Chapter 232: [232] "HOUSE 2"

Luc shifted down a gear as they approached a roundabout. "Football is life, Hugo. And so is a home. If you bought that house, every time you walked down those glass stairs, you would remember who built it. You would remember that your money went into his account. It would sit in the back of your mind, and it would agitate you. Being a rival and all."

"I chose my words wisely after all, contamination," Hugo agreed, nodding slowly. "A compromised environment degrades the quality. I understand."

"Exactly," Luc said, taking the second exit off the roundabout and accelerating down a long, tree-lined avenue. "You need a place that belongs to you. No ghosts of anyone or anything. No rivalries attached to the deed. Just a clean slate where you can shut the door and forget about the league table for a few hours."

The road began to narrow, the modern infrastructure giving way to older, more established developments. The sidewalks were paved with weathered brick, and the properties sitting back from the street were shielded by towering oak trees rather than modern security fences.

"So, what is the next target?" Luc asked.

Hugo tapped his screen, bringing up the second. "This place is drastically different from the first viewing. It is a traditional stone build. Constructed in the late twentieth century, though the interior was updated a few years ago. It sits on a substantial plot of land. It meets Valérie’s twenty-minute radius mandate, and the security is sound due to a heavy iron gate."

"Traditional," Luc repeated, navigating a sharp curve in the road. "That usually means drafty windows and weird plumbing, but it also means thick walls. Good for acoustics. Good for privacy."

"The agent for this property is independent," Hugo added, reading from his notes. "Not affiliated with the agency that employs Laurent-Pierre. The viewing is scheduled for right now."

Luc followed the navigation instructions he was given, turning left onto a private, unlined asphalt road that wound gently uphill. The canopy of trees grew denser, filtering the afternoon sunlight into scattered patches across the windshield.

"Before we get out there," Luc said, slowing the car as Hugo indicated they were approaching the destination. "Think about what you actually want out of this space. You spend like five or six days a week at the training complex. You eat most of your meals in the club cafeteria. You do your recovery in the medical wing. When you come home, what are you actually doing?"

Hugo looked at the dashboard of the car, considering the question with his usual intense focus. "I review match footage. I sleep. I maintain my nutrition. I engage in tactical analysis."

"Right, but you can do that in a hotel room," Luc challenged, stepping on the brake as a massive gate appeared at the end of the road. "You are moving out because you want independence. You’re going to be eighteen soon. You might want to have people over. Teammates. Maybe that cafe girl."

Hugo’s posture stiffened slightly at the mention of the girl, but he didn’t deflect it. "I require a space that accommodates a guest without forcing proximity. A secondary seating area. A functional kitchen."

"Keep that in mind," Luc advised.

The Porsche pulled up to the iron gates. Unlike the automated intercom at the first house, this gate possessed a heavy brass call box. Before Luc could roll the window down, the gates slowly swung inward on heavy hinges, groaning slightly under their own weight.

Luc drove through, the tires crunching onto a massive, circular gravel driveway.

The house sitting at the end of the driveway was imposing. It was a two-storey manor constructed from rough gray stone. Dark slate covered the steeply pitched roof. Thick vines of ivy crawled up the northern wall, crawling around the stone frames of the tall and narrow windows.

It looked like a fortress from a bygone era, exuding a silence that stood in stark contrast to the buzzing energy of the city just a few miles away.

Parked near the front entrance was a dark blue sedan.

Standing next to the sedan was the real estate agent. He was an older man, late fifties perhaps, wearing a tailored but slightly dated blazer with elbow patches.

He held a folder tucked under his arm. He did not possess the shark-like, aggressive posture of Laurent-Pierre. He stood with a calm, patient demeanor, watching the black Porsche roll to a stop.

Luc killed the engine.

"Old school," Luc murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Let’s see what he’s got."

Hugo stepped out of the passenger side, adjusting the strap of his bag across his chest. He looked up at the massive stone facade, his eyes checking out the masonry.

The agent walked forward, extending a weathered hand, but he did not flash a smile.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the agent greeted, his voice carrying a warm tone to it. He shook Luc’s hand first, recognizing the captain, before turning to Hugo. "Monsieur Blanc. A pleasure to meet you finally. I understand you are the primary client for today’s viewing."

"I am," Hugo confirmed, returning the handshake with firm pressure. "The property details indicated a recent upgrade to the heating system, but the visuals of the stone exterior suggests there might be insulation inefficiencies."

The agent chuckled and crinkled the corners of his eyes. He didn’t seem rattled by the immediate interrogation.

"You have a sharp eye, Monsieur Blanc," the agent said, opening his folder. "The stone is original, yes. But the interior walls were stripped to the studs during the renovation. High-density spray foam was applied throughout. It holds heat exceptionally well in the winter, and the stone mass keeps it naturally cool during the summer months. Shall we step inside?"

"Lead the way," Luc said, walking beside Hugo.

The agent pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the massive front door. He pushed it open, stepping aside to allow the two footballers to enter inside before he did.