Chapter 198: [198] "Doesn’t matter now"

"Olympique Nantaise is tomorrow. Matchday twenty-six. Dropping all the way from around eleventh to fourteenth place. They are fighting relegation, which means they will be desperate and looking to park the bus."

"Yes coach," Luc said.

"You are not in the squad for tomorrow," Henri stated, leaving zero room for interpretation. "You are not starting, and you are not sitting on the bench. You can be in the stands though."

Luc felt a brief, instinctive flare of competitive frustration, but he immediately smothered it. Months ago, he would have argued. He would have cited the Golden Boot race, demanded a spot on the bench even with his injury, and claimed he could give them twenty minutes of hold-up play if they needed a late goal. But he had watched his team dismantle Union Aquitaine. He had watched Max Caster and Hugo Blanc shred a defense without him.

He didn’t need to be the hero against a fourteenth-place team...at least not yet.

"I agree," Luc said simply.

Henri blinked, visibly surprised by the lack of resistance. "You do?"

"I do," Luc confirmed, adjusting his grip on the crutch. "Fresko is at twenty-seven goals still. I’m still at thirty. He plays a mid-table side this weekend, so he will likely score and close the gap to one or two. But if I force myself onto the pitch tomorrow against Nantaise, or if I overcompensate and tear a hamstring, my season is over. I lose the Golden Boot entirely, and you lose your striker for the important Phocéen match."

Henri stared at him for a long moment, a slow smile spreading across his usually sleep deprived face.

"You are finally thinking like a captain," Henri praised quietly. "That is exactly the mindset. We need you fully operational for Phocéen. We can handle Nantaise at home without you. Idriss will lead the line tomorrow. Max will be on the bench."

"I’ll be in the owner’s box watching," Luc said.

The smile on Henri’s face vanished, replaced by a grim shadow that aged the manager by five years. He looked down, then back up to Luc.

"Before you head up to the executive suites, you need to go to the medical wing," Henri said, his voice dropping into a serious register. "Go see Tomáš."

Luc’s stomach dropped. He remembered the sickening collision on the television. Blažek crashing ribs-first after tipping the volley.

"How bad is it?" Luc asked.

"Go see him," Henri repeated softly. "Then meet me out on the pitch. I am gathering the squad in twenty minutes."

Henri turned and walked down the hall toward his office, leaving Luc standing alone with a sinking feeling in his chest.

Luc navigated the corridors, his crutch tapping against the polished floor. The medical wing was located at the far end of the complex, heavily soundproofed and strictly off-limits to the media. He pushed the wooden door open with his shoulder.

The primary therapy room was bathed in harsh fluorescent light.

Tomáš Blažek was sitting on the edge of an elevated examination table. The Valois starting goalkeeper had his training shirt off. His entire right torso, from his armpit down to his hip, was tightly bound in thick medical bandaging. He looked pale, his skin carrying a grayish tint, and his breathing was incredibly shallow, as if expanding his lungs was a physically agonizing task.

Detone, the interim head physiotherapist, was standing near a glowing monitor, reviewing a series of black-and-white X-ray scans.

Luc walked into the room. "You look like you tried to tackle a moving train...sorry," Luc said quietly.

Blažek looked up. He attempted a wry smile, but the movement caused his chest to shift, and the goalkeeper instantly winced, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the edge of the examination table.

"Felt like," Blažek wheezed, his voice lacking its usual booming resonance.

Detone turned away from the monitor, spotting Luc. The physio sighed, tapping a finger against the screen. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

"I was just explaining to him," Detone said, his tone clinical but carrying heavy sympathy.

Luc moved closer to the monitor. He didn’t have a medical degree, but the X-rays didn’t require one. The curved lines of Blažek’s ribcage were violently disrupted on the right side.

"Three fractured ribs," Detone explained, tracing a pen over the breaks on the screen. "Ribs seven, eight, and nine. But the fracture on the eighth rib is the critical issue. It’s fully displaced. The bone snapped and shifted inward. It is currently sitting millimeters away."

Luc stared at the white line on the screen. The injury settled over him.

"What’s the fix?" Luc asked, looking from the monitor to the goalkeeper.

"Surgery," Blažek answered, his voice bitter and hollow. "They have to cut me open, realign the bone, and screw a plate across the fracture to stabilize it."

"And the recovery time?" Luc asked, though he already knew the answer was going to be devastating.

Detone crossed his arms. "Best case scenario? Ten weeks before he can endure any physical contact. Twelve to fourteen weeks before he can dive and land on that side."

The season would end before then. It was currently mid-March.

Tomáš Blažek, the undisputed number one goalkeeper for SC Valois since Luc joined the team, the man who organized their high defensive line and swept up through balls with confidence, was officially out for the remainder of the campaign.

"I’m out, Luc," Blažek whispered, staring down at his bare feet dangling off the table. "We are pushing for the title. We are in the semi-finals of the cup. And my season is over because of a misjudged fucking clearance."

Luc stepped closer to the table. He didn’t offer empty platitudes.

He didn’t even tell him it was going to be okay. In professional football, losing your spot during a title run was a tragedy that no amount of positive reinforcement could fix.

"You prevented a goal, Tomáš," Luc said firmly, his voice steady. "If that volley goes in, the stadium erupts, Aquitaine gains all the momentum, and who knows how the match would turn out. You saved the fixture. You paid for it, but you saved it."

Blažek closed his eyes, taking a carefully measured breath. "It doesn’t matter now. You have Pinto."

Luc nodded slowly.