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

Bachra Goza was leaning back against the leather upholstery of his chair, wearing a designer jacket that was obviously more costly than the combined clothes of the people in the room, gesturing wildly with a piece of crusty bread.

Sitting across from him, looking very unimpressed by whatever story he was telling, was his older sister, Zara.

Zara was dressed casually in a dark turtleneck that showcased the size of her breasts, her white hair was exactly the same, styled exactly the same as Luc last saw. She had a fork halfway to her mouth, pausing to level a deeply skeptical glare at her brother.

"I’m telling you, Zara, the defender’s ankles literally gave out," Bachra was saying, too loud for the small bistro. "I chopped the ball inside, and he just collapsed. It’s on video. The whole stadium gasped. Damn it, give me a balon d’or already."

"The stadium gasped because you nearly tripped over your own feet right after it happened, Bachra," Zara retorted smoothly, taking a bite of her pasta. "You rely too much on flashy skills. A smart center-back is just going to wait for you to finish dancing and then take the ball."

"See, but that’s where you’re wrong, my naive big sister, I don’t dance, I manipulate space--" Bachra started, before his eyes darted upward, catching sight of Luc and Hugo standing in the aisle.

The nineteen-year-old winger froze, the piece of bread hovering in mid-air. "Captain? Hugo? What are you guys doing in this part of town?"

Zara turned her head, her sharp, intelligent eyes sweeping over Luc before landing on Hugo. She offered a polite, knowing smile. "Hello, Luc. Hugo. Since you just happened to be here at the right time, please help me explain to my brother that flair does not equal superiority."

"I wouldn’t dream of crushing his confidence," Luc said, sliding into the table next to theirs. Hugo took the seat opposite Luc, putting him back-to-back with Bachra.

"You guys eat here?" Bachra asked, twisting around in his seat to look at them. "I thought you’d be at some five-star place downtown, Luc. After the GQ thing, I figured you only ate gold-leaf steaks."

"Hugo picked the spot," Luc replied, accepting the menu Marcel handed him. "I needed to get away from a few things."

"I dragged Bachra here," Zara explained, setting her fork down. "He tried to take me to a place where the appetizers cost eighty euros and the music was so loud you couldn’t hear the waiter. I refused to get out of the cab. We compromised on real food."

"She threatened to call our mother and tell her I was starving my older sister," Bachra corrected, looking deeply wronged. "I had no choice."

Luc chuckled, scanning the menu. The options were hearty, traditional French comfort food. Beef bourguignon, cassoulet, heavy stews, and roasted root vegetables. It was the exact opposite of the lean, meticulously calculated sports nutrition diets they were subjected to at the complex.

"Order the cassoulet," Zara advised, noticing Luc studying the options. "It’s the only thing here that will actually fill you up after whatever happened yesterday. You looked miserable on the television broadcast, Luc."

Luc admitted, closing the menu. "But we took the points."

"YOU took the points," Bachra amended, leaning over the back of the booth again. "That second goal, Captain. I was freezing to death on the bench watching you outrun that defender. What did you even eat at halftime?"

"Just water," Luc lied smoothly, masking the existence of the Endurance Surge consumable. "Adrenaline does the rest."

Before Bachra could press the issue, a sudden, loud clatter echoed from the swinging doors of the kitchen.

A young girl, carrying a massive tray loaded with ceramic bowls and a basket of fresh bread, backed her way through the doors. She bumped her hip against the doorframe, causing the water glasses on the edge of the tray to rattle ominously.

"I’ve got it, Marcel! I’ve got it!" she called out over her shoulder, her voice bright and lacking the professional tone usually demanded of a waitress.

She turned around, balancing the heavy tray with a mixture of practiced skill and luck. She looked to be about seventeen, the same age as Hugo. She wore the standard black apron of the restaurant, but it was tied hastily over a vintage band t-shirt and faded jeans. Her dark curly hair was styled in a messy bun, secured with a single pencil stabbed directly through the center of it. A smear of white flour dusted her left cheek.

She practically marched across the dining room floor, her combat boots thudding heavily against the wood, making a direct line for Luc and Hugo’s table.

Hugo, who had been quietly listening to the banter between Luc and the siblings, looked up as she approached.

"Alright, sorry for the wait," she said, sliding the tray onto an empty tray-stand next to the table with a heavy thunk. She let out a sharp exhale, blowing a stray curl out of her eyes. "The kitchen is a disaster zone right now. The sous-chef dropped a whole pan of potatoes. I’m Talia. What can I get you guys to drink before we talk about when your food will be ready?"

She pulled a small notepad from her apron pocket, clicking a pen rapidly with her thumb. She didn’t look at Luc first. She looked at Hugo.

Hugo Blanc, the prodigy who could calculate the exact trajectory of a thirty-yard pass under the crushing pressure of three aggressive midfielders, suddenly found himself unable to compute a response.

He stared at the girl. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He looked at the flour on her cheek. He looked at the pencil in her hair.

The silence stretched for agonizing seconds.

Luc blinked, glancing across the table.

Hugo’s face, usually a mask of impenetrable stoicism, was... unrecognisable. His brain had suffered a catastrophic system failure.

"He’ll have water," Luc intervened smoothly, suppressing a massive grin. "Sparkling, if you have it. And I’ll take a black coffee."

Talia scribbled on the pad, completely oblivious to the internal short-circuit happening across the table. "Sparkling water, black coffee. Got it. Do you guys need a few more minutes with the menu, or do you know what you want?"

She looked back at Hugo.

Hugo swallowed hard. His eyes darted down to the menu sitting unopened in front of him, then back up to her face. "I... the..."

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