Chapter 175: [175] "I can follow that"
She cleared her throat, affecting a mockingly authoritative, cold tone to mimic the club owner. "’Beaumont. The medical department assures me you are confined to your apartment. Do not leave. The media is attempting to spin your injury as a collapse of our title hopes. I am releasing a statement that it is merely a precautionary rest. Ensure you are fully operational for the league fixture after the cup match. I don’t plan to tolerate prolonged absences.’"
Juliette lowered the phone, raising an eyebrow at him. "Does she actually talk like a Bond villain in person, or is it just over text?"
Luc let out a short laugh. "Both. But she gets results. What else did she say?"
"That’s it," Juliette said, locking the screen and tossing the phone onto the armchair on the opposite side of the room, completely out of his reach. "And now you are disconnected until dinner. No more Valérie. No more Henri. And definitely no checking social media accounts to see the talk about league goals."
Luc looked at his phone resting on the chair, then back at Juliette. "You’re enjoying this."
"Immensely," she admitted, shifting her weight on the sofa so she was angled more directly toward him.
The television cast a shifting, colorful glow across the dim living room, but the drama on the screen had completely faded into background noise.
Luc looked at the woman sitting next to him. Stripped of the clinical environment of the training complex, away from the prying eyes of the media, she was his anchor and his all. The past few weeks had been a violent whirlwind on and off the pitch, coupled with corporate obligations of some sort.
"Hugo got a girl’s number," Luc said casually, deciding to change the subject to something that didn’t involve his own impending fixtures or the trash he considered Love Island France to be.
Juliette blinked, genuinely surprised. "Hugo Blanc? The robot? Are you entirely sure it wasn’t--something else disguised as a phone number?"
"I watched it happen," Luc smiled, shifting his upper body slightly closer to her, though keeping his bad leg still. "We went to this little bistro in a residential district. Le Petit Chêne. The waitress had a pencil stuck in her hair and flour on her face. She asked for his order and his brain literally fried. He couldn’t form a sentence."
Juliette let out an unrestrained laugh. "Please tell me someone else was there to witness it."
"Bachra was. Zara had to kick him repeatedly to stop him from laughing out loud." Luc reached out, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of Juliette’s jawline. "It was good for him. He spends too much time inside his own head. He needed someone who doesn’t care about his football to remind him he’s seventeen."
"It’s a dangerous thing," Juliette murmured, her voice dropping. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second as she leaned into his touch. "Getting involved with someone outside the lines. It shifts your priorities."
"Is that a medical opinion or a personal one?" Luc asked quietly.
"Both," she replied.
Juliette’s hand, which had been resting casually on his lower thigh, slowly slid upward. The movement was no longer diagnostic. The assessing pressure she used to check for inflammation was gone, replaced by a slow, deliberate touch that traced the rigid muscles of his leg.
Luc’s breath hitched slightly. The dull throb in his bruised tibia suddenly felt very distant, overshadowed by a sudden, intense spike of heat radiating from somewhere else.
He shifted his hips against the sofa cushions, ignoring the slight twinge of discomfort in his knee.
"You’re tense again," Juliette whispered, her eyes locking onto his. The playful banter from a few minutes ago had vanished, replaced by electric tension that always simmered just beneath the surface between them.
"It’s not from the injury," Luc replied, his voice slightly hoarse.
Juliette unclipped the claw from her hair, letting the dark waves fall loose around her shoulders. She shifted her body weight, carefully lifting his injured leg and placing it gently onto a heavily padded throw pillow on the coffee table, ensuring it remained elevated and supported.
Once the leg was secure, she turned back to him.
She swung one leg over his waist, straddling his hips with slow, fluid grace. She kept her weight distributed perfectly, ensuring no pressure was placed anywhere near his damaged knee, but her proximity was personal.
She rested her hands flat against his chest, feeling the accelerated thumping of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.
"I told you," Juliette murmured, leaning down until her lips were hovering just an inch above his, her breath warm against his skin. "Zero impact for the knee."
Luc’s hands immediately found her waist, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her tank top to feel the smooth heat of her skin. He pulled her against him, the friction sending a jolt straight down his spine.
"I’m pretty sure I can follow that prescription," Luc whispered back, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
"Good," she breathed.
Juliette’s lips brushed his in a feather-light touch that sent something racing through every nerve ending. She didn’t kiss him fully...not yet. Instead, she let her mouth hover there, teasing, breathing the same air as him while her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. The television’s flickering light painted shifting shadows across her face, highlighting the redness creeping up her neck.
Luc’s hands tightened on her waist. His thumbs stroked slow circles against her bare skin just above the waistband of her sweatpants, feeling the subtle tremor that ran through her body. He could smell her shampoo, something clean and citrusy mixed with the faint antiseptic scent that always clung to her after long shifts at the medical facility.
"You’re shaking," he murmured against her mouth.
"So are you," she whispered back, her voice barely audible over the reduced volume of the TV. Her hips shifted forward slightly, and the movement pressed her down against the growing hardness beneath his own sweatpants.