Chapter 9: [9] "Don’t Be a Bitch, Olivier"
"That we did," Mateo said stepping forward, and slapping a hand firmly on Luc’s shoulder. It was an assurance. The captain had taken him up, accepted him. "But you’ve got a hornet’s nest stirred up kid, every defender in Ligue Alpha will be dead focused on your knees now, they want the bounty."
"They need to catch me first," Luc replied as he tossed his bag into his locker.
Hugo Blanc was peeking from two stalls down. The kid still appeared to be a nervous one, but with new confidence in his eyes. "Luc, I’ve been getting calls all morning from reporters, they want dirt on you."
"My fee for an interview is ten grand, you take twenty percent," said Luc in a deadpan tone.
Hugo blinked and then he laughed nervously, after realising it must not have been a joke.
---
The door to the medical wing opened and Juliette walked in to the locker room. Her club tight track suit was on and she had her dark hair pulled into a ponytail high in the top of her head. Everyone held their breath.
Her voice was businesslike, "Beaumont. My office. Now."
There were a few low whistling noises, as Luc closed his locker and followed her out.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind them, Juliette lost the façade of her profession. She seized his arm and dragged him inside the empty physio room and locked the already shut door.
"You bought a Porsche?" she demanded, crossing her arms, her green eyes flashing.
"Valérie bought me a Porsche," Luc replied at ease, leaning back against the examination table. "My usual vehicle is a rental car, and it wasn’t good for the brand, she said. Her words, not mine."
Juliette sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You’re rushing a bit too much, Luc, do you know what kind of strings Valérie is pulling now? She’s blocking investigations from the disciplinary board, calling in favours from media executives and even just fired our Head of PR."
"You would think she is just doing her job and performing her duties, huh."
"And what do you do for a living?" Juliette shot back, getting so close to him that her chest was pressed up against his.
"Goals, goals, more goals." Luc said. His hands were on her waist, extended out. "And taking you out to dinner again."
Juliette held her grimace but a flush of red seeped up her neck. She playfully slapped his hands away. "Focus, American. Tonight it’s a tactical nightmare, Valérie didn’t just sack the PR man, she booked you for an exclusive live interview at 8 PM for Le Quotidien Sportif."
Luc raised his eyebrow. He didn’t know much about French television, but he knew that name. It was the biggest prime-time sports talk show in Europe.
Juliette warned in a serious tone, "The host is Antoine Giroux. He’s unofficially Olivier Fontaine’s spokesperson in the media, he’ll humiliate you on television, and he’ll try to make you look disrespectful and arrogant for Fontaine’s sake."
"Good," replied Luc, a grimace playing on his lips. "It would start getting repetitive to send messages across using the field camera."
Juliette’s gaze was fixed on him, her head shaking in dismay. "Are you not afraid?"
"Juliette, fear doesn’t get the ball in the net." He bent his head down to her lips, kissing her swiftly and roughly. Her taste was peppermint and black coffee. "I will see you at practice."
---
[System Notification]
[Objective: Ace the interview without drama]
[Reward: +5 increase to speed]
[Punishment: Temporary reduction in speed stats for the during of one match]
"A speed demon is still a speed demon. Temporary reduction or not. Plus, I don’t plan on tanking the interview."
8:00 PM. The studio in downtown Paris was extremely cold for a TV show.
Luc was sitting in the makeup chair and would not let the stylist touch his hair. He was dressed in a sharp black suit with an uncovered top two button and no tie. He looked comfortable. He didn’t seem the type to be facing a media firing squad as a rookie.
There was a producer with a headset who tapped him on the shoulder. "Five minutes Mr Beaumont, then Antoine will introduce you and you go out to the chairs, remember don’t curse on TV."
Luc rose to his feet, his cuffs readjusted.
Antoine Giroux was finishing up a segment out on the stage. He was a slick, gray-haired man, who sported a fake tan and a used car salesman smile. Huge television screens behind him played replays of Olivier Fontaine’s goals.
Antoine told the studio audience and millions of people at home, "now we have a special guest... The man who caused outrage all over the country this weekend, an American rookie who scored one goal and then immediately decided to disrespect what would be the best player our league has seen in 10 years. Welcome, SC Valois forward, Luc Beaumont."
The audience in the studio was noisy, but their applause was vehement and not overly enthusiastic. There were a smattering of boos from the back rows.
Luc walked out onto the brightly lit stage. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He moved with the big, slow steps of a predator moving into new territory. He sat in the leather chair, left ankle placed over right knee.
---
Antoine leaned slightly forward, trying to go on the attack with all his strength. "Welcome, Luc, let’s get down to business, you tapped your watch at the camera, that’s a direct threat against Olivier Fontaine. Do you really think that a college kid from the United States should be able to poke fun at a back-to-back MVP?"
Luc threw his gaze on Antoine as his face went blank. He waited three agonizingly long seconds, doing nothing but allowing the silence to pervade. In time of the television, it seemed like an hour. Antoine moved his body in a way that showed he was uncomfortable.
Calm, perfectly clear, Luc finally said: "I didn’t mock him. I simply just set a deadline for him."
The audience murmured. Antoine gave out a condescending laugh.
"A deadline? For what? His retirement?" Antoine scoffed. "Luc, be realistic, Olivier Fontaine scored 32 goals last season, you’ve scored just the 1. You’re a footnote, he’s a king."
It didn’t seem entirely professional for a well recognised interviewer to be bantering a rookie. But that was Luc’s reality now.
Luc cut through the laughter of the host with his razor-sharp words, "Let’s talk about those thirty-two goals, Antoine." He turned his head toward the host, placed his elbows on his knees and looked him in the eyes. "I watched the tape. Fifteen of those goals were penalties. Eight of them were tap-ins inside the six-yard box against teams facing relegation. He doesn’t create. He waits for his midfielders to do the heavy lifting, and then he takes the credit."
A large silence filled the studio. Off camera, the producers went into a spin. No one, not one single person ever criticized the stats of Olivier Fontaine on national television.
Antoine’s fake tan had a little bit of a look of paleness now. "Oh come on, you’re doubting his skills?"
But, Luc said, cutting to the chase, "I’m questioning his spine. He’s a flat-track bully, takes his fill of weak defenders and boosts his figures, when he is against real opponents in the Champions League, he vanishes."
"This is outrageous," Antoine sputtered, attempting to take the interview back. "You’re sitting here, and you’re an utter nobody, trying to insult the pride of French football!"
"Why does his agent send you out here to defend him if he has so much pride in him?" Tilting his head slightly, Luc continued, "if he’s a king, he should be able to battle his own battles."
The crowd gasped.
Luc didn’t stop. He turned his head, ignoring Antoine entirely, and looked right into the main broadcasting camera with the red light glowing on top.
"Olivier," Luc said, his voice echoing in the silent studio. "I know you are watching this from your penthouse you fucking piece of shit."
"Hey, no swearing!" A man behind the camera said.
"You sent your attack dogs out for me today, you saw what I did to Rive, you can clearly see what is happening, you know your time is up."
Antoine reached him, making an attempt to interrupt. "We need to get to the commercial-"
"No," Luc roared, his voice echoing through the room, stifling the host’s heartbeat, "no, enough was enough." Luc’s eye remained fixed on the lens.
"You want to show that you are the king?" Luc challenged, his eyes blazing. "Let’s make a wager, in front of the whole country. Goal for goal. No penalties involved. Open play. The one with the lowest number of goals by the end of December, packs their bags, ends their contract and leaves Ligue Alpha."
"Don’t be a bitch."
The studio audience broke into an uproar. Half were shocked to hear that, the other half were cheering his audacity.
"Are you insane?" In spite of the noise, Antoine shouted out. "You are taking risks with your career?"
Finally, Luc sat back in his chair with a dark, wicked expression. He adjusted his suit in a smooth manner.
Luc corrected, "I’m betting his career. 24 hours to accept and if he doesn’t then everyone knows that he’s a coward."
Luc didn’t wait for Antoine to respond. He rose from his seat, removed his microphone, set it on the leather chair and left the stage before the cameras could finish shooting.
[System Notification]
[Objective Failed...horribly]
[Temporary reduction in speed stats for the duration of one match]
