Chapter 170: [170] "No nightmare scenarios here!"
The nightmare scenario. The pop of a ligament that would end his season and hand the Golden Boot over to Fresko on a silver platter, was officially off the table.
"So wrap it up," Luc said, sitting up slightly. "Give me some painkillers. I can go back out and sit on the bench."
"You are not going anywhere except to a couch," Detone corrected, wrapping the ice pack tightly around the swollen joint with a thick elastic bandage. "The inflammation is going to peak in about two hours. You won’t be able to bend this knee by the time you get home."
Before Luc could argue, a buzz interrupted the quiet of the medical bay.
Luc’s phone, which had been transferred from his street clothes to his locker and then handed to him by a kit man on his way out, was lighting up on the steel counter next to him.
He didn’t need to check the caller ID. He knew exactly who was. He reached over and accepted the video call.
Juliette’s face instantly filled the screen. She didn’t look like the relaxed woman side of her. She looked like the league-wide head of medical affairs dealing with a league wide crisis... it was not. She was sitting in her office, the background filled with stacks of paperwork.
She didn’t offer a greeting.
"Angle the camera down," Juliette demanded, her voice clipped and strictly professional. "Show it to me."
Luc sighed, flipping the camera view and pointing the phone at his right leg, currently elevated and wrapped in the heavy ice bandage by Detone.
"Swelling," Juliette noted, her eyes narrowing as she studied the screen. She didn’t address Luc. She addressed the professional in the room. "Detone. Did you test? The broadcast angle showed something brutal when he hit the ground."
Detone stepped into the frame, wiping his hands on a towel. "Yes, Madame. Lachman and McMurray tests are both negative. It is completely sound. It is a bone bruise directly on the tibial tuberosity."
Juliette closed her eyes for a second, a visible wave of relief washing over her. The rigid, professional posture melted slightly, revealing the anxiety she had been harboring since she watched Khalil launch himself through the air on the television monitor.
"I wanted to leave the office and drive down to the stadium the exact second you went down," Juliette said, her voice softening just a fraction. "But Valérie has me locked in a mandatory meeting with executives for the next three hours."
Luc flipped the camera back to his own face, offering a reassuring, lopsided smile. "I’m fine, Jules. Honestly. It hurts, but it’s just a dead leg. I’ll be walking normally by tomorrow."
Juliette glared at him through the digital screen, the softness instantly vanishing, replaced by medical authority.
"Do not lie to me, Luc Beaumont," she warned him, pointing a pen directly at the camera lens. "I know exactly how a bone bruise heals. You are going to be in agony tomorrow morning. You are not going to be walking normally, and you are absolutely not playing in the Cup Quarter-Final."
"Jules, it’s a quarter-final," Luc argued, his competitive instincts immediately flaring. "I can manage the pain. If Henri needs me off the bench---"
"If Henri attempts to put you on that pitch," Juliette interrupted, her tone leaving zero room for debate, "infact, I will personally declare you unfit to play. Do not test me on this. You need five days of zero impact to let the bone settle. If you rush this, you will compensate and tear a hamstring."
Luc stared at the screen. He knew she was right. He knew the mechanics of overcompensation better than anyone. But the math of the Golden Boot race was ticking loudly in the back of his mind. Fresko was sitting at twenty-seven goals. Luc was at thirty. A three-goal cushion was nothing in this league, especially if he was forced to sit out a fixture.
"Five days," Luc finally conceded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fine."
"I will be at the apartment tonight," Juliette said, her expression softening once more. "Keep it elevated above your heart. Do not put weight on it. I will bring the heavy anti-inflammatories from the clinic."
"See you later, Jules."
The call ended. Luc tossed the phone onto the steel counter. He looked down at his wrapped knee. The realization that he was a spectator for the remainder of the evening, and likely the entirety of the next week, was a very bitter pill to swallow.
"The second half is starting," Detone noted, checking his watch. "I’ll grab you a pair of crutches. You can watch from the tunnel entrance, but you are not going back to the technical area. Let’s not let the fans see you like this."
---
The cold wind whipped through the open mouth of the tunnel as Luc leaned on a pair of aluminum crutches, positioning himself. He zipped the club jacket up to his chin, his right leg hovering inches above the concrete floor.
Out on the pitch, the second half had commenced.
FC Belleville had abandoned all ambition.
Down to ten men following Khalil’s red card, they had retreated into a deeply cynical, ultra-compact 4-4-1 formation. Their center-back, the rookie who had been humiliated by Max Caster in the first half, was now permanently anchored to the edge of his own six-yard box, refusing to step out and engage the midfield.
The away side was challenging Valois to break them down throug technical superiority.
Minute forty-six.
Klaus Becker received the ball near the center circle. The midfielder had acres of space. Belleville wasn’t pressing. They were simply shifting their two banks of four side-to-side, maintaining a rigid block. Klaus pushed a firm, grounded pass forward to Cillian Doyle.
Cillian immediately funneled the ball to Hugo Blanc, who was operating in the space just between the Belleville midfield and attack lines.
Hugo trapped the ball cleanly, his head on a constant swivel.
Max Caster was doing exactly what he had been instructed to do. The teenager dropped deep, hovering just a few yards away from Hugo, demanding the attention of the Belleville holding midfielders. By dropping into the false nine position, Max essentially created an advantage for Valois in the center of the park.
"Turn!" Luc muttered to himself, watching from the tunnel.