Chapter 197: [197] "Little weight"

The black Porsche slid smoothly into the designated VIP parking space outside the Sporting Club Valois training complex, the engine cutting out.

Juliette pulled the key from the ignition and turned in the driver’s seat. The Saturday morning sky was pale and gray, casting a flat light across the asphalt. It was cold, the kind of lingering chill that settled deep into the body.

"Crutch time, love," Juliette stated, pointing a firm finger at the aluminum mobility aid resting in the back seat. "You can officially transition to partial weight-bearing. That means you use the crutch on the opposite side of the injury to distribute the load. Don’t ditch it because you feel self-conscious walking into the facility."

Luc Beaumont unbuckled his seatbelt. "I know, Jules. I’ve heard you loud and clear."

"You know how it works, but your ego frequently overrides your common sense sometimes," she countered seamlessly, her green eyes fixing him with a look that brokered any attempt at a negotiation. "The grade-two contusion has settled. The internal bleeding has stopped, and the compression sleeve managed the swelling perfectly. But the bone itself is still micro-fractured. If you put your full body weight on that joint today, you will regress the healing process."

Luc grabbed the door handle. "Partial weight-bearing. Use the crutch. Don’t play around. I got it."

Juliette softened slightly, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. "I’ll be at the complex in two hours for my own stuff."

Luc smiled, leaning over the center console to press a quick kiss against her lips. "Thanks for the ride."

He pushed the car door open and stepped out into the crisp air. He reached into the back, retrieved the single crutch, and positioned it under his left arm. He placed his right foot carefully on the ground. The compression brace he wore beneath his tracksuit pants kept the joint in place. As he applied roughly thirty percent of his body weight to the right leg, a familiar ache radiated from the bone.

He closed the car door and began the slow walk toward the glass entrance of the complex.

One Step. One Crutch.

The lobby was relatively quiet for a Saturday morning, but as Luc swiped his keycard and moved down the corridor toward the player’s cafeteria, the noise of a winning football club began to bleed through the walls. The unmistakable sounds of clattering silverware, moving chairs, and loud, overlapping arguments echoed from the dining hall.

Luc pushed the double doors open.

"The couch king has descended from his throne!" Cillian Doyle roared the exact second Luc crossed the threshold.

The Irishman was sitting at a long table near the massive windows overlooking the training pitches, a plate piled high with scrambled eggs in front of him. Sitting around him were Hugo Blanc, Max Caster, Bachra Goza, and Klaus Becker.

Luc navigated the tables, pulling up a chair at the end of their group. He leaned the crutch against the edge of the table and carefully extended his right leg out straight.

"You guys managed to scrape by without me," Luc said, keeping his tone perfectly deadpan.

"Scrape by?" Bachra scoffed, leaning back in his chair and gesturing broadly. "Captain, we dismantled them. We played them off their own watered pitch. If Max hadn’t forgotten how to strike a football from six yards out, it would have been four-nil."

Max Caster buried his face in his hands, his ears turning a bright, violent shade of red. "The mud gave way. My foot slipped. It wasn’t a technique issue."

"It was a tragic issue," Cillian laughed, slapping the sixteen-year-old on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "But you set up the third goal, so we forgive the fluff. Barely."

Luc looked at Max, stripping the humor from his voice for a second to offer genuine validation. "The chest-pass was elite, Max. You killed the momentum of the cross perfectly. Nine out of ten players try to trap that with their feet and get tackled immediately. You made the right call."

Max looked up, the embarrassment fading slightly under the captain’s approval. "Thanks, Luc."

Luc shifted his gaze to the seventeen-year-old sitting quietly next to Max. Hugo was nursing a cup of black coffee, his tablet resting face-down on the table for once.

"And you," Luc said to Hugo. "A first-time knuckleball volley? Since when do you pull the trigger from yards like that? It’s becoming part of your skill set now."

"The defense collapsed to cover the penalty area," Hugo replied, his voice maintaining its usual neutrality, though a faint glimmer of satisfaction danced in his eyes. "The probability of a successful pass into a congested box was low. The shooting lane was uncontested. It was simply the most logical decision."

"Right. Pure logic," Luc chuckled, reaching across the table to steal a piece of dry toast from Cillian’s plate. "Well, logic secured the semi-final. You all played an amazing game. Setting up a strikerless system and actually executing it? That sends a message to the rest of the league."

"It sends a message to everyone indeed," Klaus Becker corrected, his deep voice cutting through the casual banter. The German veteran wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table. "The semi-finals are going to be spectacular."

Before the conversation could pivot to the upcoming draw, the doors of the cafeteria swung open again.

Coach Henri walked into the room. The manager held a cup of espresso in his hand. He scanned the room, his eyes locking onto the group at the window. He walked over, attending to the usual morning pleasantries.

"Luc. Hallway. Now," Henri commanded, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

Luc didn’t argue.

He grabbed his crutch, pushed himself upright, and followed the manager out of the noisy cafeteria into the quiet corridor of the administrative wing.

Henri stopped near a frosted glass window and turned to face his striker. He looked down at the brace on Luc’s right leg, visible through the pants.

"How does it feel?" Henri asked bluntly.

"Meh," Luc answered, maintaining eye contact. "I can walk on it with little weight. The swelling is down significantly. Juliette says the bone is almost better, but running is completely off the table for at least another forty-eight hours."

Henri nodded slowly, processing the timeline of full recovery.