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

Chapter 84: [84] "A Billionaire’s Definition of Chemistry"

The whistle blew to end the tactical session, but the cold didn’t stop biting.

The air wasn’t exactly freezing but it felt heavy, pressing down on the training pitch like a wet blanket.

Klaus Becker walked off the grass before Henri had even finished his final sentence.

The didn’t look at his teammates. He genuinely believed everyone else was operating on a delay.

Luc watched him go.

The dull, throbbing headache that had started the moment Klaus broke their tactical shape was still sitting behind Luc’s eyes. It wasn’t a migraine, but it was a persistent, muddying pressure on his pitch efficiency.

[System Notification]

[Locker Room Cohesion: 42%]

[Status: Fractu---

Luc dismissed TES almost immediately.

He didn’t need the system to tell him what his eyes already saw. Klaus wasn’t just an ego, he was a tactical wrecking ball dropped directly into a well oiled machine that had taken five months to build.

Cillian walked past Luc, carrying two cones.

"I’m going to wack him with these tomorrow," the Irishman muttered. "I don’t care what he’s won. I’ll take the ban."

"You won’t touch him," Luc said flatly.

Cillian stopped and looked at his captain.

"Leave the German to me," Luc added. "Just try to keep your mouth shut."

Luc didn’t wait for a response. He walked off the pitch, skipped the showers, and headed straight for his car.

The drive from the training complex to Stade Valois took a few minutes. Luc parked the Porsche in the underground VIP lot. The concrete walls echoed as the flat-six engine cut out.

He walked to the private elevator and pressed the button for the executive level. The doors slid open smoothly, depositing him into a quiet, carpeted hallway that smelled of expensive wax.

He didn’t bother knocking on the heavy oak doors of the owner’s suite.

He pushed them open and walked in.

Valérie Laurent was standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, looking down at the empty pitch, Stade Valois. She wore a sharply tailored burgundy blazer and black trousers.

She didn’t turn around when the doors clicked shut.

"I heard the German walked out early," Valérie said. Her voice was cool, floating over the silence of the massive office.

"He didn’t just walk out early," Luc said, stopping a few feet behind her. "He spent the entire session ignoring every pressing instruction the coach gave."

Valérie took a slow drag of her cigarette. She exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke against the glass.

"He is a Champions League winner, Beaumont," she said. "He is used to dictating the play, not participating in someone else’s."

"I don’t give a fuck what he won three years ago," Luc said. His voice didn’t rise, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"He is a liability," Luc continued. "He presses when he’s supposed to hold the midfield together. He leaves Hugo completely exposed to the counter-attack."

Valérie finally turned around.

Her dark eyes scanned him, taking in the training tracksuit he still wore, the tension in his jaw, and the absolute lack of deference in his posture. She walked over to her desk and tapped the ash of her cigarette into a crystal tray.

"I spent thirty-five million euros to bring him here," she said calmly. "I spent it because Mateo went off to Saudi Arabia, and we are sitting in a Champions League qualification spot."

"You spent it on a big name with attitude issues."

"I spent it on a guarantee," she corrected sharply. "We need to finish in the top three. The television revenue alone changes the entire financial architecture of this club."

Luc walked closer, closing the distance between them.

He stood right in front of her desk, forcing her to look slightly up at him. The headache pulsed again, a sharp reminder of the system’s invisible leash.

"Your so called guarantee is going to cost us the season," Luc said. "He thinks he’s above the squad. He thinks he’s above the manager."

Valérie leaned back against the edge of her desk, crossing her arms. "And what does he think of you?"

"He thinks I’m a college kid who just got lucky... atleast that’s what I think he does."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Valérie’s lips.

"Then prove him wrong, Captain." She stepped forward, invading his personal space. The scent of her jasmine and tobacco perfume completely replaced the sterile air of the office.

"I bought a weapon that will help us compete with the likes of Paris Royal," Valérie murmured, looking up into his eyes. "I put it in your locker room. It is your job to aim it."

"He doesn’t want to be aimed," Luc said. "If he steps out of line in the cup match on Sunday, I’m going to tell Henri to bench his ass."

Valérie’s smile vanished. The billionaire executive returned in an instant.

"You will do no such thing," she said, her voice dropping to a frozen whisper. "I do not spend thirty-five million euros to have an asset rot on the bench."

"If he breaks the tactical shape in key matches, we lose."

"If you bench my marquee January signing, the media will write a hundred articles." She pressed a manicured finger against his chest. "You will make it work."

Luc looked down at her.

The power dynamic between them was always a tightrope walk. She owned the stadium they were standing in, but he scored the goals that kept the lights on.

"And if he refuses to fall in line?" Luc challenged.

Valérie’s hand slid up his chest, her fingers curling into the collar of his training jacket. She pulled him forward, forcing him to bend slightly to maintain his balance.

"Remember the villain I love so much," she whispered against his mouth. "Act like him again. Break him if you need to."

Luc aggressively pulled her hair back as their lips were almost touching.

"Ow! What the hell--"

Then he kissed her.

It was aggressive, entirely devoid of affection, and dripping with raw authority.

Luc gripped her waist, his large hands easily spanning her sides, lifting her slightly so her back pressed hard against the edge of the heavy desk.

The kiss deepened, fueled by the frustration of the morning’s training and the suffocating pressure of the new captaincy. They were two highly arrogant, highly demanding people using each other to burn off stress.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was slightly uneven.

It was the only sign that the billionaire facade ever slipped. She smoothed the front of her burgundy blazer, stepping sideways to put a yard of space between them.

"St-- stop. You’re being forceful."

Luc had learned by now that she loved it when they got aggressive with each other.

"The cup-- cup match is on Sunday," Valérie said, her voice trying it’s best to be steady again. "I want a dominant performance. I want Klaus Becker integrated into the midfield."

Luc stepped closer.

"Wait-- wait," Valérie said. Using and outstretched hand to maintain distance between them. "I have another signing planned."

"Who?"

"The youth kid who pocketed you at the beginning of the season."