Chapter 225: [225] "WHAT’S GOING ON"

He simply clicked the remote in his hand, advancing the film to the next slide, displaying the wide 4-4-2 shape of FC Côte d’Azur.

"Luc is back," Henri announced to the room, his voice strictly business. "Which means we revert to our usual possession. Idriss, you drop to the bench. Luc, you will pin their center-backs."

He continued, "Wingers, you no longer have the luxury of waiting high for a counter-attack. When Côte d’Azur pushes their fullbacks forward, you drop and form a defensive wall on the touchline. We suffocate their wide channels."

Luc leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the illuminated screen.

The game plan was simple and required absolute discipline.

---

Coach Henri clicked the remote. The projector screen at the front of the film room went black, plunging the space into temporary darkness before the overhead fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life.

"The wide channels belong to us on Sunday," Henri stated, his voice cutting through. "Côte d’Azur will test our discipline early. If we fail to double-team their wingers in the first fifteen minutes, they will dictate the tempo and Pinto will be facing a firing squad. You know the rotations."

The manager picked up his notebook, tucking it under his arm. His eyes swept across the tiered seating, lingering briefly on the veterans before shifting to the younger ones.

"I want everyone on the grass by seven-thirty tomorrow morning," Henri commanded. "No stragglers. We are running transition drills until the defensive shifts are muscle memory. Get your rest. Dismissed."

The scrape of plastic chairs echoed off the walls as the players stood up in unison. The focus required for Henri’s tactical breakdowns gave way to the low rumble of shifting cleats and quiet conversations.

Luc Beaumont stood up from his seat in the second row. He didn’t bother grabbing the crutch he had left leaning against the wall near the entrance. He didn’t need it anymore. He walked down the narrow aisle, his right foot planting firmly against the carpeted steps, absorbing his full body weight without a single protest from the bone.

Klaus Becker came up beside him as they pushed through the doors and out into the main corridor of the training complex.

"Seven-thirty," Klaus grumbled, rolling his massive shoulders. "Henri is punishing us for the dropped points, whether he admits it or not."

"He’s making sure the midfield doesn’t collapse like it before," Luc replied. "With me pinning the center-backs, you won’t have to cover forty yards on every transition. But the wingers are going to have to work twice as hard to track back."

Klaus offered a curt nod, his eyes dropping to Luc’s right leg. "The knee?"

"A hundred percent. Detone cleared me remember, Juliette signed off, and I just sat through a film session without it stiffening up," Luc assured him. "I’m ready for the drills tomorrow."

"Good," Klaus said, the rigid posture of the German captain relaxing just a fraction. "Idriss fights hard, but he doesn’t anchor the line the way you do. We need your gravity back."

Cillian Doyle shoved past them in the hallway, tossing an empty water bottle into a nearby recycling bin. The Irishman clapped a heavy hand onto Luc’s shoulder, intentionally applying a bit too much force.

"Look who decided to rejoin the working class," Cillian grinned, his accent thick. "I was starting to think you were going to demand a permanent recliner in the executive suite. Did Valérie feed you grapes while we were out there running marathons?"

"She mostly just analyzed how much money you were losing her by dropping points to a relegation side," Luc shot back smoothly, not breaking his stride.

Cillian laughed. "Fair enough bro. Just don’t expect us to carry you on Sunday. If you’re on the grass, you press with the rest of us."

"I’ll keep that in mind, Cillian."

The squad filtered into the main locker room, the atmosphere shifting back to its usual chaotic baseline. Bachra Goza was already arguing with Kévin Aubert about a specific defensive rotation, using his hands to map out imaginary lanes in the air. Max Caster sat quietly in front of his locker, listening to the tactical debate while unlacing his indoor shoes.

Amadou Fall walked past Luc, offering a firm fist bump. The towering Senegalese defender didn’t need to speak, the relief of having their primary offensive outlet back on the active roster was evident in the posture of the entire backline.

Luc moved toward his designated locker. He pulled what he was wearing off, tossing it onto the bench. The familiar scent of fresh laundry, and oil filled his lungs. The isolation of the days felt like a distant memory. He was back in the ecosystem that mattered.

He gathered his gear, sorting his training kit for the early morning session Henri had just mandated.

As the locker room slowly emptied out, players heading toward the cafeteria or the parking lot, Luc noticed a figure standing still near the entrance.

Hugo Blanc.

The seventeen-year-old was dressed in his club-issued tracksuit, his gym bag slung neatly over his right shoulder. Hugo was not engaging in the lingering banter. He was simply waiting, his eyes tracking the remaining players as they exited the room.

When the door finally clicked shut behind Dário Ferrão, leaving only the two of them in the locker room, Hugo walked over.

He didn’t slouch or hesitate. He stopped two feet away from Luc’s bench, maintaining his usual posture of neutrality.

"Luc," Hugo said. His voice was precise, lacking the casual inflection that most teenagers utilized.

"Hugo," Luc replied, closing his locker door and turning to face the midfielder. "Everything alright? You need to go over something again before tomorrow?"

"My comprehension is already pretty good," Hugo corrected without sounding arrogant. It was just a statement of fact. "This is not regarding the fixture against Côte d’Azur."

Luc leaned back against the lockers, crossing his arms over his chest. If Hugo wasn’t talking about football, it meant the kid was navigating something in the outside world.