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

Luc nodded slowly. He tested his weight on his feet, shifting the balance across his hips, waiting for the familiar spike of pain to shoot up. It didn’t come.

The paralyzing stiffness that had anchored him to the mattress all morning had finally broken.

He rolled his shoulders backward, feeling the vertebrae pop in a satisfying sequence. The oppressive exhaustion had receded, replaced by a strange, clean clarity. The oatmeal, the unsolicited intervention from his teammates, and the brief mid-day sleep had actually worked.

"I’m feeling refreshed," Luc said, dropping his arms to his sides. He looked across the kitchen table at the seventeen-year-old prodigy who had single-handedly hijacked his miserable rest day. "Genuinely. The tension is gone."

Hugo Blanc didn’t smile, but the subtle tension around his jaw relaxed. "The physical recovery window after extreme exertion is usually forty-eight hours. You accelerated it by actually resting instead of pacing around the apartment dwelling on goal tally."

"What do you mean by dwelling? I’ve never done that," Luc lied, walking over to the sink to rinse his empty bowl.

"You checked the league standings four times while Cillian was complaining about the Champions League final," Hugo countered deadpan.

Luc turned off the tap, shaking the water from his hands. "Alright, fine. But the obsession is paused for the rest of the day. Put the tablet away, Hugo. We are leaving the apartment. I need actual, solid food. Not recovery oats. We’re going to a restaurant."

Hugo frowned, glancing toward the front door. "Cillian took the car. He said he had to go to the training complex to retrieve a pair of boots he left in his locker before going to the gym."

"I have my keys," Luc said, walking down the hall toward the bedroom to find a clean jacket. "Where do you normally eat when you’re not eating club-mandated grilled chicken and rice? Somewhere local. Somewhere near your place."

"There is a small bistro three streets down from my mother’s house," Hugo called back from the kitchen. "It’s quiet. They don’t have sports channels on the televisions. The owner doesn’t care about Ligue Alpha."

"Perfect," Luc said, ignoring Hugo calling Valerie ’mother’, he emerged with a dark wool sweater and his car keys. "Let’s go."

---

The drive across the city was peaceful. The bleak, freezing rain from the Dijon match had completely cleared out of the region, leaving the late afternoon sky a crisp, bruised purple. The traffic was manageable, a rare occurrence that allowed Luc to actually enjoy the rumbling purr of the Porsche’s engine.

He navigated the winding streets, moving away from the affluent, hyper-modern districts near the apartment and near Stade Valois and delving into the older, more residential neighborhoods where the architecture felt lived-in and organic.

Hugo sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Without the tablet in his hands or a football at his feet, the kid looked startlingly young. He wore Luc’s plain grey hoodie, replacing his training jacket, and dark jeans, completely blending into the urban landscape.

It was easy to forget that the boy sitting next to him held the league record for assists in a single match and was currently playmaking for arguably the most lethal attack in the country.

"Take the next left," Hugo instructed, pointing toward a narrow street lined with bare elm trees. "It’s the corner with the faded green."

Luc smoothly turned the wheel, easing the car into a tight parking space along the curb. He killed the engine. The street was quiet, insulated from the main noises of the city.

A small bakery sat across the road, its display windows dark for the evening, while the restaurant Hugo had pointed out emitted a warm, inviting amber glow onto the pavement.

A weathered wooden sign hung above the door, the painted lettering peeling slightly at the edges.

"This is it?" Luc asked, stepping out into the chilly air.

"Le Petit Chêne," Hugo confirmed, zipping his hoodie up to his chin. "My mother used to bring me here after youth academy trials when I was younger. The food is heavy. It’s exactly what you need to rebuild muscle mass."

Luc locked the car, following the teenager toward the entrance. As he pushed the glass door open, a bell chimed softly above their heads.

The interior of the restaurant was...very different, from the high-end establishments Valérie Laurent usually booked for the squad. The floors were scuffed hardwood, the tables were small and pushed closely together, covered in simple red-and-white checkered tablecloths.

The air smelled incredibly rich, a thick blend of roasted garlic, seared butter, and simmering beef stock.

It was utterly unassuming. There were no flashing cameras, no whispered murmurs of recognition from the other patrons, most of whom were older locals deeply invested in their own conversations and glasses of red wine to even notice the superstars walk in.

Luc felt his shoulders drop another inch. Relaxed.

Hugo was right. This was a sanctuary.

"Hugo! It has been months!" A booming voice echoed from behind the small wooden bar near the back of the room. A huge man with a full beard appeared, wiping down glasses. He threw his hands in the air.

"Hello, Marc," Hugo said, offering a genuine smile. "The schedule has been difficult."

"I see your face in the newspapers now, boy," Marcel laughed, coming around the bar to greet the teenager by tapping him on the shoulder. He glanced at Luc, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second in recognition, but the older man immediately smothered the reaction, respecting the unspoken rules of his establishment. "A table for two? I have the corner table open. Away from the draft near the doors."

"Thank you," Hugo said.

Marcel grabbed two menus and led them through the maze of tables. As they approached the back corner, a loud, distinct burst of laughter cut through the ambient chatter of the restaurant.

Luc paused. He knew that laugh.

Sitting in a table adjacent to the one Marcel was leading them toward were two familiar figures.

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