Read Chapter 9: The Hidden Pain

The locker room smelled of liniment and stale sweat. Camille had waited until the last trainer left, until the showers ran empty, until Julien sat alone on the wooden bench with his kit bag still packed at his feet.

“Take off the shirt.”

He didn’t look up. “I’m tired, Camille.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s late. I have a meeting with my mother tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll want your shoulder looked at before you go.” She crossed her arms. “Take it off, or I’ll take it off for you.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement, maybe, or irritation. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, wincing as he pulled the fabric over his left shoulder. The joint sat wrong. Slightly forward, slightly swollen, the deltoid concave where it should have been full.

Camille stepped closer. She didn’t touch him yet.

“Rotate it.”

He did, barely moving.

“More.”

He tried again. The motion was jerky, halting, like a puppet with cut strings.

“Stop.” She knelt in front of him, looking at the joint from the side. “That’s not a strain, Julien. That’s not even a sprain. That’s structural.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You winced when you lifted your water bottle during the third quarter.”

“You watch me that closely?”

“I watch everyone that closely. It’s my job.” She straightened. “I need to scan it. Tonight. I have access to the imaging suite.”

“No.”

“Julien—”

“I said no.” His voice sharpened, cutting through the humid air. He stood, and suddenly the space between them felt smaller than it had a moment ago. “You scan it, you put it in the system, and Delacroix benches me for the rest of the season. You don’t understand what that means.”

“Then tell me what it means.”

“It means everything I’ve worked for. Every sacrifice. Every—” He stopped, jaw tight.

“Every lie?” she finished quietly.

He turned away from her, pacing the narrow space between the benches. His shoulder moved wrong with every step, and she could see him compensating, holding his left arm slightly away from his body like it might shatter.

“I’ve been playing with this since October,” he said finally. “The rotation against Perpignan. I felt something go. I taped it, played through it. It got worse. I ignored it. It got worse again.”

“That was five months ago.”

“I know how long it’s been.”

“And you’ve been hiding it from the medical staff the entire time.”

“From everyone.” He stopped pacing and faced her. “My teammates need me on the pitch. My coach needs me winning. The club needs me healthy enough to sell tickets. If they saw the scans, they’d see what I already know.”

“Which is?”

He laughed, hollow and bitter. “That I’m done.”

The word hung between them. Camille felt it land in her chest, heavy and familiar. She’d heard it before, in different voices, different contexts. From her mother when she spoke about her father’s final illness. From her own mouth when she’d packed her Paris apartment into boxes.

She moved closer to him. “Let me look at it properly. No scans. No records. Just me.”

He hesitated, then nodded once.

She stepped behind him, hands gentle on his shoulder. The joint was hot beneath her fingers, swollen to the point of distortion. She palpated the rotator cuff area and felt the gap. The tendon she was looking for wasn’t where it should be.

“Julien.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “When you say it went in October…”

“It popped. I heard it.” He swallowed. “I told them I landed wrong. They iced it and sent me back out.”

“You finished that match?”

“I scored two tries.”

“On a torn tendon?”

He said nothing.

She moved around to face him again. “Which tendon?”

“The supraspinatus. I had a private doctor in Marseille confirm it in December.”

“And he didn’t tell anyone?”

“He told me. I paid him not to tell anyone else.”

Camille pressed her fingers to her temples. “So you’ve been playing on a completely torn supraspinatus for five months. That’s not brave. That’s reckless. That’s—” She searched for the word. “That’s self-destructive.”

“It’s survival.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“For me it is.” His voice cracked. “You don’t understand what it means to lose this. You don’t understand what I have to prove.”

“My brother drowned,” she said quietly. “He was twenty-nine. A good swimmer. Strong. He went out in rough water to help someone and never came back. I understand loss, Julien. I understand what it means to have something taken from you that you can’t get back.”

He looked at her, something shifting in his expression. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” She stepped closer. “You think I’m here to take rugby from you. You think if you tell the truth, I’ll use it against you. But I’m not your enemy, Julien. I’m the person who can fix you.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to fix. The private doctor said even with surgery, I’d lose twenty percent of my range. I’d never play at this level again.”

“Then you’re already choosing not to play at this level again. You’re just doing it slowly. Painfully. Taking hits that could break other things. Compensating in ways that will destroy your elbow, your neck, your spine.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” The words came out before she could stop them.

He stared at her. The distance between them shrank to nothing. She could smell his sweat, the soap from his shower, something underneath that was just him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’ve watched you lie to everyone who cares about you. And I’ve watched you lie to yourself. And I know what that does to a person. I know what it costs.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know your mother is Élise Roussel. I know my mother is Élise Roussel. I know you have a letter from Vincent that you never read, and I know I have it now. I know you’re not just hiding an injury—you’re hiding everything.”

He stepped forward. She didn’t step back.

“Give me the letter,” he said.

“No.”

“Camille.”

“No.” She held his gaze. “You want it? Then you tell Delacroix about your shoulder. You sit out the next match. You let the surgeon do his job. And then we talk about what’s in that letter.”

His eyes went dark. He moved so fast she didn’t see it coming—one hand on her shoulder, shoving her back against the lockers. The metal rang with the impact. Her head cracked against the frame.

He froze. His hand dropped. He stepped back like he’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Camille, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” Her voice was steady, though her heart hammered. She touched the back of her head. No blood. “I know you didn’t.”

He sank onto the bench, head in his hands. His shoulders shook. She couldn’t tell if he was crying or just trying to hold himself together.

She sat beside him. Not touching. Just there.

“I tore it in October,” he said quietly. “And I’ve been playing through it because I don’t know who I am without rugby. I don’t know what I have left. My brother’s dead. My mother won’t speak to me most days. This is all I have, Camille. This is the only thing I’m good at.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

She reached out and took his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“I’ll help you,” she said. “I’ll find the best surgeon in Europe. I’ll build you a recovery plan that puts you back on the pitch, even if it takes a year. But you have to be honest with me. Completely honest. From now on.”

He looked at her. His eyes were wet.

“What about the letter?”

“We’ll deal with that when you’re ready.” She squeezed his hand. “But first, we deal with the truth.”

He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”