Chapter 200: [200] "Box with Valérie"

The VIP elevator doors opened with a chime.

Polished marble, brushed steel, and the faint smell of expensive air conditioning circulating through the executive levels of Stade Valois.

Luc Beaumont stepped out of the elevator. He planted the rubber tip of the aluminum crutch onto the carpet. He shifted only a percent of his body weight onto his right leg. The grade-two contusion pretty much almost gone, a vast improvement from the blinding spikes of agony he had endured days prior, but it was still a rigid leash on his mobility.

He adjusted his grip on the padded handle of the crutch and began the slow walk down the empty corridor.

He reached the glass door marked with the gold and black crest of Sporting Club Valois.

The owner’s box.

He pushed the handle down and shoved the door open with his shoulder, stepping into the massive, climate-controlled suite.

The sheer scale of the view arrested him immediately.

Luc stopped walking. He had spent his entire professional career in this stadium usually at ground level. From the pitch, the stadium was a cage of noise. It was a hostile trench with compressed spaces and aggressive center-backs breathing down his neck. The grass was a battlefield where every inch of territory had to be claimed.

Up here, hovering directly over the halfway line, it looked like a chessboard.

The pitch was immaculate, contrasting the destroyed, waterlogged swamp the team had played on in Aquitaine for the Cup Quarter-Final. The green grass was cut into perfect, alternating geometric patterns. The white chalk lines defined the boundaries with absolute precision. The stadium seating cascaded downward in steep, sweeping tiers of black and gold plastic, currently empty but waiting to be filled.

The silence inside the soundproofed glass box was a nice touch.

Luc walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaning his weight heavily on the crutch. He placed his free hand against the cool glass, looking down at the technical area where Coach Henri would soon be standing.

The door behind him opened.

The tap of designer heels on the hardwood floor signaled her arrival before she even spoke.

Valérie Laurent moved with the kind of calculated, predatory grace that defined her existence. She wore a charcoal blazer over a crisp white silk blouse, her dark hair was styled flawlessly.

"It has been a very long while since we occupied the same room without a media crisis standing between us, Beaumont," Valérie said. Her voice was smooth, carrying the natural authority of a woman who owned every square inch of the concrete, steel and grass surrounding them.

Luc didn’t turn away from the glass. He kept his eyes locked on the empty green expanse below.

"Just another matchday, Valérie," Luc replied, his tone perfectly flat. "Just a different seat."

He brushed off the personal angle instantly. He had no desire to discuss the past week, the frustrating hours spent staring at the ceiling of his apartment, or the fact that Juliette was the only reason he hadn’t lost his mind during the mandated rest.

He kept the perimeter of his non-professional life guarded tighly.

Valérie stopped a few feet away from him. She read the deflection flawlessly. A lesser executive might have pushed, trying to force a moment of manufactured camaraderie, but Valérie understood elite athletes better than anyone. She knew when to press and when to concede.

She walked over to the polished mahogany bar in the corner of the suite. The clink of ice against crystal broke the quiet of the room. She poured two glasses of sparkling water, added a single slice of lemon to each, and walked back to the glass.

She held one out.

Luc took it, wrapping his fingers around the cold glass.

"Olympique Nantaise," Valérie said, looking down at the pitch. "Currently sitting fourteenth in the table. They are three points above the relegation zone. Their manager is fighting for his job, and their players are fighting for their lives. They are going to come here today a wounded animal."

"They’re going to park the bus," Luc corrected, taking a slow sip of his water. "They’ll line up in a low block. Two banks of four, maybe five across the back if their manager is truly terrified. They don’t want to win. They want to survive ninety minutes and steal a zero-zero draw to take a single point back home."

"Can we break them?" she asked. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. She was asking the man who had scored thirty league goals for her franchise.

"Henri shifted back to the four-three-three," Luc explained, his tactical mind automatically dissecting the impending fixture. "Idriss is leading the line. He has the mass to occupy their center-backs. But the real issue isn’t our attack today. It’s our defense."

Valérie’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Pinto."

"Pinto," Luc confirmed, nodding toward the penalty area directly below them. "Tomáš Blažek is out for the season. He organized the backline. He played high. He swept up through balls. Pinto doesn’t do that. Pinto stays glued to his six-yard box. Because of that, Henri has to drop the defence five to ten yards deeper today to protect the space behind them. If they play a high line with Pinto in goal, Nantaise will just dump long balls over the top."

"If the defense drops ten yards deeper," Valérie deduced, tracing a manicured nail along the rim of her glass, "that stretches the midfield. It creates a gap between Klaus and the forward line."

"Exactly," Luc said, genuinely impressed by her comprehension. She wasn’t just a suit who signed checks, she paid attention to the product on the grass. "Klaus Becker, Bense Baini, and Hugo Blanc are going to have to run an extra five yards on every single transition to bridge that gap. Against a team playing a low block, it’s going to require immense physical stamina to sustain the high-pressure possession we rely on."

The stadium public address system crackled, playing a low track as the stadium gates officially opened to the public.

Slowly, the black and gold seats began to fill. The ultras in the southern stand were the first to arrive, immediately unrolling their massive banners and initiating the synchronized chanting that would serve as the heartbeat of the fixture for the next two hours.

Even through the thick, soundproofed glass of the executive suite, the low rumble of thirty thousand voices bled into the room.

Down on the pitch, the players emerged from the tunnel for the pre-match warm-ups.

Luc leaned closer to the glass, his eyes tracking the movements of his teammates. They wore their training kits, jogging out in a tight, disciplined pack.

He spotted Gabriel Assis immediately. The Brazilian winger was running high knees, his face locked in what looked like concentrated rage. Gabriel had been benched during the Cup Quarter-Final for prioritizing his own ego. Henri had started Bachra instead, and Bachra had delivered.

Now, Gabriel was back in the starting eleven for the league fixture, and the winger looked desperate to prove his worth.

"Gabriel is going to be a problem for their left-back today," Luc murmured, taking another sip of his water. "He’s angry. He’ll want the ball constantly."

"Usefulness derived from bruised ego," Valérie noted coldly. "I approve."