bodyguards and a flock of frantic PR agents, was Fresko.
The Stade Phocéen superstar was tall and wearing a pair of dark sunglasses indoors. He carried the unshakeable arrogance of a man who knew he was the most lethal in the country... atleast for the time being. He didn’t look at the stylists. He didn’t look at Rose.
Fresko lowered his sunglasses slightly, his dark eyes locking directly onto Luc.
"So," Fresko said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that commanded immediate silence in the room. "Beaumont. Are we doing this or not."
Luc stood up slowly from the makeup chair.
"I’m down for it already," Luc replied evenly, maintaining the eye contact.
Fresko didn’t move from the doorway immediately. He let the silence stretch, allowing his physical presence to dictate the gravity of the room. He was taller than Luc by perhaps a few inches, built with a lean, heavily muscled frame that suggested he had spent years bullying the best center-backs of Europe.
He slowly reached up, folding his dark sunglasses and sliding them into the breast pocket of his designer jacket.
"You’re down for it," Fresko repeated, the gravel in his voice vibrating through the cramped dressing room. A deeply cynical smile crept across his face. "The boy scores a hat-trick against a Paris Royal side in a cup match, and suddenly he thinks he belongs in the same room as the Golden Boot."
Luc didn’t flinch or drop his gaze. He had long since had the confidence that kept him grounded in the face of external hostility.
"Take a load of this prick. Didn’t we beat you? That two goal lead must be making you high, huh," Luc replied, his tone smooth, dangerously calm. "And I scored a hat-trick against a team that you couldn’t put a single goal past when you played them in the first half of the season. Or did you forget that zero-zero draw?"
The temperature in the room plummeted.
The frantic buzzing of the PR agents and stylists instantly died out. The makeup artist who had been touching up Luc’s bruised jaw took three very slow, very deliberate steps backward, eager to remove herself from the blast radius.
Fresko’s smile vanished. The muscles in his jaw flexed.
A sharp, melodic laugh sliced through the tension.
Rose Montgomery pushed off the makeup counter, crossing her arms over her white pantsuit. She looked between the two men, her pink hair tilting slightly as she assessed them with detached amusement. Imagine a museum curator observing two particularly aggressive exhibits.
"Boys, please," Rose said, her voice dripping with high-fashion condescension. "If you tire out yourselves right here in the dressing room, the photographer won’t have any tension left to capture on set. Save the hostility for the cameras. It’s what GQ is paying for."
Fresko shifted his hostile gaze to Rose. For a fraction of a second, the Phocéen striker looked annoyed by the interruption, but then he recognized her. In the hierarchy of European football, Rose Montgomery was undeniable royalty.
"The Queen of Paris," Fresko murmured.