Chapter 127: [127] "GQ France, released!"
They looked like rival cartel bosses finalizing a truce right before a double-cross and an eventual shootout.
"Bro," Bachra breathed, staring at the screen with genuine awe. "You look like a movie star. They got the bruised jaw and everything."
"It’s just PR, Bachra, plus I did have an actual bruised jaw," Luc said, pushing the phone away gently.
"Just PR?" Gabriel Assis scoffed, leaning over from the next locker. The Brazilian winger was staring at his own phone, a mix of professional respect and deep, undeniable jealousy swimming in his eyes. "You are on the cover of GQ, Captain. Do you know how many millions in endorsements just unlocked for you? Olivier Fontaine is probably smashing his television right now."
Cillian Doyle whistled low from across the room. "I’ll say this, Luc. The suit fits better than the training bibs."
Even Klaus Becker, returning from his post-match media duties, glanced at a nearby phone and offered an opinion. "It is good for the club."
Luc grabbed his towel and walked toward the showers. He could feel the shift in the room. His teammates weren’t just looking at their captain anymore. They were looking at a superstar. The brand had eclipsed the player.
---
Forty-five minutes later, Luc slipped out the private rear exit of Stade Valois.
It was night but he could only imagine the front gates next time out, there would be war zone scenes...flashing cameras, journalists screaming his name, and fans waving printed copies of the digital cover that they had somehow already managed to run through local print shops.
He climbed into the quiet interior of his Porsche, the car doors thudding shut.
He sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment, staring at the glowing dashboard. He had twenty-three goals. He had a 4-0 revenge victory. He had a magazine cover that was currently breaking the French internet...
...but he was alone in a dark parking lot.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen cluttered with hundreds of unread messages from agents, potential sponsors, and numbers he didn’t even recognize. He swiped past all of them, opened his contacts, and dialed Juliette.
It rang four times. He was about to hang up, assuming she was asleep, when the line clicked.
"Tell me you are icing your back, love," her voice came through the speakers of the car connected through Bluetooth, sounding laced with exhaustion.
Luc leaned his head back against the leather headrest, a smile finally breaking across his face. "I’m sitting in my car. But I’ll ice it when I get to the apartment. I promise."
"You better," Juliette sighed. He could hear the faint sound of pages turning in the background, the telltale rhythm of her working late. "I saw a few glimpses of the match on the monitor in my office. The first goal was incredible, Luc. You didn’t even flinch when he hit you."
"You know, it’s all about center of gravity," Luc said softly, in a joky manner.
Juliette was amused. "Whatever you did, it worked. The 4-0 is a massive statement." There was a brief pause, filled only by the scratching of a pen on paper. "I also saw the cover."
Luc rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. Bachra practically shoved it down my throat in the locker room."
"It’s a good picture," Juliette said, her tone perfectly even, though he could hear the faint undercut of amusement. "Though I do think the makeup artist went a bit heavy on the contouring. You look like a very angry, very expensive vampire."
Luc chuckled. "I told Valérie it was ridiculous, but she said it was necessary...anything to assassinate Fontaine’s market dominance."
"She’s probably right. She usually is about stuff like that." The scratching of the pen stopped. A heavy, tired silence settled over the phone line. "It’s happening, Luc. The thing we talked about in August. You aren’t just a striker anymore. You’re the face of the franchise."
"It feels like a lot of noise, Jules. I just want to score goals."
"The noise pays," she replied pragmatically. "Fresko isn’t going to just let you take his spotlight. And don’t think Fontaine is just gonna stay dead."
Luc shifted in his seat, the leather creaking slightly. He looked out the windshield at the empty parking lot. "When do you get off work?"
Juliette let out a long, slow breath. "I don’t know. I have assessments for the entire youth academy due by tomorrow morning, and the board wants a comprehensive report on something else by Wednesday. I might sleep on the couch in my office tonight."
Luc closed his eyes. "I can bring you food. I can drive back around to the medical wing."
"No," Juliette said instantly, though her voice softened. "If you come down here, those creepy paparazzi still waiting around might get in your face, and I do not have the energy to deal with flashes through my office windows. You need to go home and sleep, Luc."
"That’s four days, Jules."
The words hung in the air, stripped of the usual banter, exposing the raw nerve of their current reality.
"I know. And I miss you too." She whispered. "But this is the promotion I’ve been dreaming of. We are exactly where we wanted to be."
It was the truth. They had both climbed the mountain, only to realize that the peaks were isolated from one another. She was managing league wide health matters, and he was carrying the weight of the club on his shoulders.
There was no room for quiet dinners or slow mornings. Not right now.
"Later then," Luc said, his voice firm, refusing to accept the total surrender of their time.
A faint, tired laugh drifted through the speakers. "Later. Ice your back, Luc. Goodnight."
The line went dead.
Luc sat in the silence of the car for another minute. The glowing screen of his phone had already re-populated with fifty new notifications. The noise of the world was desperately trying to get back in.
He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, put the Porsche into gear, and drove out of the stadium lot.
Twenty-three wasn’t enough. He needed twenty-four.