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

The bell above the glass door of Le Petit Chêne chimed a second time that evening.

The sound was sharp, cutting easily through the local chatter and the clinking of heavy silverware against ceramic plates.

Zara glanced up from her half-empty bowl of pasta. "Finally. I thought the traffic had swallowed her whole."

Luc turned his head toward the entrance.

Rose Montgomery stepped into the warm amber light of the bistro. The bitter chill followed her inside for a brief second before the door shut. She shrugged off a thick, grey trench coat, shaking a few rogue droplets of dew from the fabric. Beneath the coat, she wore a simple black turtleneck and tailored trousers, almost the same fit as Zara...maybe from joint shopping.

It was remarkably understated compared to the aggressive, high-fashion armor she had worn at the GQ photoshoot, yet she still managed to look out of place in the working-class environment of the restaurant. She possessed a natural, undeniable gravity that forced eyes to linger.

She spotted Zara immediately. Her sharp features broke into an apologetic smile as she navigated the narrow aisles.

"Zara. I am so sorry," Rose said, stopping at the edge of the table. "My agent cornered me after training. The commercial department is losing their minds over the upcoming media obligations. I practically had to threaten to terminate my contract just to get in my car and drive away."

Zara waved a hand dismissively, scooting an inch toward the wall, though the space was already cramped with her brother occupying the opposite side. "Sit. Don’t worry about it. Bachra has been entertaining me with heavily embellished stories of his own footballing genius while we waited."

Bachra leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tablecloth. "Babe, It’s not embellishment if there’s video broadcast evidence. I broke a man’s ankles on Thursday."

"I’ve told you not to call her that." Zara scolded.

Rose let out a melodic laugh. "I saw the highlights, Bachra. The media also conveniently edits the bad parts out for the highlight reels."

Bachra scowled, sinking back into the upholstery and crossing his arms. "Nobody respects flair anymore."

Rose looked at the seating arrangement.

Zara and Bachra were occupying the four-person booth, but their winter coats and Zara’s large tote bag took up the remaining space on the leather seats. Directly behind, Luc and Hugo were seated at a small, square table designed strictly for two. Hugo was backed against Bachra, staring intently at the salt shaker, while Luc occupied the aisle-end seat opposite Hugo.

"I’ll just grab the small table behind you," Rose said, pointing to an empty two-seater tucked slightly closer to the wooden bar area. "I don’t want to squeeze in and knock your drinks over. I have a terrible habit of spilling things when I’m cramped."

Before Zara could clear her bag or insist, Luc pushed his chair back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor.

"Take my seat," Luc offered, standing up and grabbing his coffee mug by the handle. "I’ll take the empty one. Or even better, Bachra take my seat, let her sit there."

Rose raised an eyebrow, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and gratefulness. "A gentleman. I didn’t think strikers knew how to be accommodating off the pitch."

"Only when the situation doesn’t require me to score goals," Luc replied evenly. He stepped out, gesturing to the chair he had just vacated opposite the seventeen-year-old playmaker. "Besides, Hugo could use the company. He’s currently having lady troubles."

Hugo shot Luc a glare that possessed enough venom to kill a small animal, but the teenager didn’t utter a word. His ears were still a faint shade of pink from his disastrous interaction with the waitress a few minutes prior.

Rose didn’t argue. She slipped into Luc’s vacated chair, setting her trench coat over the backrest. "Thank you."

Luc moved to the empty table just two feet away, sitting down facing the bar. The new position gave him a clear view of both Rose and Hugo, as well as Bachra and Zara in the adjacent booth. It also gave him a direct line of sight to the swinging kitchen doors.

Luc settled into the rigid wooden chair, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic of his coffee mug. He took a slow sip. The bitter, dark roast grounded him. He watched Rose settle in.

She immediately engaged Zara in a quiet conversation about the nightmare of the upcoming Champions League week, complaining about the volume of road closures near the stadiums.

Their voices were the loudest in the room.

Bachra, unable to handle not being the center of attention for more than three minutes, interjected with a complaint about his followers forcing him to wear a neon colorway that horribly clashed with the Valois home kit.

Luc tuned the noise out. He let his gaze drift toward the bar, where Marcel was vigorously polishing a wine glass with a white towel.

The simplicity of Le Petit Chêne was doing its job.

"You look less like you want to murder someone today."

Luc shifted his attention. Rose had leaned back in a chair beside him, turning her head to look at him. Zara was currently lecturing Bachra in a low, stern voice about financial investments and saving his signing bonus, leaving Rose temporarily free to chat.

"I got some sleep," Luc said simply.

"I can tell," Rose noted, her eyes tracking the relaxed posture of his shoulders beneath his cloth. "Did Valérie send you the customary threatening text message disguised as a congratulation? Concerning the GQ cover."

"This morning," Luc confirmed, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "She told me she expects fewer excuses. Then she reminded me the legacy we’re building doesn’t rest."

Rose let out a chuckle, shaking her head. "Classic Laurent. She sent a similar email to my agent regarding my alternate cover. Apparently, we broke quarterly sales records across the country. The media department is popping champagne in their heated offices, and meanwhile, we’re the ones out on the grass."

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