Read Chapter 22: The Understudy

The morning light was wrong. Too bright, too clean, as if the Mediterranean sun had decided to bleach the guilt right out of the air. Camille sat in her office with the blinds half-drawn, staring at the empty treatment table where Julien should have been lying, jaw tight, pretending he didn't need her.

The knock came at nine. Not Julien's knock — Julien didn't knock anymore. This one was timid, hesitant, two soft raps like a bird testing a window.

"Come in."

Lucas Moreau entered with a tablet clutched to his chest like a shield. He was twenty-six, earnest, with the kind of eager posture that hadn't yet learned what professional rugby did to a body. Or a soul.

"Coach Girard said I should check in with you," he said. "Before my first session with — " He stumbled over the name. "With Julien."

Camille forced her voice level. "Sit."

He sat. His eyes flicked to the empty table, then to the wall of files, then to her hands. She realized she was gripping the edge of her desk hard enough to whiten her knuckles. She let go.

"His left shoulder has limited external rotation," she said. "He compensates with his lumbar spine, which puts stress on the SI joint. The knee — right knee, patellar — was fine before the suspension layoff, but he's lost quad mass. He needs progressive loading, not explosive. If you push him into plyometrics too early, the patellar tendon will flare."

Lucas nodded, typing furiously into his tablet. "External rotation, SI joint, quad mass. Got it."

"There's more."

He looked up.

"His neck. C4 through C6. Plus the occipital region, where he took a blow in the match that killed his brother." She let the words hang. "He doesn't talk about it. But if you palpate too deep without warning, he'll flinch. Hard. Don't read it as aggression."

Lucas's typing slowed. "The brother who — "

"Yes."

The silence stretched. Camille could see the calculations behind Lucas's eyes. This wasn't the assignment he'd wanted. He'd been hoping for a simple wing or a prop with a hamstring strain. Not a haunted star with a documented history of head trauma and a headbutt that had gone viral in twelve languages.

"I'll be careful," he said.

"Be firmer than careful. He'll test you."

"Test me how?"

"He'll skip sessions. Arrive late. Claim he's fine when he's not. He's used to being handled by someone who knows his history. You'll get excuses instead of compliance. You need to call him on it."

Lucas looked at the tablet, then back at her. "You're not going to be in the room? At all?"

"The president made it clear. I'm off his case. Contract pending review." The words tasted like ash. "You're the understudy now."

Lucas was quiet for a moment. Then: "What did you see in him? That the rest of us don't."

Camille almost smiled. Almost. "Someone who's been carrying a weight he was never meant to carry alone. And he's exhausted. But he's not broken." She leaned forward. "Whatever he says to you — whatever mood he's in — don't stop showing up. That's the whole job. That's the entire job."

Lucas nodded slowly. Then he was gone, and Camille was alone with the empty table.

---

Julien didn't show for the first session. Or the second.

The third, he arrived forty minutes late, still in street clothes, smelling like the Marseille docks and two days of bad decisions.

"Traffic," he said.

Lucas stood by the treatment table, his carefully prepared notes already feeling useless. "It's Tuesday."

"Is it?" Julien shrugged off his jacket. "Time zones, you know. I was in Marseille."

"You were supposed to be here at nine."

"And I'm here now." Julien sat on the edge of the table, not meeting Lucas's eyes. "You're the new guy. Bright-eyed. I remember you from the academy. You were good on the breakdown."

"I'm here for your shoulder."

"My shoulder's fine."

"It's not fine." Lucas heard his own voice waver and hated it. "Camille's notes say — "

Julien's head snapped up. "Camille sent you notes?"

"She left protocol. Standard procedure when there's a change in — "

"Where is she?"

Lucas felt himself shrink. "She's been reassigned. The president felt it was best to — "

Julien laughed. It was a hollow sound, stripped of warmth. "Of course he did. Cover your tracks. Distance the brand." He stood, pacing the length of the room. "Do you know what it costs to be the face of a scandal? She was just doing her job. My job. The job no one else would do."

"Her contract — "

"I don't care about her contract." Julien stopped, facing the window. "I care that she's the only person who ever looked at me and saw more than a liability."

Lucas opened his mouth. Closed it. He was out of his depth; Camille had been right. He didn't know this man. He only knew the headlines.

"Your shoulder, Julien."

"Fine."

"It's not fine. I can tell from the way you're holding it."

Julien turned, a flicker of something — respect, maybe — crossing his face. "You've got eyes, at least." He walked to the table and sat, but his jaw was set. "Quick work. I have a media thing at noon."

"You're not cleared for contact."

"I'm not asking for contact. Just tape it and let me go."

Lucas stepped forward, latex gloves already on. He palpated the shoulder, felt the tension, the subtle guarding that had nothing to do with injury and everything to do with trust. He pressed deeper, expecting the flinch.

It came.

Julien sucked in a breath and yanked his arm away. "Easy."

"Sorry. I should have warned you."

"Camille always warned me." Julien's voice had dropped. "Before she touched my neck. She'd say the same thing every time. *Just breathe. I've got you.*" He looked at Lucas with something like accusation. "She told you that, didn't she. In her notes."

Lucas hesitated. "She told me you'd flinch."

"Did she tell you why?"

It wasn't in the notes. Lucas could see the space where that explanation should have been — an empty line, a deliberate omission. She'd given him the warning without the weight. The map without the haunted places.

"I'll figure it out," Lucas said.

"No. You won't." Julien stood, pulling his jacket back on. "Because I'm not coming back to this room. Not with you."

"Julien — "

"Tell the president I'm fine. Tell him I'm rehabbing privately. Tell him whatever you need to tell him." He was at the door now. "But I'm not doing this. Not here. Not like this."

The door closed behind him.

Lucas stood in the empty room, the tape still unrolled in his hand, the notes on the table a testament to everything he didn't know. He pulled out his phone and dialed the last number Camille had given him.

She picked up on the first ring. "What happened?"

"He left. He said he won't work with me. He wants you."

Camille was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful, controlled. "Did he say where he's going?"

"He doesn't trust me. He doesn't trust anyone. You were the only — " Lucas stopped. "What am I supposed to do?"

The line crackled with the distance between them.

"Keep showing up," she said. "That's the job. Show up whether he wants you there or not."

"And if he never comes back?"

"Then you show up anyway. Because that's what he needs, whether he knows it or not."

Lucas hung up. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in. He looked at his phone, at the notifications flooding in — another headline. Another leak. He opened the first one, and the words hit him like a shoulder to the chest:

**RUGBY STAR'S PHYSIO NOTES LEAKED: 'EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE' — CLUB IN DAMAGE CONTROL**

The timestamp was four minutes old.

Camille's private notes on Julien. Her observations about his mental state. Her professional honesty, weaponized against them both.

Lucas stared at the screen. He should call her back. He should tell her. But his thumb hovered over the dial button while something else crept up his spine — the same cold certainty that had been following him all morning. This wasn't an accident. Someone had been listening. Someone had been waiting.

And whoever they were, they were already inside.