Free Web NovelChapter 15: [15] "Ego Death on a Sunday"
The matte black Porsche came prowling out of the underground garage after 30 minutes.
It was supposed to be a Sunday when the SC Valois training facility was empty. It was their day off, the day to recover. Apart from a single parked silver sedan by the medical wing of the hospital, the parking area was empty.
Luc entered the building through a back door. The halls were dark, and there was a slight bleach odor. He didn’t go to the locker room. He didn’t go to the pitch. He walked straight into the video analysis room.
He started up the huge touch-screen on the wall and signed on to the club’s scouting database. He looked for the uncut footage from the match at Belleville.
He hit play. He was a witness watching on in the 38th minute.
He witnessed Hugo make the perfect lobbed pass over the huge center-back. He saw himself burst into a gallop. He was amazed at the way Amadou Fall, the 18-year-old youngster, closed the distance and stole the ball.
Luc rewound it. He watched it once again. And again. Ten times. Twenty times.
He wasn’t just watching the ball. He was following the biomechanics. He was searching for his own flaw.
"You ran in a line straight."
Luc didn’t flinch. He only stopped the video and glanced over his shoulders.
Juliette was leaning against the door frame. She had her hair pulled back into a messy bun and wore denim jeans and a plain white t-shirt. She had two hot cups of coffee.
"You look bad, American," she said and walked into the dark room to give him one of the cups.
Luc grunted as he took the coffee, "Khalil hits like a truck". The heat was good to his cold hands. "What are you doing here on a Sunday?"
"Had to catch up on paperwork," she said smoothly, sitting beside him. She glanced at the still image on the screen. "You’ve been watching this for an hour, I checked system logs."
"I need to know how he managed to contain me over and over again". Luc pointed out Amadou Fall on screen. "I was able to hit my top speed. I was never caught like this when I had this much open grass, and he made it look like I was jogging."
The green eyes of Juliette darted about as she took a sip at her coffee. "It was not only speed that beat you down, Luc, sure he may have been a little faster, but there was geometry."
Luc frowned. "What?"
"You play like an American," said Juliette bluntly. "All you do is use your athleticism, there’s more to football than that. You saw open space, and you took off towards the goal in a straight line. You believe football is a track meet."
She touched and drew a line on the touch-screen.
"Look at Amadou’s approach, he wasn’t running directly at you, he was running at an angle, he was cutting off your run, you even lost the match-up before Hugo could kick the ball."
Luc looked at the screen. He drew over the lines Juliette had drawn. She was right. This was obviously obvious now. During his college years the defenders were noobs and he had liberty to always run straight and not be caught. In Europe they measured angles in a fraction of a second.
"Why was I this stupid? A differently measured approach would have done the trick," Luc grumbled, as the realisation dawned on him.
Gently, Juliette corrected, "You were arrogant. There is a difference. Stupidity is permanent, arrogance can be corrected only If you pass the test of the ego death."
---
Luc switched off the TV. Everything was dark and only a dim light could be seen in the hall.
He glanced down at Juliette. Her vanilla perfume could be sensed above the aroma of the sour coffee, she was near enough.
Suddenly, Juliette commanded, "Strip!"
Luc gave her a raised brow. "Excuse me?"
Now she was being very professional: "Take your shirt off," she said. "I saw the blow you took from Khalil, if you have deep tissue bruising on your lumbar spine you’re going to lose ten percent of your explosive acceleration, we play again on Wednesday the schedule is brutal."
Luc placed his cup of coffee on the desk. He pulled the black t-shirt over his head and threw it away. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
Juliette turned on a tiny lamp on her desk. It was a big, ugly bruise that was as bright as yellow, radiating out of the middle of his lower back. She hissed sharply.
She said to him, "Sit on the chair. Lean forward."
Luc did as he was told, resting his elbows on his knees.
Juliette unpacked her little medical bag that she brought along with her. She extracted a bottle of deep-heat ointment. She picked up a large portion on her hands and then firmly rested them on his back.
Luc clenched his teeth, as her icy hands struck the swollen muscle. The ointment started burning as soon as she applied it, and the burn was both sharp and chemical, as it was going straight into his skin.
Juliette clenched her fists and pressed the clumped muscle around the bruise with her thumbs. She wasn’t even a bit sparing. She stretched and pulled with such inexorable strength.
"Only being faster isn’t an option, Luc," she said softly, sliding her hands over his ribs, "You need to be clever, think ahead, and play the defenders. You have to anticipate. You have to manipulate the defenders before the ball is even played."
"I know that now," Luc growled, his voice barbed from pain.
"The locker room is shaken", she continued her thumbs pressing hard on a knot near his back. "You have to give them a reason to believe in this war, Mateo respects you for fighting, but they are terrified."
"Wednesday," Luc said. "We play Racing Club Bastille, Home game."
"They also have a good defense," Juliette warned. "They are not as vicious and compact as Belleville, but they are very efficient, they don’t leave any loopholes."
"Then I make the gaps," I’ll say.
Juliette stopped her massage, her hands flat on his warm skin. In the still and shadowy room, the professionalism in the lady started to fade. She leaned into him and her body pressed against his bare back.
"I really hope you’re not going to quit, are you?" she murmured, her lips brushing against his shoulder.
"Quit?," asked Luc, slightly turning his head to look at her, "quiting means I return to America empty-handed. I’m not here to lose."
He suddenly got to his feet. The chair skated along the linoleum floor with a loud noise. He turned to face her.
Breathing slightly irregularly, Juliette looked at him. A tension that had been simmering for a long time between them from the moment they shared in her apartment came to a boil.
He didn’t say a word. He came forward and lifted her lightly onto the edge of the desk and crashed his lips against her lips.
This was the time to test out the "Weaner size +1" the system gave as a reward. The difference was significant, Juliette felt as if it were still her first time.
---
An hour passed and Luc walked out of the training facility into the bright afternoon of Paris. But his back still hurt, yet his mind was sharp as a tack.
[System Notification]
[Juliette’s affection has increased]
[Reward: Predatory Aura x1]
[Reminder: Speed stats back to normal]
[Balance: 5 General points, 5 Skill points, Predatory Aura x1]
[Access the store to utilise points]
"Hmmm. I can’t wait for the poor defender I’m about to test this aura on."
There was a ring in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text from Valérie Laurent.
I’m not paying millions for players to be getting benched after 60 minutes. Fix it or I will withdraw funding for your little PR war on Wednesday. — V
Luc hurried to type a response.
Watch the game. — L
[System Notification]
[Objective reminder: Earn her respect]
[Reward: Affection x2]
[Punishment: Points reset]
He put the phone in his pocket again and unlocked the Porsche.
Luc felt that the hubris that had been hovering over him had been removed. The American college boy was dead. Belleville had killed him out on that pitch.
All that remained was a predator. Cold, calculated, and never-giving-up. He would not go on relying on his athletic ability exclusively. He was going to be carving up the European game, one by one. He was going to use angles, blind spots and psychology. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
It was Racing Club Bastille on Wednesday. A projected obstacle for SC Valois and Luc.
Olivier Fontaine believed he had gained a psychological victory. It was believed by the media that Luc was a one hit wonder.
All of them were false. The countdown to the deadline was still on. In fact, it had only just begun.
Tick.
Tock.
