Open Play: Ladies, Goals, The Everything System in-between

Chapter 43: [43] "The House That Hugo Built"

Sunday morning didn’t care that SC Valois had lost or that Luc had slept over at a Lady’s house that wasn’t Juliette.

Luc let himself into his apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence took over immediately.

No Alexi running her mouth, which played a major role in him coming back.

Luc turned on his espresso machine.

His hamstrings ached just a bit from ninety minutes of playing a role that wasn’t his. Dropping deep. Holding shape. Doing Hugo’s job badly because Hugo wasn’t there to do it well.

Fontaine sat on eleven while Luc sat on nine. Two behind and December getting closer by the week.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

A text from Hugo:

I’m very bored and my leg is elevated. Bastien and Cillian are coming over to play PS5. You can come too if you want.

A second text followed with an address. Somewhere in the hills outside the city. Somewhere that didn’t belong to a seventeen-year-old midfielder’s salary.

Luc already knew the story, even if nobody at the club said it out loud. The billionaire who bought a football club to spite her father. The kid she found at an orphanage photo shoot. Valérie’s fortress was Hugo’s home.

He drank the rest of the espresso standing up.

I’ll be there in thirty, he typed back.

---

The drive out of the city showed the transition from stone buildings to manicured hedges and longer distances between houses.

The gates were iron, the kind that belonged to a property older than the country’s current government. A camera angled down at his windshield before the gates swung open without a sound.

The driveway ran for quite a while. Oak trees on either side, trimmed lawns that looked very well maintained.

A man in a black suit had the front door open before Luc reached the top step.

"Mr. Beaumont. Master Blanc is in the east wing media room."

Luc followed him through hallways lined with art that probably cost more than his weekly wages. The house had no clutter or mess. It was just silent and had very expensive lighting.

Then a set of double door that the security man opened and stepped back.

The media room ran the length of his current apartment... his whole apartment. Leather couches in a U-shape, facing an 85-inch screen mounted into the wall like a piece of art itself.

EA Sports FC commentary could be heard through the speakers.

Hugo Blanc was slouched across the center couch. His right leg sat locked in a heavy brace. A controller sat in his hands as his thumbs were already active.

Cillian Doyle was on the floor in front of him, leaning left and right with the controller as if his own body weight could steer the players on screen.

Bastien sat off to the side in an armchair with a glass of sparkling water he hadn’t touched, watching the match the way he watched team meetings.

"You’re pressing too high, Cillian," Bastien said, his quiet eyes on the screen. "You’re leaving the space behind your center-backs."

"I’m applying pressure!" Cillian jammed the sprint button. "You can’t just sit there and wait!"

On screen, Hugo’s midfielder cut the pass off clean. One touch. A through-ball split two defenders who hadn’t even realized they were already beaten.

3-0.

"Fuck sake." Cillian dropped the controller onto the rug.

"American!" He spotted Luc in the doorway and grinned. "About time. I need a break from getting humiliated by a cripple."

He tossed a third controller onto the cushion beside him.

"He just holds the sprint button," Hugo said. "It’s like playing a child."

"I play with passion," Cillian said, walking to the mini-fridge in the corner. "You play like a psycho."

Luc dropped his jacket on a chair and sat down next to Hugo.

He looked at the brace.

"How’s the ankle?"

"Getting better." Hugo flexed his foot inside the brace, the only part of him that could move. "Juliette says two more weeks in this. Then jogging."

"Don’t rush it," Luc said.

He meant it. The positional penalty imposed by TES was a leash. A permanently damaged Hugo was a different kind of disaster entirely.

Luc looked at Bastien.

"You getting a game in, or just watching Cillian embarrass himself."

"I played one." Bastien’s voice was quiet. "Hugo beat me four to one."

"He’s better than Cillian," Hugo said, navigating the menu without looking up. "He tries to build through midfield instead of just sprinting in straight lines. He just hesitates in the final third and he takes way too many touches."

It was an accurate read of Bastien’s actual game, delivered the way Hugo delivered everything.

Bastien looked down at his glass.

"Hand me the controller," Luc said.

Cillian laughed, tossing his water bottle hand to hand. "Oh, I have to see this. The great Beaumont. Let’s see if you can score here like you do in real-life."

Luc picked Galactico Madrid. Hugo picked Chester City.

"Classic," Cillian muttered, leaning over the back of the couch.

The match kicked off and Luc understood within thirty seconds that playing against Hugo on a controller was identical to playing against him in training.

Hugo didn’t dribble. He didn’t play for highlight reels.

He manipulated shape. He drew Luc’s midfield out of position with a backward pass and waited for the gap to open on its own.

He held his structure, switched defenders to cut off passing lanes, mirrored the patience he’d learned the hard way against low blocks.

Ten minutes of game time. Nothing. Not a single shot on target either way.

"This is the most boring match of FIFA in human history," Cillian groaned. "Somebody slide tackle someone! Break a damn leg!"

"Quiet," Bastien said, leaning forward. "Watch the right channel."

Bastien saw it before Cillian did.

Luc was leaving the right side slightly open. Not careless. Bait, dressed up to look like an AI error.

Hugo saw the gap too, and the temptation of free space pulled the pass out of him anyway.

Luc switched to his holding midfielder before the ball arrived, stepped into the lane, intercepted the ball cleanly, hit the long-ball button without a second of hesitation.

A diagonal ball over the top of Hugo’s high line.

Vinícius ran onto it. One on one with the keeper.

Luc didn’t sprint into the box. He slowed the run, waited for the keeper to commit, double-tapped the shot. Low. Driven. Under the dive.

1-0.

Luc picked up Cillian’s abandoned water bottle and drank from it.

Hugo paused the match.

"You baited me."

"You always want to occupy space," Luc said. "Give you a gap that looks safe and you’ll use it. I just closed the trap before the ball got there."

Bastien was staring at the frozen screen. "That translates to the pitch."

"Everything translates to the pitch," Luc said, glancing at him. "Football is a series of decisions. Hesitate, and the decision gets made for you. Don’t overthink the final pass. If the angle’s there, hit it."

Bastien nodded slowly.

The double doors swung open without a knock.

Valérie Laurent stood in the frame in a tailored silk blouse, a slim phone in one hand, looking like she’d just walked out of a negotiation that ended with somebody else’s career in ruins.

Her eyes swept the room once, landed on the paused screen, then settled on Luc.

"Beaumont." Her voice cut clean through the music. "You’ve found ways to pass the time after dropping three points to a relegation candidate."

Luc kept the controller in his hand. "What do you mean, I’m just building team chemistry."

"Building chemistry." She walked over to Hugo, didn’t touch him, but her posture softened a fraction. "How is your leg dear, is it elevated correctly?"

"Yes."

Valérie’s eyes came back to Luc. "Tensé is on Sunday. A domestic cup tie against a Ligue Beta side. The media will be expecting us to trash them. If you intend to gain momentum for your wager, I suggest you deliver goals. We both need then now."

"I always deliver," Luc said. "As long as the team gives me the ball."

Her gaze flicked to Cillian and Bastien. "Then the team had better learn how."

[System Notification]

[Objective: Hold composure in Valérie’s presence. Every smart remark gets you 1 General Point]

"Worth it," Luc thought.

"We’ll handle it," he said aloud. "We didn’t take it seriously last time and it almost cost us. It won’t happen again."

"If you say so." Valérie turned on her heel. "Don’t break my television. It’s custom."

The doors shut behind her with a click that sounded final.

Cillian let his breath out in a rush, collapsing back onto the rug. "Christ. How do you live here, Hugo?"

"She’s fine," Hugo said, already unpausing the match. "She just hates losing."

"She hates inefficiency," Luc corrected.

They played three more matches. Luc took the first. Hugo adapted and stole the second, 2-1, punishing the same trap Luc had used against him. The third was a scoreless draw that left both of them quieter than the scoreline suggested.

Luc set the controller down and rolled his shoulders. The matches were nice and atleast he almost forgot the 2 nil loss. Bonding with the younger teammates was also important.

"Good games. You adapt fast."

"You don’t leave many options, I had to adapt," Hugo said, rubbing his eyes. "You play ugly when you have to."

"Learn it now that ugly wins."

Luc stood, taking in the lighting that must have cost a fortune. He rolled his neck once, felt the stiffness settle somewhere new.

He looked at Hugo.

"Where’s the bathroom?"