Read Chapter 24: The Risk Factor

The stadium's medical suite smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee. Dr. Faure's hands were folded on the desk between them, his face the color of the gray Marseille sky pressing against the window. Camille stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching Julien's profile as he stared at the MRI scans pinned to the lightboard.

"The cartilage is gone," Faure said. "The bone-on-bone contact alone would end most careers. But with the instability in the lateral ligaments, the meniscal remnant—" He paused, tapping a pen against the folder. "I can give you a fifty-fifty chance with surgery. Reconstruct the ligament, clean out the joint, hope the bone holds. Six months minimum. Full recovery? Maybe. Or maybe you're walking with a limp at forty."

Julien's jaw tightened. "And the other option?"

"Do nothing surgical. Conservative rehab. Strengthen the supporting muscles, modify your training load, manage the pain." Faure's eyes met Camille's briefly, and she read the apology there. "But you'd need a full season off. At your age, with your history? If I'm being honest, Julien, you might never play at the top level again. Either path."

The words hung in the room like a guillotine blade.

Julien turned from the scans. His face was unreadable, that mask he wore when the world demanded he be the monster or the martyr. "Those are the choices? Roll the dice or walk away?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

"Doc—" Julien's voice cracked, just slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You're telling me I've already played my last final."

Faure didn't answer. He didn't have to.

The door to the conference room opened before Camille could speak. Delacroix filled the frame, his suit tailored, his face flushed from the three flights of stairs he'd taken to avoid the press waiting in the lobby. Behind him, Vincent shadowed—the club president, not the brother, though the resemblance in professional menace was unmistakable.

"We need a decision," Delacroix said, walking past Camille like she was furniture. "The board meeting is in two hours. The finals are in three weeks. The club needs to know what we're fielding."

Julien's hands were shaking. Camille saw it—the tremor he'd been fighting since the scans came back. She stepped forward, placing herself between Delacroix and Julien. "He just received the diagnosis. He needs time to process—"

"Time is a luxury we don't have," Delacroix cut her off. "The semifinal is in ten days. Sponsors are pulling out by the hour since that video went viral. The league is threatening sanctions. We need him on that pitch, or we need his replacement signed before the transfer window closes."

"He can't play," Camille said flatly. "Did you hear what Dr. Faure just said? He could permanently disable himself—"

"Then it's a good thing he's under our medical care, isn't it?" Delacroix's eyes finally registered her presence, and they were cold. "You're not part of this conversation, Mademoiselle Roussel. You're not even part of this club, pending the investigation."

The words hit her like a slap. Julien turned, something flickering behind his eyes. "She's my physio—"

"She's off your case. Effective immediately." Delacroix pulled a folded document from his jacket and tossed it onto the table. "Lucas has been briefed. He'll oversee your rehab if you choose the conservative route. Or—" He paused, letting the weight of the room settle. "You can play."

"Play," Julien repeated, his voice hollow.

"Play. We manage the pain. We tape it, we brace it, we inject it. You get through the finals—four matches, maybe five if we're lucky—and then you take your season off, you have your surgery, and we rebuild you for next year."

"That's not how it works," Camille said, her voice rising despite herself. "You're asking him to destroy his knee for a trophy."

Delacroix finally looked at her fully. There was no anger in his face, only a tired, predatory patience. "I'm asking him to honor his contract. He signed for the season. He's been paid for the season. The club is in the championship finals because of him. And if he walks away now—" He shrugged. "He walks away from everything. His salary. His bonus. His reputation. The comeback story becomes the coward story."

Julien's fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not a coward."

"Then prove it. On the pitch. Sunday."

"You'll kill him." Camille's voice was barely a whisper.

Delacroix turned to her, and the room seemed to contract. "You know, I find it interesting that you're so concerned about his health, given the mess you've created. The leaked notes—"

"I didn't leak anything."

"The public doesn't know that. The board doesn't know that. And you know what I've heard?" Delacroix stepped closer, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. "I've heard your degree from Lyon might not be exactly what it appears. That you left Paris under circumstances that don't exactly bear close scrutiny."

Camille felt the blood drain from her face. Her mouth opened, but no words came.

"You're in no position to make demands," Delacroix continued, straightening. "You're in no position to do anything except fade into the background and hope the investigation clears you. Which it won't, if I have anything to say about it."

Julien moved. He stepped between them, his body blocking Delacroix's view of her. "She stays."

"She's gone."

"Then I'm gone."

The silence that followed was absolute. Faure had retreated to the corner of the room, staring at his shoes. Vincent stood by the door, his phone out, probably recording everything for the board.

Delacroix laughed. It was a short, ugly sound. "You think you have leverage, Julien? You think you have options?" He pulled out his phone, swiped, and held it up. On the screen, a video played—Julien's headbutt, looping endlessly, the contact point frozen mid-frame. "This is your legacy right now. This video. Thousands of shares. The federation is deciding tonight whether to suspend you for the finals. You're poison, Julien. The only thing that saves you, the only thing that saves this club, is if you're on that pitch winning. If you're not—" He pocketed the phone. "You're a liability we can't afford. We'll cut you. Void your contract on the character clause. You'll leave with nothing."

Julien stared at him. The mask cracked, just slightly. Behind it, Camille saw something she'd never seen before—fear.

"You have until tomorrow morning," Delacroix said, walking toward the door. "Play the finals and we'll figure out the rest later. Or don't, and I'll make sure you never play professional rugby again in any capacity. Your choice." He paused at the threshold, glancing back at Camille. "And you. You're on borrowed time. Don't test it."

He was gone. The door clicked shut. Faure muttered something about reviewing the imaging and slipped out, leaving them alone.

Julien didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, his shoulders trembling, his hands still fists at his sides.

Camille stepped forward, reaching for him. "Julien—"

"Don't." His voice was raw. "Don't tell me it's going to be okay. It's not. You heard him." He turned to face her, and for the first time since she'd known him, his eyes were wet. "I either gamble my leg for a chance to keep playing, or I walk away with nothing. And you—" His voice broke. "You're in this mess because of me. Because I couldn't control myself. Because I thought I could outrun my father's game."

He laughed, bitter and broken. "The syndicate. The debt. My brother's ghost. My mother's shame. And now this." He gestured at the empty room. "This is what I built. This is who I am."

"Julien." She took his hand. He didn't pull away.

He looked at her, and something shifted in his expression—uncertainty, suspicion, the residue of the leaked notes still festering between them. "Can you fix me, Camille? Really? Or are you just telling me what I want to hear?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but the words wouldn't come. Because she didn't know if she was lying to him or to herself.