Read Chapter 13: The Mid-Season Meltdown

The floodlights turned the pitch white. The noise was a physical thing, a wall of sound that pressed in from all sides as Julien took the pass flat-footed, the Toulouse flanker already committed to the tackle. He saw the opening—a sliver of space between two jerseys—and drove into it, feeling the opposing lock's shoulder grind against his ribs before the whistle pierced the roar.

Penalty. Against him.

"Hands in the ruck, Roussel!" the referee shouted, jogging backward, arm already raised.

Julien stood slowly. The words reached him as if through water. He blinked, and for a half-second the face in front of him wasn't the Toulouse number seven with his stubble and sneer—it was Vincent. Same tilt of the head. Same mocking half-smile from their last training session, the one where his brother had whispered *too slow, little man* before dancing past him.

Then the number seven said something actual, and the image shattered.

"Should be off the pitch, old man," the flanker spat. "Cast and all."

Julien's fists curled. He could feel the weight of the temporary cast on his left arm, a constant reminder that he was playing at seventy percent, that the surgeon's words still echoed in his skull. *Full rupture. Surgery now, or never play again.*

He chose now. He always chose now.

"You want to say that again?" Julien stepped forward, and the flanker didn't retreat.

"Playing with one arm, blind as a—"

Julien's forehead connected with the man's nose before he finished the sentence. The cracking sound was sickeningly loud, even in the din of twenty thousand spectators. The flanker dropped like his strings were cut, hands flying to his face, blood already seeping between his fingers.

For one endless second, nothing moved. Then the Toulouse forwards arrived like a wave breaking on shore.

Camille watched from the sideline tunnel as the brawl exploded. Bodies piled together in a storm of twisting limbs and jersey pulls, the Toulouse bench emptying onto the pitch while her team's players tried to pull Julien away from the epicenter. He was still swinging. Still looking for the number seven's face, even as two of his own teammates grappled him backward.

The referee's whistle shrieked. Red card—the worst shade on the sport's palette. Julien stopped fighting, suddenly calm, and walked off the pitch alone. His expression was blank, emptied of everything that had been there a moment before.

The stadium booed. Camille's stomach turned over.

The final score came in five minutes later: 27–10. Toulouse. The team that had started the match as contenders left the pitch as a rout.

When Camille reached the dressing room, half the team was still on the pitch for the post-match handshakes. Only Julien sat before his locker, still in his strip, his own blood mixed with someone else's on his knuckles. He wasn't looking at anything. His gaze was fixed on some point on the far wall, and she saw his jaw working as he ground his teeth.

A knot of journalists stood outside the door, waiting, their cameras aimed like weapons. The club's press officer had already stationed herself in the corridor, arms spread, buying whatever time she could.

Camille closed the door behind her. The lock clicked.

"Don't," Julien said without turning.

"You just ended your season in front of four million viewers."

"I said don't." His voice was flat, dead.

She walked around him and stood in his line of sight, forcing him to see her. His eyes were bloodshot. Whether from the glare of the lights or something else, she couldn't tell.

"One more game," she said. "You needed to prove yourself for one more game, and the league will suspend you for at least two. Your shoulder is a ticking clock. You've lost those two matches before you even reach the board's decision."

"I know what I did." His voice cracked on the last word.

"Then why?" She let her own frustration bleed through. "Why would you throw everything away on a cheap shot in the first half?"

Julien stood up abruptly, sending his chair skittering backward against the tiled wall. For a moment, Camille braced herself—but he didn't move toward her. He just stood there, chest heaving.

"Because when I looked at him, I saw Vincent." The words came out like something torn from his throat. "Every tackle. Every contact. Every second I'm out there, I see his face, because Vincent used to hit me exactly like that, and I used to think—" He stopped, breathing hard.

"You used to think what?"

"That he was teaching me. That it was love." Julien's voice dropped to a whisper. "He was the only one who ever pushed me to be better, Camille. And he died thinking I hated him for it. And every time I take a hit now, I see him looking at me from the other side of the ruck, and I don't know if he's proud or if he's waiting for me to join him."

Camille's chest tightened. The anger drained out of her, replaced by something heavier.

"That's not him," she said softly. "That's grief wearing his face."

Julien shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It's all I've got left."

He sank back onto the bench, elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. The sob that escaped him was muffled by his palms, a rough, broken sound that filled the room and echoed off the empty lockers.

Camille stood motionless for a long moment. Then she crossed the room, sat down beside him, and put her hand on his back. His shoulders trembled. Outside, she could hear the reporters pressing closer, the muffled questions and the click of camera shutters against the glass.

"Do you want to see Vincent again?" she asked quietly.

Julien's head snapped up. His eyes were wet, red-rimmed.

"More than anything," he said.

Camille nodded slowly. "Then we need to get you through this season. Because that's the only way you'll ever believe you're worthy of living your own life, let alone remembering his."

She didn't say what she was thinking: that the same might be true for herself.

Julien stared at her for a long time, and when he finally looked away, she saw something in his face shift. Not relief. Not hope. But something that might, with work, become either.

Outside, the cameras kept flashing.