Free Web NovelChapter 14: [14] "Even Predators Bleed"
The stadium shook. Red flares blazed in the stands of the ultras.
Luc recalled his section of the bottle job, his pocketing, leading to conceding that counterattack. He looked at his own half of the field and the touchline. Coach Henri was yelling, kicking a water bottle around the technical area. Mateo was smashing the grass with his fist. Hugo was looking at the ground, hopeless.
Luc had not scored and the goal was the result of that. The team had been vulnerable due to his arrogance.
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But there was no respite at half-time. Locker room was a grave yard. Henri didn’t even shout. He was just pacing around and saying to himself about goal differences and relegation zones, it was only just their second game of the season. PTSD from last season.
Luc didn’t talk to anyone or look at anybody, he was just sitting in the corner and looking at his boots. He had some dark and heavy anger rising in his chest, but no way to release it. It was just that the kid was quicker. It would be impossible to outwit pure speed untop of being limited by The Everything System for botching an interview entirely unrelated to the events happening on the pitch.
The second half, was filled with a sluggish, heartbreaking performance.
Belleville dominated the game. They had no doubt that SC Valois was off their wits. They were playing in triangles and the chasers were the players of Valois.
Belleville was awarded a corner kick in the 55th minute. The heavyweight twin, Khalil, sprinted up into the penalty area. Mateo tried to mark him, but Khalil simply shoved the captain aside, then leapt in the air and powered home a header.
2-0.
It was an out of reach game. SC Valois couldn’t even put together three consecutive passes. Hugo was completely worn out and constantly losing the ball. Up top, Luc was completely left out of play, double marked by Khalil and tracked by Amadou with each step he took.
Coach Henri watched his assistant on the sidelines. The assistant indicated with his pen and pad of paper about goal difference at the end of the season and how it was often used to determine relegation. Yes, that’s how a relegation prospect club thinks merely 2 games into a new season. Losing 2-0 was bad. They could be demoted if they lose 4-0. Parking the bus was the only way to put an end to the bloodshed. Henri’s original plan.
Henri went up to the 4th official. He presented him with two numbers.
Minute 60. The ball was played out of the field for a throw-in.
It was time to stop for substitution, so the referee blew his whistle and signaled to the touchline. freёwebnovel.com
Luc looked over. The digital substitution board was held high in the air by the official. There was a grayish sky, but the numbers on the board were bright red.
Number 9.
Number 14.
Luc and Hugo.
Luc froze. His face became red from burning, it was not as though he had been imposing himself in the match. Getting subbed at anywhere less than or equal to the 60th minute was embarrassing. In pro football it was an insult. It was the manager openly declaring to the world that you were utterly worthless in that match.
That was the end of his nightmare and Hugo began running towards the touch line with relief.
Luc walked. He didn’t jog. He went as heavily as he could go.
The Belleville fans knew what was going on. There were 40 thousand people standing up. They didn’t boo him. This would have been just a slight mockery, a slice of cake. Instead, they began to chant in unison, harmoniously reverberating off the concrete walls of the stadium.
"Tick... Tock... Tick... Tock..."
Luc looked straight ahead. He didn’t even glance at the people. He turned his back on the smiling Belleville players. His cleats clattered on the concrete track as he walked off the field.
As he approached the bench, Henri wouldn’t even make eye contact with him. The coach just patted Hugo on the back and turned his attention back to the game.
Luc didn’t go to the bench. He walked straight past the coaching staff, straight past his teammates and pushed through the heavy doors leading down to the dark stadium tunnel.
He found the away locker room. It was totally empty and silent.
He sat down on the wooden bench in front of his locker. He didn’t take off his boots. He simply sat there in a muddy kit, gazing at the blank concrete wall.
The roar of the crowd he heard once again 20 minutes later. In spite of the loud noise being dampened as it passed through the thick walls, he knew what it meant.
Belleville had hit another home.
3-0.
It was only a few minutes after, then the final whistle sounded. The SC Valois squad came into the locker room as if it were their own funeral. Nobody spoke. Mateo put his captain’s armband on the ground in disgust. Henri stooped straight into his private office and closed the door.
Luc was as motionless as a mouse caught in a trap.
He had dared to defy the king of France. He had called for attention. His life and career were on the line in front of the world.
In his first real fight, he had been thoroughly humiliated by a boy that no one had ever heard of.
It was almost December. Fontaine was up by two non-penalty goals. And Luc knew at last that Ligue Alpha wasn’t a playground. It was a war zone. He was now in the losing position.
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Sunday morning in Paris was reminiscent of a hangover.
At 6 am, Luc woke up with his body shaking. His back was red and deep purple where Khalil’s knee had punched into it. His calves burned, his head ached dully.
He got out of the large king-size bed in his new luxurious apartment. He was settled in the 8th arrondissement by Valérie Laurent. It was on the ground level with windows reaching from floor to ceiling and had marble countertops and a view of the Seine. Winner’s apartment.
He was an absolute fraud, he felt, right now.
He went to the kitchen and switched on the sleek wall mounted TV. He didn’t even have to change the channel. The networks were broadcasting the disaster all day long.
Being played was the scene of his dismissal at the 60-minute mark. There was the sound of the ultras of Belleville chanting Tick-Tock. Then, the worst part.
The broadcast cut to the post-match press conference in Paris. Olivier Fontaine sat behind a microphone, in a perfect white suit, like royalty.
In a reporter’s question, "Olivier, do you have any thoughts on the American’s second match, his first as a starter?"
A smile played across Fontaine’s lips, as he leaned into the microphone. "I haven’t seen it, I only pay attention to professional football, but I heard someone, a youth academy kid pocketed him for an hour, maybe Mr. Beaumont should concentrate on keeping himself and his team out of relegation, rather than thinking about my Golden Boot."
The journalists’ room burst into laughter.
Luc turned off the TV. The large apartment was so quiet it was impossible to hear a sound.
He pressed a bag of frozen peas to the bruise on his back, and leaned against the marble counter and the freezer.
Fontaine was up two non-penalty goals. They were practically burying Luc alive in the media. He had been replaced by his own manager in front of 40,000 fans. The arrogant American college athlete had been soundly put down.
He had a choice. He might either break under the strain, he might take his huge salary and eventually retreat to the States as a failure.
Or he could adapt.
