Chapter 178: [178] "Who gave you the passcode"
The transition from sleep to consciousness did not happen so...naturally. It was forced by the throbbing coming from Luc’s lower right.
He opened his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom was painted in the muted, gray light of mid-morning filtering through the partially drawn blinds. The space beside him on the mattress was empty. The sheets were cool to the touch, lacking the residual warmth that usually indicated Juliette had just recently slipped away. She had been gone for hours.
He turned his head slowly, assessing the room. Her scent still lingered in the air, a faint trace of mint bath oil she used before heading to the medical facility. A small, square sticky note was plastered to the face of his digital alarm clock on the nightstand.
Luc didn’t reach for it immediately. He let his head fall back against the pillows, preparing himself for any physically demanding activity of the day.
Yesterday’s adrenaline was a distant memory. The bone bruise on his tibia was now the dictator of his footballing existence. The heavy compression sleeve encasing his knee had done its job overnight, suppressing the worst of the swelling, but the deep tissue damage remained. It felt as though a lead weight had been surgically grafted onto his bone.
He took a slow breath, gripping the edge of the duvet and throwing it back.
The cold air of the apartment hit his bare chest. He shifted his hips, initiating the process of moving his legs over the edge of the mattress. The moment his right leg lost the horizontal support of the bed, gravity seized the joint. A sharp spike of pain shot upward through his thigh, forcing a sharp hiss through his clenched teeth.
"Zero impact," he muttered to himself, echoing the strict medical mandate delivered the previous night.
He grabbed the crutches leaning against the nightstand, positioning them under his arms. He pushed himself upright, keeping his right foot hovering two inches above the floor. The effort required to balance his massive frame on his left leg and his shoulders was instantly exhausting.
He leaned forward, snatching the sticky note off the clock.
Do not attempt to cook. Do not attempt to clean. Keep the leg elevated. I will check the security cameras if I have to. - J.
Luc crumpled the paper, a faint smirk breaking through the pain. She wasn’t bluffing about the cameras. The woman operated with ruthless efficiency.
He adjusted his grip on the padded handles of the crutches and began the slow march down the hallway.
Thump.
Drag.
Repeat.
The rhythm was infuriating. For an elite athlete whose entire career was predicated on explosive speed, rapid deceleration, and instantaneous changes of direction, being reduced to a shuffling crawl was torture all its own.
He expected the apartment to be silent. He expected to spend the next eight hours staring at the television, agonizing over the fact that his teammates were currently out on the training pitch preparing for a knockout fixture without him.
Instead, as he navigated the final turn of the hallway leading into the living space, a distinct and chaotic noise broke the quiet.
It wasn’t the television. It was the sound of a cabinet door slamming shut, followed by a loud curse in Spanish, and then a very familiar, booming Irish accent.
"I told you the machine requires whole beans, Bachra. You can’t just pour the pre-ground dust into the top and expect it to work. You’ve choked the grinder."
"It’s coffee, Cillian! The machine costs a fortune I’m sure, it should figure it out," Bachra Goza snapped back.
Luc froze at the edge of the hallway.
He peered around the corner. The sanctuary of his apartment had been breached.
Cillian Doyle was sprawled out on the expensive leather armchair near the window, his feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table. He was wearing his official SC Valois training tracksuit, the fabric still slightly damp from what must have been a morning session on the grass.
Bachra Goza was standing in the kitchen, aggressively pressing buttons on the high-end espresso machine Luc had imported from Italy. The machine was currently flashing a red warning light.
And sitting quietly at the kitchen island, ignoring the disaster as it was unfolding three feet away from him, was Hugo Blanc. The young prodigy had his tablet propped up against a fruit bowl, his eyes tracking lines with unblinking focus.
"Who gave you the passcode to my front door?" Luc asked, his voice cutting through the noise of the room.
All three heads snapped in his direction.
Bachra immediately abandoned the flashing espresso machine, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. Cillian dropped his feet from the coffee table, a massive but unrepentant grin spreading across his face.
Hugo looked up, his gaze dropping instantly to assess Luc’s suspended right leg and the rigid posture of his shoulders.
"Juliette," Cillian answered cheerfully, standing up and stretching his arms. "She texted Hugo again this morning. Said you were to be confined to the sofa and would likely spiral into a deep depression if you didn’t have human interactions. She told us to bring food and make sure you didn’t try to do anything."
"The fuck--Again? I am not spiraling," Luc stated flatly, shifting his weight on the crutches. "And I don’t get depressed."
"You are currently glaring at a coffee machine like you want to fight it," Bachra pointed out, leaning against the marble counter. "That’s stage one of striker isolation syndrome. I looked it up."
"You broke my grinder," Luc countered, hobbling forward into the living room.
"It can be fixed," Hugo said, finally speaking. The teenager didn’t look at the machine. He kept his eyes on Luc. "You are overcompensating. Your crutch height is off. If you maintain that posture, you will develop a strain in your lower back."
Luc stopped moving. He stared at the seventeen-year-old. "Hugo. I am going to ask you politely to turn the analysis off. I won’t say it again."
Hugo replied, completely unfazed. "What? I am merely pointing out a flaw I see."
"Sit down, Captain, before he starts drawing passing lanes on your cast," Cillian laughed, grabbing a thick throw pillow and tossing it onto the edge of the sofa. "Leg up. Doctor’s orders."
Luc didn’t argue. The short trip from the bedroom had already caused a fresh wave of throbbing heat to pool around his kneecap. He maneuvered his back to the cushions, lowering himself carefully, and allowed Cillian to guide his right leg onto the elevated pillow. The relief was instantaneous, though marginal.
"So," Luc breathed out, letting the crutches fall to the floor with a clatter. "You skipped a session to come break my appliances?"
"Henri gave us the morning off after the film review," Bachra explained, walking over and collapsing onto the opposite end of the sofa. The winger looked exhausted, dark circles bruised under his eyes. The toll of the chaotic Belleville match was catching up to the younger players. "He said the briefing was more important than putting more work on our legs today."
"Film review," Luc echoed, his competitive instincts instantly overriding the pain. He looked at Hugo.