Free Web NovelChapter 8: [8] "Villains Move Different"
Luc went through the concrete tunnels with Henri, and finally arrived at a private elevator which he was met by a man in a tailored black suit. The guard removed himself from the way and allowed them to enter into the wood panelled chamber. Henri pushed the button to the top floor.
"Listen to me, Luc!" Henri said in a harsh whisper. "Madame Valérie Laurent, owns 60 percent of SC Valois, alongside shipping, luxury goods, real estate. She doesn’t care about football, she cares about investments. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not act as you did in my office. Respect her.
[System Notification]
[Objective: Earn her respect]
[Reward: Situation unlock]
[Punishment: Points reset]
Luc’s eyes flared up.
"Got it," Luc said. He wasn’t that interested in old money. He was though, in something else.
The doors of the elevator opened to a glass and chrome covered luxury suite that stretched out overlooking the well lit pitch. The room was fragrant with the rich tobacco and expensive leather.
Sitting on a plush sofa, a slim cigarette held delicately between her fingers, was Valérie Laurent.
She seemed to be in her late 30s and was exuding a certain deadly and untouchable richness. She had a very crisp, tailored white pantsuit to her body that really stood out against her dark and well-trimmed hair. A diamond necklace hung in front of her collar bone, sparkling in the lights of the stadium. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
She was not the type of football owner that only looked the part. She resembled one of these mafia bosses, only with big boobs.
"Henri," she said in a smooth authoritative tone. "You may leave us."
Henri’s head dipped as though he were nodding. "Yes, Madame." He practically ran back to the elevator, the doors closing behind him.
Luc refused to budge, his eyes roaming the suite, finally landing on the billionaire’s eyes.
Valérie blew out a long puff of her cigarette. She studied Luc’s shins, which were bruised, his damp hair, and his haughty posture.
"Luc Beaumont," she said in a thick french accent, but a clear one. "When Henri signed an American college boy, my advisors told me he was desperate, and I almost fired him yesterday for making me waste money."
"And today?" Rifling through some papers and unmoved by her, Luc asked.
Valérie smiled. Her smile was cold and cunning. "Today you embarrassed a team that has spent five times as much as we did, watching that on national television was exhilarating, and going so far as to openly threaten the biggest cash cow in French sports, Fontaine."
She rose and slowly walked toward him. Footsteps rang out in the stillness of the suite with the click of her heels. Only a yard off him, rich jasmine and expensive tobacco filled his senses, as she stopped within a foot.
"I don’t care about trophies, Mr. Beaumont," she said softly. "I love brands, but SC Valois is a dying brand, it’s boring, it’s pathetic." She put out a hand, her manicured finger tapping against his chest. "But you... you’re a villain, and people like a villain."
Luc responded evenly, "I’m not a villain. I’m just the guy who’s going to mess up the life of Olivier Fontaine."
Valérie laughed, in a low, sweet voice. "Even better. Fontaine is being supported by the Qatari consortium. I hate them. They think they have this league. If you want to take their golden boy, you are going to need to get help. Real help."
Luc raised an eyebrow. "And you’re offering?" freёwebnoѵel.com
Valérie turned and said, "I am offering you a partnership." She poured out two glasses of scotch and gave one to him. "You continue to score, you continue to create drama, you make SC Valois the hottest team in this stinking league, and I will keep you safe from the league executives, I will double your salary tomorrow. I will give you the keys to the city."
Luc took the glass. He swirled the amber fluid, watching the ice dancing in the crystal. He had the locker room. He had the physio. Now he owned his owner, the billionaire.
The board was set.
He raised his glass to Valérie and bumped it against hers. He gulped down a big drink and breathed out.
Luc’s smile broke open at last, "Pour me another drink, Madame Laurent."
---
The Paris tabloids went off like a bomb on Monday morning.
The same full page picture was splashed across every major sports paper in the country. Luc Beaumont, his face shining in the camera, with his finger hitting his wrist.
The newspaper headlines were vicious.
THE AMERICAN MENACE.
LACK OF RESPECT: ROOKIE INSULTS THE KING.
THE NOTHING RELEGATION-PROJECTED CLUB VALOIS SIGNS A THUG.
Luc placed a copy of L’Équipe on the seat of his all-new, matte black Porsche 911 Carrera. Indeed, Valérie Laurent didn’t make hollow promises. The renegotiation of the contract was completed Sunday night. His salary was tripled, his goal bonuses were so large he could afford to buy a Porsche, and a man in a tailored suit had been to his cheap motel room at 6 AM with the keys to deliver the Porsche.
As Luc came on to the road to the Sporting Club Valois training ground, the engine roared and growled as he made the move.
The front gates were like a grandstand show.
The entrance was already overrun by a minimum of 50 paparazzi and sports journalists with cameras and microphones, who were clashing with the two already overwhelmed security guards. They were waiting for blood. The entire weekend, the rumors had been fed to the press by Luc’s powerhouse PR team about his "violent" locker room conduct and his professionalism.
Luc didn’t slow down. He gave the engine a few turns, and the journalists went flying as if they were pidgeons. As the gates opened, he ran through, while the yelling crowd consumed his tail gas.
He pulled over where the captain normally parks, shut down the engine, and retrieved his duffel bag.
The locker room doors were opened and it was a different scene than last week. There was no strain at all. It was now full of a frenzied, vibrating vitality.
Mateo was sitting on the center bench, holding a copy of the tabloid and laughing loudly. When he saw Luc, he stood up and threw the paper at him.
"Look at this, Yankee!" Mateo grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. "They are calling you a thug. Fontaine’s agent has been crying to the media all morning, saying your goal was a fluke and you belong in a Sunday beer league."
Luc caught the paper, barely glancing at the headline. "Let them cry. We took the three points."
"That we did."
