Chapter 297: [297] "Going back home"

The relentless vibration of a cell phone against the nightstand broke the morning.

Luc kept his eyes shut, burying his face deeper into the pillow. The ’activities’ of the previous night with Juliette, capped by the adrenaline dump of the Cup de France final and the subsequent afterparty, had finally settled.

The phone vibrated again. A harsh buzz that refused to be ignored.

He dragged his arm out from beneath the tangled sheets, his hand blindly searching the surface of the nightstand until his fingers closed around the casing of the device. He cracked one eye open, the bright light filtering through the bedroom blinds forcing a wince.

He looked toward the bathroom.

Juliette was standing in the doorway. She was wrapped in one of his oversized white robes, the fabric cinched tightly at her waist. Her hair was pulled up into a messy knot, and she had a toothbrush jutting out of her mouth.

She was by the doorframe, watching him struggle against consciousness, and offered a lazy wave with her free hand.

Luc let out an exhale that might have been a laugh, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before bringing the phone screen into focus.

The caller ID flashed brightly. Max Caster.

Luc frowned. It was early. The squad had been granted leave. The American teenager should have been dead to the world in his own apartment, recovering from the ridiculous amount of alcoholess champagne the midfield unit had made him consume just hours prior.

Luc swiped the screen and pressed the speaker against his ear.

"Max," Luc answered, his voice thick and raspy with sleep. "Unless the training facility is on fire, you have five seconds to explain why you are calling me this early."

A high-pitched scream erupted through the receiver, forcing Luc to pull the phone an inch away from his ear.

"Are you seeing this?!" Max yelled, the background noise on his end sounding like he was pacing rapidly. "Tell me you are seeing this right now!"

"Calm down," Luc commanded, sitting up slowly and resting his back against the headboard. He ran his free hand through his messy hair. "Explain what you are talking about. What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"You didn’t look?" Max’s voice cracked slightly, dropping from a shout to a tone of disbelief. "Cap, how did you not look? It dropped last night while we were leaving the party! My agent just called to wake me up because I missed the email."

Juliette walked out of the bathroom, wiping her mouth with a hand towel. She stood by the edge of the dresser, crossing her arms, her curiosity clearly piqued by the energy bleeding through the phone speaker.

"Max, focus," Luc said firmly, fully awake now. "What dropped last night?"

"The squad list, Luc! The United States national team roster!" Max practically hyperventilated. "For the Copa America!"

Luc froze.

The words hung, clashing with the nature he had built for himself over the past year.

He was born in the United States, a fact recorded on his passport, but his professional footballing identity had been forged an ocean away.

He had left the American soccer system, crossing the Atlantic to grind his way through and eventually carve his name into the bedrock of Ligue Alpha. Back home, he was playing in a country that rarely scouted for young talent, overshadowed by the domestic prospects and the established European stars.

He hadn’t had a single conversation regarding his birthplace or national team since he signed his first professional contract.

"Hold on," Luc said, his voice dropping.

He pulled the phone away from his ear, activating the speakerphone option so he could navigate the device while keeping Max on the line. He tapped into his browser, the light illuminating his face.

Juliette stepped closer, dropping the towel onto the dresser. She stood beside the bed, listening to Max’s rapid breathing through the speaker, her eyes locked on Luc’s shifting expression.

"They announced it at midnight our time," Max rambled on, the excitement overriding his usual calm demeanor. "It’s the final camp before the tournament. They’re hosting it on home soil this summer. It’s massive. My agent said the federation wanted to lock in the European guys early."

Luc’s thumbs moved quickly across the screen. He passed the generic sports networks and went straight to the official US Soccer federation portal. The press release was sitting right at the top of the feed in bold, unmissable lettering.

USMNT Announces Preliminary Roster for Copa America Preparations.

Luc clicked the link. The page loaded, displaying a clean, formatted list categorized by position.

He scrolled past the goalkeepers. Passed the defenders.

He stopped at the midfield block.

There it was, sitting plainly in the center of the screen. Max Caster (SC Valois).

"I see you," Luc murmured, a sense of pride breaking through his initial shock. "Congratulations, Max. You earned that spot. Your second half of the season was undeniable."

"Keep scrolling!" Max demanded, not even pausing to accept the compliment. "Look at the forwards!"

Luc dragged his thumb down the screen.

The list of attackers featured the usual suspects. The established players operating in the English League. The veteran strikers who had carried the national team through the previous qualifying cycles.

And then, right at the bottom of the list.

Luc Beaumont (SC Valois).

Luc stared at the screen. The letters felt surreal, disconnected from the ten-month campaign he had just concluded in Europe.

Forty-seven goals across all competitions. A domestic cup. A Golden Boot.

The federation had finally looked across the Atlantic and recognized the monster operating in Ligue Alpha. They couldn’t ignore the numbers anymore. You don’t leave a forty-seven-goal striker off a tournament roster, regardless of if he had wanted to be isolated from the national setup.

Juliette leaned over his shoulder, her eyes scanning the bright screen. She read his name, and a wide smile broke across her face. She didn’t say anything to interrupt the call, but she pressed a warm kiss to the side of his neck, her hand squeezing his shoulder in silent but overwhelming support.

"You see it?" Max asked, the nervous energy still buzzing.

"I see it," Luc said softly, the situation finally anchoring itself in his mind.

He was a dual-national who had practically abandoned his American roots to survive the European meat grinder. And now, at the recent peak of his professional career, they were calling him.

He swiped down to the bottom of the press release, looking at the details.

"Look at the schedule, Cap," Max instructed.

Luc read the bolded itinerary. The European-based players were required to report to the national training center in just under a weeks. The federation had scheduled two international friendlies against England and France to finalize cohesion.

Immediately following those exhibition matches, the official Copa America tournament would commence in late June, hosted across massive stadiums throughout the United States.

The mandated rest period he had just discussed with Juliette hours ago was officially truncated. The cycle was not pausing, it was merely shifting continents.

He looked at the phone screen, the sudden darkness reflecting his own calm gaze.

The war for Ligue Alpha was over. A new theater of combat had just been opened.

Luc lifted the phone back to his mouth, his tone steady, stripping away the fatigue of the morning.

"I guess we’re going back home, man. Been a while for me."