Chapter 223: [223] "CAPTAIN IS CLEARED 2"

Behind the Irishman, stacked in the corridor like a line of poorly concealed spies, were Bachra Goza, Max Caster, and Klaus Becker.

"You idiots, you pushed me," Cillian complained loudly, shoving Bachra backward into the hallway.

"You were leaning on the handle," Bachra shot back, refusing to give up his spot in the doorway. "I just tapped your shoulder."

Juliette turned around, leveling a glare at the four players that instantly silenced the bickering. "This is a restricted area except when you have an injury. You should not loiter in the hallways, and you certainly should not eavesdrop on evaluations."

Klaus stepped out from behind the younger players, unfazed by the reprimand. The German veteran looked past Juliette, locking his eyes on Luc. "Well?"

Luc grabbed a fresh training shirt from the chair next to the examination table and pulled it over his head. He looked at the group crowded in the doorway.

"I’m cleared," Luc stated simply.

A collective cheer erupted in the hallway. Cillian punched the doorframe, the loud sound it made echoing down the corridor. Bachra grabbed Max around the neck in a headlock, ruffling the American teenager’s hair, while Klaus offered a deeply relieved nod.

"Finally," Cillian roared, pointing a finger at Luc. "I am sick of watching you sit around looking frustrated. We need the cap back. Idriss is not doing much up top."

Luc didn’t reply to the Idriss part as he was walking toward the door. "Nantaise parked more than a bus. You guys ran yourselves into the ground."

"Don’t remind me," Cillian muttered, rubbing his thighs. "I covered more grass in that second half than I have in like a month."

"Tomorrow," Juliette interjected, stepping between Luc and the doorway. She held her hand up, halting the celebration. She looked at Luc, switching back into her authoritative tone. "You are cleared, but Coach Henri and the medical staff have agreed on the integration time. You do not touch a football today. You report to training tomorrow morning for light drills. If the knee does not swell overnight, you integrate into full squad by the afternoon session."

Luc didn’t argue. The fixture against FC Côte d’Azur was on Sunday. It gave him time to re-acclimate to the speed of the pitch and synchronize with the modified defensive shape Henri was running to protect Pinto. It was a tight window, but it was enough.

"Understood," Luc said.

The group began to filter out of the doorway, turning back toward the main player’s lounge, but Cillian lingered. The Irish midfielder leaned his frame against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Juliette, his usual aggressive demeanor shifting into something else.

"Since we have the head of league medical affairs standing right here," Cillian began, his accent thickening slightly, "maybe you can shed some light on the spam the governing body blasted out."

Bachra and Max stopped walking down the hall, turning back around. Klaus also paused, leaning against the opposite wall.

The entire squad had received the conference email, and the lack of concrete information was breeding rampant speculation in the dressing room.

Juliette sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She clearly had not wanted to engage in gossip while on the clock at the Valois complex, but she knew the players well enough to know they wouldn’t let it go.

"I am not a league executive, Cillian," Juliette stated, leaning against the edge of the examination table. "I handle medical stuff and player safety protocols. I don’t write the bylaws."

"You sit in the meetings though," Klaus pointed out bluntly. "You hear some directives."

Juliette looked at the five men staring at her. She crossed her arms, conceding the point. "Everything I say right now is technically classified as rumor until the governing board officially ratifies it at the conference. But yes, I know what is driving the agenda."

Luc leaned against the doorframe, crossing his ankles. "Valérie might think it’s a commercial cap."

"It’s bigger than just revenue stuff," Juliette explained, her voice dropping in volume. "Ligue Alpha is currently ranked as the fifth most competitive league in Europe. The broadcast rights generate significant money domestically, but internationally, the numbers are stagnant. The global audience prefers the English League and Spanish League because they showcase fast, highly technical, attacking football. Ligue Alpha has a reputation for being more of contact. It’s too physical. Too many fouls without whistles. Too many terrible pitches."

Cillian scoffed. "It’s a man’s league. We tackle. We fight for the ball. If they want synchronized swimming, they can watch a different sport."

"The global market disagrees with you, Cillian," Juliette countered smoothly. "And the board wants that international broadcast money. To get it, they are altering how the game is officiated and played in this country. They are introducing VAR."

The hallway went silent.

Video Assistant Referee. It was the technological boogeyman that had slowly infected the rest of Europe over the past few years, but Ligue Alpha had stubbornly resisted its implementation, citing the disruption of match flow and the traditional authority of the on-field official.

"VAR," Klaus repeated, his voice dangerously low. The German midfielder processed the implications instantly. "When?"

"They are pushing for implementation by the start of next season, but they are going to announce the testing protocols at this conference," Juliette said. "And it isn’t just about reviewing offside calls. They are rewriting the refereeing guidelines. The threshold for physical contact is being drastically reduced. Shirt tugs, late challenges, tactical fouling to stop transitions... they are mandating strict yellow and red card enforcement."

Bachra noted, a massive grin suddenly breaking across his face. The Spanish winger leaned against Max, elbowing the teenager in the ribs. "Do you hear that? No more getting chopped down by some thirty-year-old center-back who can’t keep up with a step-over. They touch us, they get booked."

"Don’t celebrate yet, kid," Cillian warned, glaring at the winger. "If the referees start blowing the whistle every time someone feels a breeze in the midfield, the game stops every thirty seconds. It kills the momentum. It kills the grit."