Read Chapter 21: The Viral Video

The phone buzzed against the café table like an angry insect. Camille ignored it at first—Julien’s confession still hung between them, raw and unfinished. But the buzzing wouldn’t stop. Then Julien’s phone started. Then the barista’s, somewhere behind the counter.

Julien looked down at his screen. The color drained from his face in a way Camille had never seen before—not even when he’d told her about Vincent.

“What is it?” she asked.

He turned the phone toward her. The video was already mid-play, sound off, but the images needed no audio. Julien’s head snapping forward. The prop’s nose exploding in a spray of red. The referee’s arm shooting up. And then, in the corner of the frame, Camille herself, pushing through the medical staff toward them, mouth open, caught on camera mid-shout, gesturing at the official.

The caption beneath read: *“La Rochelle star Julien Marchand attacks opponent—physio caught defending violent conduct.”*

“That’s not—” she started.

“I know what it looks like.” Julien’s voice was flat. He scrolled down. Comments loaded in a blur of French and English. *Thug. Disgrace. Ban him for life. And her—she knew. Look at her, defending him.*

“I wasn’t defending you. I was checking the other player.”

“Doesn’t matter what you were doing.” He set the phone down carefully, almost gently, like it was made of glass. “It matters what they see.”

His phone rang. He declined it. It rang again. He declined it again. The third time, he answered, face hardening as he listened. Camille watched his jaw tighten, watched the muscle jump beneath the stubble.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said. Then he hung up and stood, pulling euros from his wallet and dropping them on the table.

“Who was that?”

“Club lawyer. They want to discuss my ‘options.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “The president’s already made a statement. Apparently, I’m ‘deeply disappointed’ in myself and ‘cooperating fully’ with the disciplinary committee.”

“Julien, that’s not you saying that.”

“No. It’s them saying it for me.” He paused, looking down at her. The confession still hung between them—he’d finally spoken the words, and now there was a gentleness in his eyes she hadn’t seen before, even through the exhaustion. “You should stay here. In Marseille. Don’t come back to the club.”

“I have a job.”

“You had a job.” He said it softly, like he was telling her something he wished he didn’t know. “My lawyer said the video’s got seventy thousand shares. The comments are naming you. Calling you an accomplice.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes. It is.” He reached for his phone again, then stopped. “But ridiculous doesn’t matter anymore. You saw what happened with Vincent. When the story gets big enough, the truth just becomes a footnote nobody reads.”

He left before she could argue. Camille sat alone in the café, watching the video loop on her own phone. There she was, caught in profile, pointing at the referee, teeth bared. She remembered that moment—she’d been screaming that the other player needed medical attention, that Julien’s suspension was the least of the club’s problems. But the camera didn’t have context. The camera just had her face, angry, defending the man who’d just headbutted another player.

Her phone buzzed. The club president. She let it ring. When it went to voicemail, she listened to his clipped, formal voice requesting her presence at the club offices the following morning. “To address certain concerns,” he said. She deleted the message and stared at the video again.

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The drive back to Sète took four hours. She spent all of them rehearsing what she would say, but the president didn’t give her the chance to speak.

“You were seen on camera,” Dubois said from behind his desk. He was a thin man with a face like a fist, and he didn’t invite her to sit. “You were seen on camera defending a player who’d just committed an act of violence. On camera, Madame Roussel. In front of sponsors. In front of the league.”

“I was asking for medical attention for the injured player.”

“Doesn’t matter. Perception matters. Our sponsors have already called. Two of them have pulled their funding pending review.” He slid a tablet across the desk. A headline: *“La Rochelle Physio Complicit in Marchand’s Violence—Sources Say.”*

“This is fiction.”

“This is public relations. They don’t care about your intentions. They care about what they saw.” Dubois folded his arms. “You are to cease all contact with Julien Marchand effective immediately. You are removed from his rehabilitation program. Your duties will be limited to the junior squad until further notice.”

“You’re punishing me for standing on a pitch?”

“I’m protecting the club.” He looked at her then, and something almost like pity flickered in his eyes. “And if you keep associating with him, I’ll protect the club from you too. Permanently.”

Camille stood in the doorway, gripping the frame. Every instinct told her to fight, to explain, to make him see. But she’d learned something in the past weeks, watching Julien spiral and claw and confess. When the machine decided you were a liability, it didn’t matter how right you were.

“The junior squad,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Starting Monday. Julian’s new physio will be Lucas Moreau. He starts tomorrow.”

“Lucas? He’s been here four months. He doesn’t know Julien’s history, doesn’t know his body, doesn’t know—”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Dubois said. “He just needs to give him basic treatment and keep him from doing anything else embarrassing before his contract expires.”

The words hit her like a tackle. “His contract expires?”

“End of the season. Assuming the disciplinary committee doesn’t terminate it early.” Dubois turned back to his computer, dismissing her. “You should be grateful you’re still employed.”

Camille walked out of his office on wooden legs. The club hallway was empty, and she could hear the distant sound of training on the pitch below—the thud of boots, the shout of drills. Somewhere down there, Julien was probably thinking she’d abandoned him. She wanted to go find him, to explain.

But she’d just been told, in no uncertain terms, that doing so would cost her everything.

She made it to the parking lot before her phone buzzed again. A message from an unknown number. She almost deleted it, assuming more abuse. But she read it anyway.

*You think hiding behind the club keeps you safe? You carry his secrets. We know about the letter. Bring it to the bridge at midnight or the wrong story goes viral next.*

Camille stared at the words until her screen went dark. They knew about the letter. Vincent’s match that killed him. Julien’s confession—the one he’d never sent. The one she now held, folded in her bag, the paper worn thin from her rereading.

She looked at the club building behind her. At the junior pitch, where a young hooker was struggling with a training drill.

Then she unlocked her phone and typed a reply.

*I’ll be there.*