Read Chapter 13: Red Card

The season moved into November and Saint-Aurèle climbed to fourth.

Success made everything worse.

Crowds doubled. Vautrin gave interviews about “collective revival.” Orbe Loisirs installed new advertising boards. Local shops hung blue scarves. The team became proof of whatever people wanted to believe.

Then Rémi Vidal punched a man.

It happened away at Lodève, seventy minutes into a tense match. A pile formed after a tackle. Rémi stood, walked around two players, and struck the opposing scrum-half in the face.

Straight red.

Saint-Aurèle lost 28-20.

Marc watched the replay on the bus.

The punch was inexplicable.

He called Rémi into the office Monday.

“Why?”

“He insulted me.”

“What did he say?”

“Stuff.”

“What stuff?”

Rémi looked at the floor.

Marc's stomach sank.

“How much?”

Rémi's head snapped up.

“What?”

“How much were you paid?”

“I wasn't.”

Marc slid his phone across the desk. Claire had found betting activity on a red-card market—not official French operators, but offshore sites.

Large stakes had appeared less than an hour before kick-off on Saint-Aurèle receiving a card after halftime.

Rémi went pale.

“I didn't know about that.”

“Then explain.”

Rémi started crying.

He was twenty-six, a vineyard worker, newly divorced, usually the squad's loudest joker. Seeing him cry frightened Marc more than anger would have.

“They had videos,” he said.

“What videos?”

“Me. Cocaine. At a party in Montpellier.”

Marc sat back.

“Who?”

“Kovač's guy. Said they'd send it to my employer, my ex, the custody lawyer.”

“So you took a red.”

“He said make it obvious enough. I thought… one match. Suspension. Nobody hurt.”

“You broke a man's nose.”

“I know.”

“How long have they had you?”

“That was first time.”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

Marc believed him.

That did not help.

He called Jean and Lucas in.

For the first time, Lucas told another person part of the truth.

Jean sat frozen.

“How many?” he asked.

“We don't know,” Marc said.

Jean looked at Rémi. “You tell police.”

Rémi panicked. “No.”

“You tell them.”

“They'll investigate drugs. Custody—”

“They're blackmailing you!”

“And the judge will still see the video!”

Marc raised a hand.

“We need counsel.”

Jean laughed bitterly. “With what money?”

“I'll pay initial consultation.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Lucas looked at him. “You can't buy everyone out.”

“I'm not buying. I'm making sure nobody decides from panic.”

They found a sports-law attorney in Toulouse, Maître Sophie Lemaire. She listened to their story by secure video and said three things.

“Preserve everything.”

“Do not confront Kovač.”

“And stop thinking the club can manage this internally.”

Marc looked at Jean.

“When do we go to authorities?” he asked.

“When at least one victim is ready to give a formal statement. Preferably two. And when you understand the sporting consequences.”

“What consequences?”

“Investigation, provisional suspensions, possible forfeitures if results were manipulated. Depending on federation rules, the club could face sanctions even if officials were not involved.”

Jean closed his eyes.

There it was again.

Truth with a price tag.

That night, Marc addressed the team without naming Rémi's blackmail.

“Rémi is suspended by the federation and by me,” he said. “He made a serious mistake. He is also still one of us.”

A few players exchanged looks.

“We are going to learn the difference between protecting a teammate and protecting what he did. If you confuse those things, this club has no future.”

Yannis raised his head.

“What does that mean?”

“It means nobody lies for him. Nobody abandons him either.”

Lucas stared at Marc.

For the first time, the captain seemed to hear those words as applying to himself.

Rémi's red card created a second crisis Marc had not expected: the opposing scrum-half's father threatened civil action.

The injured player, Nicolas Reynaud, needed surgery for a fractured nose and missed work at his family's electrical business. Saint-Aurèle's insurance would cover medical claims, but the family wanted an apology.

Rémi refused to go.

“I can't look at him.”

“That is exactly why you're going.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“The truth that belongs to him. Not the investigation details.”

Marc drove Rémi to Lodève.

Nicolas met them at the electrical shop with bruising still purple beneath both eyes. His father stayed behind the counter, arms folded.

Rémi spoke badly.

“I was angry. I hit you. It was wrong.”

Nicolas waited.

Rémi swallowed.

“You didn't do anything that deserved it.”

“Why me?” Nicolas asked.

Rémi's eyes filled.

“I can't explain everything yet.”

“Convenient.”

“Yes.”

Nicolas looked at Marc. “You knew?”

“Not before.”

“Your player breaks my face and now you're managing the apology?”

Marc accepted the anger.

“I drove him. He has to do the rest.”

Rémi took an envelope from his pocket.

“I can pay your missed wages.”

Nicolas's father stepped forward. “Keep your money.”

Rémi flinched.

Nicolas held up a hand.

“No. If he owes, he pays. That's the point, isn't it?”

He took the envelope but did not open it.

“I don't forgive you,” he said.

“I know.”

“Maybe later.”

Rémi nodded.

On the drive home, he stared out the window.

“I thought apologizing was supposed to feel better.”

“Who told you that?”

“Movies.”

“Terrible coaching resource.”

Rémi almost smiled.

Marc said, “Apology isn't medicine for the person who did the harm.”

They drove through vineyards stripped bare for winter.

After a while Rémi said, “If the club throws me out, I understand.”

“It may.”

“If my employer fires me?”

“Could happen.”

“My ex uses this in custody?”

“She may.”

Rémi nodded slowly.

For months people around Saint-Aurèle had treated consequences as proof that truth was dangerous.

Marc was starting to see the reverse.

Consequences were also what made truth different from confession as performance.