Chapter 121: [121] "Wager my ass"
"The Queen of Paris," Fresko murmured, offering a slight, respectful dip of his chin. "I suppose your club is still mourning the loss of their Cup dreams."
"My club is doing just fine, tall and scary," Rose countered smoothly. "The men’s side might be having an existential crisis, but the women’s side will surely lift the cup, league and Champions League this year. Don’t worry about us." She uncrossed her arms and gestured toward the racks of clothing. "Now, get dressed. We have a magazine to sell."
Fresko stared at her for a moment longer, then looked back at Luc. "Twenty-three to twenty-one, Beaumont," he said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "Enjoy the flashing lights today. Because when end of season arrives, I’m the one who walks away with the golden boot."
Fresko turned, gesturing for his entourage to follow him as he disappeared into an adjacent dressing room.
The velvet curtain fell back into place.
Luc let out a slow breath, sinking back down into the leather makeup chair. He rubbed his eyes, the fatigue of the previous night threatening to drag him under.
"He’s intense," Rose noted, walking over and peering into the mirror beside him.
"I didn’t remember him being this much of an ass when I played against him. I guess we didn’t talk much," Luc replied, though he respected it. "He has the goals to back it up. For now."
"That’s the game, Luc," Rose said softly. "Valérie Laurent set this up perfectly. Fontaine is officially old news. The media loves a new rivalry. They are going to milk this ’New Kings’ narrative until your bones probably turn to dust. You better make sure you actually catch him, or you’re just going to look like his backup dancer on this cover."
"I’ll catch him, don’t you trust me?" Luc promised, looking at his own reflection. The bruises under his eyes had been mostly concealed by the makeup, but the hardened look of a seasoned half-season striker remained. "I have AS Garonne on Monday. That’s a team that owes me a lot of blood."
"Good." Rose patted his shoulder. "Now sit still. They need to put you in good clothes for the shoot."
---
The next thirty minutes were a blur of chaos.
The stylists stripped Luc of his comfortable street clothes and forced him into a bespoke, midnight-black tailored suit. It was cut aggressively tight across the shoulders, designed to emphasize the athletic edges of his physique. He was given a crisp white shirt, left unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of polished black leather oxfords(shoes) that felt unnatural compared to his football cleats.
When he finally stepped out from behind the curtain and walked onto the main studio floor, the sheer scale of the production hit him.
The set was a massive and seamlessly white, blasted with light from half a dozen suspended softboxes. Dozens of assistants, lighting technicians, and magazine executives scurried around the perimeter.
Standing in the center of the blinding white expanse was Fresko.
The Phocéen striker was dressed in stark contrast to Luc. He wore a stunning, blood-red velvet blazer over a black silk shirt, paired with dark trousers and silver chains that caught glares. He looked like absolute royalty. He looked like a man who had twenty-three goals.
"Ah! Our second King arrives!"
A man with a thick beard and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses rushed forward, clapping his hands. This was the lead photographer for GQ France. He possessed the frantic energy of an artist who believed his camera lens was the center of the universe.
"Beaumont, get in there!" The man ordered, waving his hands wildly toward the white backdrop. "No smiling! No camaraderie! You are rivals! You are animals fighting over a single piece of meat! I want to see the bloodlust in your eyes!"
Luc walked onto the white floor, his polished shoes clicking sharply.
He stopped two feet away from Fresko.
"Turn around, back-to-back!" The man yelled, diving behind his massive camera rig. "Cross your arms! Look over your shoulders at me! Give me the arrogance of youth and the ruthlessness of the elite!"
Luc turned, feeling his shoulder blades press lightly against Fresko’s. The physical proximity was a bit extreme. In a match, this was the distance from which Luc would throw an elbow or drop his hips to shield the ball. Here, under the lights, he had to project stillness.
Click. Flash.
"Yes! Perfect!" The man screamed over the pulsing, bass-heavy hip-hop playing from the studio speakers. "Hold that tension!"
Click. Flash. Click. Flash.
The lights were creating a rapid, dizzying sequence of whiteouts.
"You look stiff, American," Fresko murmured. He didn’t turn his head. He spoke through clenched, photogenic jaws, projecting his voice just loud enough for Luc to hear over the music. "You aren’t used to the high fashion? I suppose they don’t have GQ in whatever college league you crawled out of."
Luc kept his eyes locked on the camera lens, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
"I’m just trying not to ruin the suit," Luc replied evenly. "I’d hate to get your desperation all over it."
Fresko let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
Click. Flash.
"Move slightly apart!" The man directed, waving them a few inches away from each other. "Fresko, look down the lens! Beaumont, look towards that camera over there!"
They adjusted their poses. Luc shifted his weight, turning his head slightly to glare at the camera.
"Four-two. I watched that your Corse match at home with a few of my teammates. My team put five past them in November. Without breaking a sweat."
"And yet, we’re tied on points in the league table," Luc fired back. "It must be exhausting, Fresko. Scoring all those goals in that high-line possession system, only to look in the rearview mirror and see a twenty-year-old American breathing down your neck. I honestly forgot you existed in this league."
Fresko’s jaw tightened. The silver chains around his neck clinked as he shifted his weight.
Click. Flash. Click. Flash.
"Your team is a manufactured lie, Beaumont," Fresko hissed. "Valérie Laurent bought you a midfield in January because you were drowning. You have Klaus Becker doing your dirty work. I am the system at Phocéen."
"I’ll catch your twenty-three goals, Fresko. And I won’t need a red jacket to make it look good."
"Gentlemen! The tension is immaculate!" The man screamed from the darkness behind the camera. "Hold that exact energy! It looks like you want to kill each other! It’s beautiful!"
For the next forty-five minutes, they were subjected to a grueling carousel of wardrobe changes, lighting adjustments, and rapid-fire flashes. They were posed sitting on leather armchairs, standing beneath confetti, and glaring into the lens from a dozen different angles.
Through it all, the warfare never ceased.
They traded glares through clenched teeth, dissecting each other’s flaws, mocking missed chances from weeks ago, and promising absolute destruction when SC Valois and Stade Phocéen finally met on the pitch later in the season.
It was exhausting. By the time the bearded man finally lowered his camera and yelled, "That’s a wrap on the Kings!", Luc felt a headache beginning to pulse behind his temples.
The two strikers stepped away from each other, instantly dropping the manufactured poses.
Fresko adjusted his cuffs, his eyes meeting Luc’s one last time.
"I hope you survive AS Garonne on Monday," Fresko said, his tone entirely devoid of the previous venom, replaced by professional certainty. "They beat you four-nil before. Do not get injured. I want you fully fit when I humiliate you in the Golden Boot race."
Luc replied, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the stiffness in his tailored suit. "Garonne is just a stepping stone. Keep your eyes on the rearview mirror, Fresko. I’m coming."
"Say, Beaumont. How about a wager of our own?"
Luc burst out laughing. "Nah, you must think you’re something, huh. Wager my ass. You need me to stay relevant but I’m not in the mood."
Fresko didn’t waste time soaking in the embarrassment, he turned and walked off the set, his entourage immediately swarming him like a protective shell, ushering the Phocéen superstar toward his private dressing room.
Luc exhaled slowly, loosening the collar of his stiff white shirt.
"He’s right, you know."
Luc turned. Rose Montgomery was standing just outside the rays of the photography lights. She had changed into her wardrobe and out of the pantsuit for the alternate cover.
If Fresko looked like royalty, Rose looked like a deity.
She wore a sharp, black blazer tailored perfectly to her athletic frame, paired with sleek trousers and a pair of stilettos that made her look impossibly tall. Her pink hair had been styled back, stark and aggressive, highlighting the sharp contours of her cheekbones.
"Right about what?" Luc asked, walking over to her.
"Garonne," Rose said, her eyes serious. "They know they beat you 4-0. They know you have a Champions League spot. They are going to arrive at Stade Valois on Monday with the sole intention of proving that your new, expensive squad can still be bullied."
"We aren’t the same team we were back then. Our midfield will eat their midfield alive, and I’ll handle their center-backs."
Rose smiled with a warm expression that cracked her high-fashion exterior. "Just make sure you don’t do anything stupid, Captain. I have to go shoot my cover now. Try not to stare too hard on your way out."
"Definitely not at you," Luc smirked.
He watched as Rose confidently strode out onto the blinding white expanse of the set. The moment she stepped into the light, the bearded man practically lost his mind with excitement. She commanded the space effortlessly, twisting, posing, and glaring into the lens with an innate, magnetic power that left the entire studio in awe.
She wasn’t just a commercial asset. She was an absolute superstar.
Luc turned away, slipping through the velvet curtains and back into the chaos of the dressing room. He stripped off the suit, pulling his comfortable clothes back over his aching muscles.
He wiped the last traces of contouring makeup off his face with a towel, staring at his reflection in the brightly lit mirror.
The GQ cover was brilliant business. It elevated him. It assassinated Fontaine’s monopoly. It established the "New Kings" narrative that would dominate the press for the rest of the season.
But as he grabbed his bag and walked out through the steel doors of the studio, stepping back into the sunny Friday afternoon, he knew none of it actually mattered. The velvet blazers, the flashing lights, the manufactured tension...it was all an illusion.
The only truth that existed in his world was a spherical leather ball, a net, and the twenty-three goals sitting next to Fresko’s name.
Luc unlocked the Porsche, sliding into the driver’s seat.
He had fifty TES points each in the bank. He had a fully cohesive, highly lethal 4-3-3 formation backing his goals. And he had less than seventy-two hours before AS Garonne arrived at Stade Valois.
The photoshoot was over. The era of the New Kings had officially begun.