Read Chapter 17: The Rematch

The stadium roar hit Camille like a wave as she climbed the final steps to her seat in the corporate box. Below, the pitch glowed electric green under the floodlights, and the Stade Montpellier crowd had turned the stands into a seething sea of red and white. The rematch. Three weeks of waiting, two matches of suspension, and here they were again—same opponent, same ref, same everything except the scoreboard that showed Montpellier down 12-3.

She settled into her seat beside Moreau, who pressed two fingers to his temple and stared at the pitch without blinking.

"He's warmed up well," Moreau said, not looking at her. "Didn't touch anyone. Didn't even speak to anyone."

"That's good."

"It's unnatural."

Camille almost smiled. She'd watched Julien in the tunnel before the match, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the opposite team with the focus of a predator who had learned patience. No shouting. No chest-puffing. He'd caught her gaze for half a second and nodded once, then turned away.

The whistle blew. Montpellier took possession, spreading the ball wide, and Camille gripped the armrest when Julien shot forward into the defensive line. He hit the first tackler low, wrapped, drove him back. Released the ball. Recycled. Slotted into position.

Clean. Controlled. Legal.

"His timing's off," Moreau muttered. "He's hesitating."

Camille watched Julien's feet shuffle, saw the micro-second of calculation before each hit. He wasn't hesitating. He was thinking. Every tackle a decision, not a reaction. She'd never seen him play like this before—like a surgeon instead of a hammer.

At the 28th minute, their fly-half chipped a ball over the defensive line. Julien read it before anyone else, surged forward, caught it on the bounce at full sprint. The crowd rose. Three defenders closed in, but Julien feinted inside, stepped outside, and dove for the corner. The try line. He grounded the ball and rolled over, chest heaving.

Camille was on her feet before she knew it, palms stinging from clapping. Moreau stood beside her, shouting something she couldn't hear over the explosion of noise.

"Conversion's good," Moreau shouted in her ear. "We're level."

Julien got up, jogged back to position, and didn't celebrate. Didn't raise his fist. Didn't even smile. He just wiped his mouth, reset his scrum cap, and returned to the line like it was any other Tuesday.

"You must have done something to him," Moreau said, glancing at her sideways. "That's not the same animal we sent off three weeks ago."

Camille didn't answer. She watched Julien for the rest of the first half, and she felt something she hadn't expected—a strange, swelling pride that had nothing to do with his athletic ability. He was fighting his demons on his own terms now, on the pitch where they visited him most.

The second half was brutal. The opposition, stung by the try, came back hard. Two Montpellier players went down—one with a shoulder injury, one clutching his ankle. Camille watched the medical staff sprint out with the stretcher, and her fingers found the edge of her seat again.

Julien took a knock in the 67th minute. A high tackle caught him on the chin, sent him staggering backward. The ref's whistle blew. Penalty. Camille watched Julien shake his head at the ref, wave off the free kick like he was saying he was fine, he hadn't felt it.

But she saw the wince he hid a second later.

"Time," she whispered to herself. "Just get him through to full time."

Montpellier scored a second try in the 74th minute off a lineout drive, and suddenly the scoreline read 19-15. Fifteen minutes left. Julien kept running, kept hitting, kept making tackles. She lost count of how many times he brought down an opposition forward twice his size.

The final whistle came at 78 minutes when the opposition knocked on inside Montpellier's half. The ball died. The ref blew.

Montpellier had won.

Camille let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Below, the players collapsed to their knees, arms lifted. Julien walked to the center of the pitch, hands on his hips, and looked around the stadium. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths.

She noticed he didn't smile. But his shoulders weren't hunched anymore.

The on-pitch interviewer caught him before he could reach the tunnel, shoving a microphone under his chin. Camille leaned forward, heart hammering with a strange, protective instinct.

"How do you feel, Julien? After everything—the suspension, the controversy—how does this win feel?"

Julien looked at the interviewer. His hair was slick with sweat, a thin line of blood crusted under his nose from a knock she hadn't seen. He turned to the camera and spoke slowly, carefully, like every word mattered.

"This win isn't for me. It's for the man who taught me everything. For him. Wherever he is." He paused. "I hope I made him proud today."

He walked off before the interviewer could ask a follow-up.

Camille's blood chilled. The man who taught me everything. Press would say his father. The story would be clean, respectful, a tribute to family. But Camille knew exactly who he meant. Vincent.

Moreau turned to her, his forehead creased. "His father? I thought they didn't speak."

"It's not his father," Camille said before she could stop herself.

Moreau's eyes narrowed. "Then who?"

Camille forced a shrug, turned away from his probing gaze. "I don't know. I assumed—I don't know."

She made her way down to the players' tunnel, navigating the crowd of journalists who swarmed past her toward the press room. She found Julien in the changing room corridor, his kit bag over his shoulder, fresh shirt replacing the mud-caked jersey. He'd already showered. His hair was damp and pushed back.

"You did good," she said.

He looked at her. There was something raw in his face, something loose and unguarded. "It felt different tonight."

"Different how?"

"The noise. It was quieter." He shook his head. "I mean—he wasn't there. Not in every tackle. Not in every hit. I just got to play." He ducked his head, embarrassed by his own admission.

Camille stepped closer. "The press is going to ask about what you said. About the man who taught you everything."

"I know."

"They're going to say it was your father."

Julien's jaw tightened. He looked at the floor, and for a moment, his composure cracked—a flash of the same terror she'd seen in the dressing room weeks ago. "I know what they'll say. But I can't lie about it, Camille. I couldn't stand up there and let them think I meant him when I didn't."

"Then tell them the truth."

"I can't. Vincent's family—his mother still calls mine to check on me. They never blamed me." His voice dropped. "If I tell the whole world that he was the one, I'd be taking his name and dragging it into this mess I made."

Outside the tunnel, a chant started up. Montpellier. Montpellier.

Julien slung his bag higher on his shoulder. "Tomorrow, your mother arrives in Montpellier."

"Don't remind me."

"Are you going to see her?"

"I don't know." He looked at her, and something in his face shifted. "But I'm not the same man I was when she last saw me. That I do know."

Camille opened her mouth to tell him about the brick. About Paul Rey's warning. About the syndicate. But the moment passed when a club staffer rounded the corner and called Julien's name, waving him toward the press room for his mandatory interview.

He squeezed her arm—a brief, warm touch. "I'll come by later. If that's still okay."

"It's still okay."

He walked away, and Camille stood in the tunnel, watching the lights of the empty pitch glow beyond the exit. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished it out. A message from an unknown number.

*He looked proud tonight. A shame about his brother though. We should talk before Friday.*

Camille's stomach dropped. Friday. She had three days left.

Three days, and a secret that threatened to swallow them both.