Free Web NovelChapter 17: [17] "You’re Nothing to Me Anymore"
L’Arc Paris was a popular club where a bottle of water was more expensive than what most people made during a week. The lighting was dark, and the floor was throbbing with a heavy hypnotic bassline from the music being played. There was expensive champagne and an imported perfume aroma that pervaded the air.
After skipping over the long queue to enter, Luc walked past the big bouncers and was taken up a glass staircase to the private mezzanine above the dance floor.
Valérie Laurent was seated at a booth of crushed black velvet which was circular in shape. The dress she wore was really beautiful and crimson, and very revealing. She had an amazing figure hidden when she wore her pantsuits. Several men in sharp suits surrounded her: the sponsors, the media bosses, those who really ran French football.
Luc came to her and she raised a glass of champagne.
"Gentlemen," Valérie said in a voice that cut through the massive bass, "I believe we are in trouble now, the good kind. Let me introduce the man who doubled SC Valois’ TV ratings."
The men bowed their heads, showing respect and caution towards Luc. They knew what to do when they spotted a predatory gem in the making.
Luc took a seat next to Valérie. She leaned in close, her lips against his ear.
"Luc, perfectly done today," she purred. "Fontaine’s PR team is currently panicking. They were hoping you were a one-hit wonder and now they know you’re not."
"Where is he?" It is a dark club and Luc asked.
"He isn’t here," said Valérie, taking a sip of her drink. "He is playing in Lyon tomorrow but his ’circle’ is here today. They are always here on Wednesdays."
Valérie looked slightly at the bar at the end of the mezzanine.
Luc looked over. For a split second, he couldn’t breathe. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
Chloé Martin was sitting on a velvet barstool. She was very out of her element. She wore a dress that was a little too short, she was attempting to fit in with the Parisian elite a little too hard. She was holding a drink in her hand and looked like she was in a bad way.
She did not have the attention of paparazzi. She was all Fontaine had left when he ventured out to play an away game.
Luc stood up.
Valérie’s eyes sparkled with delight, "Play nice," she said.
Luc replied flatly, "I always do."
---
Crossed the mezzanine. In his chest, the bass from the speakers thudded. Chloé looked up as he came up to the bar.
Her face paled, turned white as a sheet.
She gazed, at him. He wasn’t the college boy she had manipulated in America. He looked older. Harder. He had a presence of such power and command that one had to respect him. He was still the same 20 year old.
She whispered, "Luc," barely able to hear her voice above the music.
Luc came to a halt beside her. He didn’t sit down. He signaled the barman and took a drink of scotch, neat. He didn’t even look at her.
"Tell me what you are doing here?" Her hands were shaking slightly around her glass as she asked.
Luc went and took his drink from the bartender and said "Celebrating a win." At long last, he turned his head towards her. His eyes were now totally blind to her. There was no anger. No heartbreak. Just absolute indifference.
She was hurt by his indifference towards her more than anything.
Desperate to fill the silence, "Olivier didn’t... he didn’t want me to come to Lyon with him," Chloé stammered, providing him with information that he hadn’t sought. "Since your interview, he’s been so angry, he snaps at me all the time. It’s-- it’s not what I thought it would be."
Her blue eyes opened wide when she looked up at him, hoping to be as charming to him as she once was. "Luc... I think I may have made a mistake."
With a placid sip of his scotch, Luc put his drink down. He allowed the quiet to grow, allowing her to dangle from the edge of the cliff.
Finally, Luc spoke with a cold rumble that was barely audible, "You did, yes. But it’s not my responsibility now."
"Please, Luc," she said, placing her fingers on his sweater sleeve. "I’m aware that you’re doing all this for me. The bet, the media – you’re trying to win me back".
Luc actually laughed. A short, sharp and completely jester-like sound.
He bent his head toward hers, his face almost touching hers. She closed her eyes just a little, she was waiting for a kiss, she was expecting the old Luc to give way.
"Think this is about you?" Luc whispered harshly. "I’m not going to try to make you come back to me, Chloé, I’m going to take his crown, I’m going to take his city, and I’m going to let you watch from the cheap seats."
"You’re nothing to me anymore."
[System Notification]
[Well done. TES congratulates you]
[Reward: Core strength+5 permanent increase]
"Huh," he chuckled.
He withdrew his face, her own face practically crumbling.
"Enjoy the drink," Luc said, turning his back on her without a second glance.
He walked over to Valérie’s booth and Chloé was totally broken at the bar. The psychological warfare wasn’t exclusively for the pitch.
---
Thursday night. Lyon’s Groupama Stadium had proven to be rough going.
Olivier Fontaine sat in the luxurious away dressing room Paris Royal FC were assigned. It was half time against AS Lyon-Rhône. The score was 0-0. It was terrible how Fontaine was playing. His passes were untidy, his touches were heavy and the Lyon supporters were relentlessly chanting his name whenever he mishandled the ball.
He retrieved his cell phone from a locker, which is a club violation by the way. He didn’t care.
There was a late last night text from Chloé:
I saw him at L’Arc. He’s not the same, Olivier. He’s no longer interested in me. The only thing he cares about is to break you. Please be careful.
Anger and blood boiled as Fontaine looked at the screen. He threw the mobile phone with all his force across the room. It was thrown against the tile wall and broke. The dressing room was as still as a quiet night. The world-class players who had been acquired for tens of millions of euros, his teammates looked at each other awkwardly, then at him.
"Fucking pass the ball to me," Fontaine said, yelling at his playmates. "Stop passing backward! I need goals!"
---
Second half was a textbook example of selfish football. On defense, Fontaine quit running back. He set up camp in the penalty box, and insisted on service. His full-back instead of crossing it to him, passed to a winger who took a clear shot at goal but was denied and Fontaine showed his dissatisfaction on the field.
Paris Royal had a penalty awarded in the 72nd minute.
The ball was picked up right away by Fontaine. He set it up for himself on the penalty spot. He didn’t perform his normal breathing exercise. He was rushing. He wanted the goal to be an addition to his stat sheet, to make it a little farther away from the American rookie.
He ran up and smashed it.
The Lyon goalkeeper didn’t even have to dive. The ball went three feet over the crossbar and into the stands.
Fontaine knelt down and put his face in his hands. The stadium was filled with roaring laughter. He was able to get a rough, deflected goal a few minutes later from a corner kick, but no celebration was made. He looked stressed. He looked human. Finally.
---
Luc switched off the TV in Juliette’s living room, 200 miles away.
Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, holding a glass of white wine, Juliette noted, "He missed a penalty. In three years, Fontaine has not missed a penalty."
"He’s rattled," replied Luc leaning back on cushions. "He’s thinking of the deadline, he’s trying to force it on his own rather than let it come on its own."
"He still managed to get a goal though," Juliette said. "It’s four to two, five with the penalty. He’s still in the lead."
"A deflected sloppy tap-in," Luc said dismissing the point she was trying to make, taking her glass away from her lips and placing it on the coffee table. He took her by the waist and put her in his lap. "He’s so emotional, Juliette, he’s going to mess up, and I’m going to be there to swoop in on all of his mistakes."
Juliette smiled, as her fingers picked at the jawline he allowed to grow into a rough stubble. "This is so much fun for you isn’t it. You’re making the most out of it."
"I told you," said Luc, his hands sliding up her back and into her clothes. "I play to win."
He need not have said any more. The tactical rhythm was beginning to fall into place in the SC Valois squad and there was beginning to be a gradual change in the media story.
