Chapter 117: [117] "Good for you"
Cillian Doyle was sprawled out on a leather sofa, completely horizontal, an ice pack strapped to his knee. He was tossing grapes into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth, entirely exhausted but looking happier than Luc had ever seen him.
Hugo Blanc sat in a high-backed armchair, a tablet resting on his lap. He was re-watching the replay of his Zidane roulette against Bastien Leroux, studying the movement with the detached, analytical obsession of a chess grandmaster. It was the first time he had done something like that in a competitive match.
On the far side of the room, Bachra Goza had a slight limp from the brutal, near-leg-breaking tackle that had won the penalty, but it didn’t slow his mouth down. He was animating the rainbow flick he had executed over Olivier Fontaine, using two empty water bottles to represent himself and the MVP of French football.
Gabriel Assis and Dário Ferrão were actually listening, the two wingers shaking their heads and laughing at the disrespect of the kid.
Luc walked toward the coffee machine, acknowledging the nods and raised hands of his teammates. He didn’t need to do much today.
As the coffee machine whirred to life, Luc glanced through the open double doors that led into the adjacent rehabilitation gym.
Klaus Becker was inside.
The thirty-two-year-old German veteran, the man who had single-handedly terrorized the Paris Royal midfield and protected Hugo, wasn’t lifting weights in there. He was sitting on the edge of a padded treatment table, dressed in a loose grey tracksuit.
Standing directly between Klaus’s knees was Loretta, the Austrian personal trainer who had supposedly been hired strictly for his physical conditioning.
Luc watched for a moment, narrowing his eyes. The dynamic between them was entirely devoid of the professional distance they usually maintained when the rest of the squad was around. It kinda reminded him of Juliette.
Loretta was holding something, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was laughing at something Klaus had just murmured. Klaus reached up, his massive, calloused hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind Loretta’s ear. His touch looked incredibly soft, a contrast to the man who had spent the previous night executing brutal slide tackles on Bastien Leroux and Paris.
Loretta smiled, leaning into his hand, before lightly swatting his shoulder with the thing she was holding.
It was an unguarded, profoundly intimate moment. Klaus was completely relaxed.
Luc picked up his coffee and walked casually toward the gym doors. He didn’t want to spy, but he needed to check on his midfield general.
As Luc’s shadow fell across the glass, Loretta took a quick step back, immediately raising the... clipboard and adopting a mask of clinical professionalism. Klaus, however, didn’t flinch. He looked up, spotting Luc in the doorway, and offered a slow, unapologetic smirk.
"Captain," Klaus rumbled, his deep voice echoing slightly in the empty gym. "You are walking well for a man who spent ninety minutes wrestling with two defensive beasts, eh."
Stepping into the room. He nodded at Loretta. "Morning."
"Good morning, Luc," Loretta replied smoothly, though a faint blush induced by Klaus still lingered on her neck. "I was just reviewing Klaus’s recovery schedule. He ran thirteen kilometers last night. It is unacceptable for a man his age."
"My age is a testament to my endurance, Loretta," Klaus countered dryly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement. He looked at Luc, his expression sobering slightly into one of deep, mutual respect. "You played a perfect match, American. The chip over the goalkeeper? Ice cold. Munich would have appreciated a finish like that."
"I appreciate you protecting Hugo in the center," Luc said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Bastien was trying to bully him."
"The boy needed space to think," Klaus said, waving his hand dismissively. "I provided the space. It is the job of the veteran to carry, so the artist can paint."
Klaus shifted his weight on the table, his pale eyes locking onto Luc’s. "But do not let the atmosphere in the lounge fool you, Luc. The media is singing our praises today. Valérie is popping champagne. But Paris Royal will not forget the disrespect Bachra showed Fontaine. When we play them again, it will not be a standard football match. We have a derby rival in them now."
"We have AS Garonne next. They beat us 4-0 in the first half of the season. I want my revenge before I start worrying about Paris again."
"Good," Klaus grunted, sliding off the table. "Revenge keeps the blood hot. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Loretta was just about to torture my hamstrings."
Luc smirked, turning to leave, but as he reached the door, he paused. "She’s good for you, Klaus. You look... human today."
Klaus didn’t bristle at the comment. He simply looked at Loretta, then back at Luc. "Football is a miserable, lonely profession, Captain. If you find someone who makes it bearable, you do not let them go."
The words struck a chord deep inside Luc, echoing the empty bed he had woken up to, and the frantic schedule Juliette was currently managing. He nodded, stepping out of the gym and leaving the German and his lady to their peace.
---
Before Luc could make it back to the coffee machine in the lounge, the doors of the complex lobby swung open.
A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the relaxed banter of the room.
"Beaumont. My office. Now."
It was Valérie Laurent.
The entire lounge went dead silent. The players turned to look at their club owner. Valérie wasn’t wearing her usual immaculate pantsuit. She was wearing dark, tailored jeans, a black turtleneck, and oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She looked electric.
She looked like a woman who had just conquered the world and was currently looking for a new planet to invade.
Luc handed his coffee cup to Bachra, who took it without taking his eyes off Valérie, and followed the owner down the main corridor.