Free Web NovelChapter 19: [19] "The King Is Losing His Mind"
A day after SC Valois vs Aquitaine wrestling event, a Sunday afternoon. It was now a damp, gray day in Paris and the rain had finally ended.
Luc was standing shoeless in the corner of Juliette’s luxurious living room sofa, shirtless. Each inhale he made was like a rustling knife twisting in his chest. He was left with two broken ribs after playing in the Aquitaine match.
Juliette knelt down before him, her face as expressionless as a mask. She was rolling a piece of hard, athletic tape.
She snapped, "Hold your breath. Take a deep breath in, making the chest as large as possible."
Luc clenched his teeth and sucked in his breath. The white tape was wrapped tightly around his torso, securing the bruised ribs. She was cold in her hands, but accurate in her touch. When she completed her final wrap she flattened the tape against his skin.
"You’re lucky," she mumbled and rocked back on her heels to check her work. "Luc, you are not allowed to do any contact drills this week, not even scrimmages, just light cardio."
"About 6 days, Saturday, we’re playing Olympique Nantaise," Luc said. The tape had his ribs snugly in place and it reduced the sharpness of pain. "I have to play."
"You will play," Juliette said standing up and flinging the remaining tape onto the coffee table. "But, if you take another hit in training like that, you won’t even be on the bus."
She went to the kitchen and washed her hands. Luc picked up a remote and switched on the TV that was attached to the wall.
It was 4:00 PM. Paris Royal FC was taking on AC Nord, who were the current bottom of the table team in Ligue Alpha. It was supposed to be a massacre, but it wasn’t. For the reigning champions, it should have been just a regular practice match.
Then, 75 minutes into the game, the score was still tied, as shown in the top corner on the scoreboard of the screen.
Juliette re-entered the room and gave Luc a glass of water and two large pain relievers. She took a gaze at the television, her green eyes narrowing. "What is happening? Nord’s defense is atrocious, Atleast it should be."
"Pay attention to the spacing," Luc said, popping the pills down his throat. "There is no unity in Paris’ play."
It was true. The midfield was completely out of sync, the hundred-million euro midfield. In the middle of the turmoil was Olivier Fontaine.
The king of Paris was playing like a madman, but in a bad way. He was giving his tactical post up, completely abandoning instructions. He was trying to drop deep like the midfield players, shouting "pass to me, come pass to me" then going up against four players and trying to dribble through them. He was desperate. He was not playing for the team, he was playing for himself.
Minute 81. A 19-year-old Paris Royal winger, was suddenly in a pocket of space on the right flank.
The boy ran down the side. Two AC Nord players had a tight mark on Fontaine in the penalty box.
The young winger saw an opening and made a getaway to goal rather than playing a risky cross. He cut inside and left his defender on the ground and delivered a brilliant and curling shot from his left foot. A trivela.
The ball bounced off the keeper and hit the back of the net.
1-0 for Paris Royal.
Sprinting and sliding to his knees, the young winger shouted with pure joy towards the corner flag. This was his first pro-goal. The rest of the team came running over to mob him.
Except for one man.
Olivier Fontaine was followed by the camera. He didn’t run to the corner flag. He was in an awful rage. He then immediately went to the group of players celebrating the goal and tugged the youngster by the back of his T-shirt and lifted him off his feet.
The stadium speakers picked up Fontaine’s voice screaming above the crowd. freeωebnovēl.c૦m
"You pass the ball! I was open! You never shoot when I’m in the box!
The young winger was bewildered and seemed to be scared, retreating from Fontaine’s shove in the chest.
The other Paris Royals were forced to come to the rescue. The captain physically grabbed Fontaine and took him away from the kid. Rumors began to break out in the home of Paris, Parc des Royals. Next, a few boos came trickling down from the stands.
Juliette exclaimed, "Oh my god! He just assaulted his own teammate. Over a goal."
Slowly, darkly, Luc sat back against the sofa cushions, a smile spreading across his face.
However, Fontaine managed to score a penalty in the 89th minute to put the hosts up 2-0. However, the damage had already been done and they didn’t include any penalty in their bet. Technically it was still four to three.
The post match analysis on the TV did not mention Fontaine’s goal. The commentators were vicious. They repeated the shove 5 times, from 5 different angles. They recruited body language professionals. They deemed him to be toxic. They informed him that he was an impediment.
"The American got into his head", the first pundit solemnly said, his eyes fixed on the camera. "Luc Beaumont gambled his career but perhaps he has cost Olivier Fontaine his mind."
Luc turned off the tv set. The stillness in the apartment was triumphant.
"He’s losing it," Luc whispered softly.
She shook her head and looked at him in disbelief, "You broke him and you didn’t even step foot on the same pitch."
There was a buzz on Luc’s cell phone on the coffee table. He leaned in, making a slight wince sound as the tape around his ribs protested. It was Valérie:
My office. Tomorrow morning. 9 AM sharp. Dress well.
---
It was a busy morning on Monday in the SC Valois executive wing.
Luc passed through the offices that had glass walls. The PR team was buzzing, the phones were practically glued to their ears. The story had turned on its head. The team was no longer a joke, they were giant-slaying, slowly driving the king insane.
Luc opened the heavy mahogany doors, leading to Valérie Laurent’s suite.
She was seated in her large office in a pin-striped navy suit. In the one hand she had a cup of black coffee and in the other hand she had a thick, matte black envelope.
Immediately, Valérie said, "You’re limping." Valérie’s eyes picked up on him instantly, "It suits you, the limping."
"Cracked ribs," Luc admitted, taking a seat in the leather chair across from her. "Juliette tied me up, I’ll be okay for Saturday."
Valérie didn’t seem concerned. She threw the black envelope over the desk. It fell just in front of Luc.
He held it up, and asked, "What’s this?" The paper was embossed with gold foil and very thick.
Valérie sat back in her chair, "The Qatari consortium organizes a charity gala in Paris each October. It’s the most exclusive event in French sport, with the league commissioner in attendance, the biggest sponsors in attendance and, of course, their golden boy Olivier Fontaine as the guest of honour."
Luc opened the envelope. It was a call to an invitation.
Then, Valérie continued, "I bought a table. Two hundred thousand euros. They were trying to tell me I couldn’t afford it, but my lawyers threatened to take them to court if they persisted with their discrimination, and an hour ago they finally caved."
Luc withdrew the gold embossed card from its envelope. It had his name on it. Mr. Luc Beaumont, and a plus one.
"You want me to break up his party," Luc said. There was no question.
"I want you to go into his fortress and smile," Valérie corrected in a tone of voice full of danger. He had embarrassed himself yesterday; the media is now turning on him, his sponsors are worried, if you appear looking calm, collected and not in the slightest bit phased by his four-to-three lead, you will break whatever shreds of self-assurance he has left."
Luc read the invitation. Friday night. Night before Nantaise match.
"A plus one," Luc read in a loud voice. He raised his gaze to meet that of Valérie. "Do you want to go as my date?"
"Aha!" said Valérie, a brief, sharp laugh. "As sweet as that sounds, American, no. The media will say that I’m trying to bully a young guy around as the owner. You need somebody else who knows the game and wouldn’t shrink from Fontaine’s intimidation tactics."
It was obvious to Luc who she meant.
"And Chloé?" Luc asked. "She’ll be there?."
"Just as expected," Valérie replied, her eyes twinkling. "Let the ex-girlfriend see what she gave up. Let her see the difference between a crumbling king losing his mind and a rookie taking his crown."
Valérie rose as if to signal for Luc to leave the office. "Hire a custom-made tuxedo, Luc, not some rentals and be sure that your date looks like a killer."
---
The smell of the SC Valois medical wing was of deep-heat rub and bleach.
Juliette was working on charts at her desk when Luc came in. He didn’t say anything. He simply walked up to her and set the black envelope with the gold embossed writing on it straight on her keyboard.
Juliette took up the weight of the paper and sighed. "I told you no contact drills today, Beaumont. Did you go and get a letter in writing from Valérie?"
Luc leaned his hip against her desk, "It is not about any drill."
She ripped open the envelope and read the words. Her eyebrows slowly rose. She raised her eyes to him. "The Qatari Gala? You’re going to walk right into the lion’s den?"
"I’m going to set the den on fire. Valérie purchased a table, she said to bring a date who doesn’t flinch."
Juliette placed the invitation on the desk. She placed her arms across her chest and sat back in her chair.
Juliette said coldly, "You want to use me to make Chloé jealous." Her voice sounded like a different person’s. She was jealous herself.
"I don’t care about Chloé," Luc said in a arrogant tone. He leaned in closer, pinned her down to the chair with his hands on the armrests of her chair. "Chloé’s irrelevant, I want to go into that room with tactical advantage on my arm, the one who gave me the geometry lesson to beat Bastille. The one who fixes me up everytime."
Juliette scanned her way around his dark eyes for any sign of lies. She couldn’t find one. Raw and relentless was the ambition that radiated off him, what he said, it was all true.
Her lips slowly turned into a smile.
"Friday night," Juliette said in a soft voice.
"Yes," Luc replied, "Friday night."
"Fine." She lightly pushed his chest, making him stand up straight and give her some space. "But if I am going to war with the Parisian elite, I need to go shopping, and you are paying."
Luc smirked, "Put it on Valérie’s tab."
