Chapter 1: [1] "The Ball Always Finds the Truth"
The ball was drifting through the air and at an agonisingly slow arc over the midfield.
Luc Beaumont couldn’t even afford to have a look at the defender who rushed at his blind side. He just knew. He had developed his spatial awareness after 10 years of playing the game. His eyes did not have to follow the man, he could hear the sound of the heavy thudding of his cleats on the grass.
He trapped the ball so elegantly as it came to rest with the top of his right foot. His first touch was ideal and sticky. The defender came sliding in, with the bare cleats showing, looking to make a statement to the scouts on the touch line.
Luc only pulled the ball back an inch. The opponent glided past him like a runaway train, consuming only grass.
A desperate trialist shouted, "Pass it!," from the center circle, and ran forward hoping to receive a pass.
Luc ignored him. This was not the friendmaker’s place. He was here to get a job he didn’t really want.
He pushed the ball forward, moving to gear two. The immacate grass of the training facility was just right for the boots to plop down on. Two center-backs came in to close the gap and to cut the space.
Luc dropped his left shoulder. It was the tried and tested ploy. The oldest trick in the book. Body feint (simple). When executed at maximum speed, with perfect weight distribution, it was lethal however. The fake was immaculate as the right center-back bit, with his hips moving in the wrong direction. Luc immediately switched the ball onto his right foot, ran with the ball at a good pace through the man out of position.
Now it’s just him and the keeper.
The goalie ran out and waved his arms to make himself large in an effort to block the shot.
A pro trial would cause most players to get panicky. They would attempt to blast it through the keeper’s hands. Luc only saw the geometry. He opened his body up, feigning a curled shot to the opposite end of the goal. The keeper was immediately in a diving stance.
During that split second, Luc snapped his ankle straight, and effortlessly chipped the ball right down the middle.
A Panenka chip. In a professional trial that is played at a high level and in a stressful condition.
The ball glanced off the back of the net. The keeper was still on his knees and in utter humiliation looking at the grass.
The whistle blew. Session over.
Luc marched towards the sidelines, breathing still entirely normal. He took a drink of water from a carton and gulped it down.
A man in a stylish track jacket, holding a tablet, walked over. Coach Henri. He was the head scout for an aspiring mid-table team in Ligue Alpha.
Other than the tired, uninteresting babble of the other players, Henri was the only one who managed to catch Luc’s attention, and he did it with a thick French accent. "What was that at the end?"
"Goal, coach," replied Luc, matter-of-factly.
"A chip? In the last trial game? You would consider this a joke? You believe that Ligue Alpha is a game for college students?
But the man met Luc’s gaze. "It went in, didn’t it? They were all high percentage plays and if I blasted him he could’ve had a hand to it."
Henri tried to find a break in the kid’s overweening self-confidence. There wasn’t any. "According to your file you were the best player in the American college system, thirty goals in twenty games... but you turned down the pro-draft in your hometown. Why?"
Luc smoothly said, "Didn’t pay enough." It was just that he enjoyed the college life. He enjoyed being at parties, playing lots of games, and not being pressured. Professional soccer seemed like a lot of early mornings, eating the right foods, and practicing for the media.
"And you think we pay more?" Henri scoffed. "You’re a newbie who hasn’t been around the block yet."
"I think," said Luc, tossing his empty water bottle into a waste bin, "that I just kicked your starting center-backs out of the water without even breaking a sweat! So, shall we do business or should I book my ticket back home to the States?"
Henri’s mouth twitched. It was nearly an effortless smile. "Follow me to the office, we have paperwork to sign."
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The office was a cramped, musty-smelling space with a musky scent from the muscle rub and stale coffee beans. Henri put a regular rookie sign-in contract on the table. It wasn’t superstar money, but it was adequate enough to live very comfortably in France.
Luc took a pen and signed on the dotted line without taking the time to read through all the fine print. He was no big fan of goal bonuses, image rights or release clause.
There was one reason why he was doing it. Chloé Martin.
The girl who transferred to his college a year ago. Blonde hair, pretty blue eyes and accent that melted every guy on campus. She was a French foreign student and Luc instantly knew that she was the one.
It was three weeks before he could get her in his bed. It took her six months to get him to move to France.
It was a month ago that she had traced patterns on his chest, "Luc, my love. You’re too good for this level, you need to be in Europe, in Ligue Alpha, we could have a life there, have fashion, have a shit ton of money, you could have status. I miss home."
"Here is where I’m fine," said Luc in a grumble.
"Do it for me," she had purred, kissing down his abdomen! "If you become pro in France I’ll do anything you want. Suck wherever you want."
This was enough to get him going. Packed his bags, flew across the Atlantic and experienced the last week of these mundane trials.
He stood up from the desk, shaking Henri’s hand.
"Training begins tomorrow at 8 AM sharp Beaumont, don’t be late, welcome to ligue Alpha."
"Thanks, coach."
Luc left the facility. It was beginning to get darker, the sun was setting in France, and the colours were golden. He took out his cell phone. No messages from Chloé.
She was to be waiting at the hotel. They had a massive suite booked... well, he had it booked, maxing out his credit card on the certainty of landing this contract. He could only just imagine the look on her face when he told her the news. He imagined exactly how they were going to celebrate. He’d probably have to buy a new bed when he was done with her
He caught a cab back to the city center. The traffic was brutal.
Luc just leaned his head against the window, a rare smile sweeped across his face. He actually did it. A Pro footballer. It sounded pretty damn good.
The hotel lobby was quiet. Luc bypassed the front desk and headed straight for the elevators, pressing the button for the top floor.
[10% Initialised]
As the doors slid open, he stepped onto the plush carpet of the hallway. Room 402. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keycard.
He didn’t knock. He wanted it to be a surprise.
The little green light flashed on the door handle. He pushed it open quietly.
The first thing he noticed was the music. A low, bass-heavy R&B track was playing from the Bluetooth speaker in the bedroom.
The second thing he noticed was the trail of clothes in the entryway. A pair of expensive-looking men’s designer jeans. A silk button-down shirt that definitely didn’t belong to Luc. And then, Chloé’s familiar red lace lingerie, tossed carelessly over the back of a chair.
[40% Initialised]
