Read Chapter 2: A Town in Blue

On Saturday morning, Saint-Aurèle's market filled the square with olives, goat cheese, cheap shirts, peaches, knives, and gossip. Marc went because his mother had told him the refrigerator in his childhood home contained “mustard, two eggs, and a tragedy.”

He had barely reached the vegetable stall when people began stopping him.

Madame Coste, who had taught him history, kissed both cheeks and told him the team had lacked discipline since “that fool from Narbonne.” The butcher offered him free merguez if the forwards learned to tackle. A retired railwayman grabbed his elbow and said the town needed one good season more than it needed a new pharmacy.

At Café du Pont, men had already arranged chairs beneath the awning. The club crest was painted above the door. Marc noticed three televisions inside: one showing a replay of Toulouse, one horse racing, one a scrolling odds screen.

“You're studying the competition?” a woman asked.

She sat alone with an espresso and a notebook. Claire Roussel had changed less than Marc expected. Her hair was shorter; the sharpness in her face was not. They had been in the same class until sixteen. She had left for journalism school, worked in Marseille, then returned three years ago to edit the weekly Gazette de l'Orbe after her father's stroke.

“I heard you were back,” Marc said.

“Everyone heard you were back. Vautrin has put your face on public property.”

“Can I sue?”

“You could. He'd hold a press conference about supporting local employment.”

Marc sat.

Claire closed her notebook. “How long?”

“One season.”

“That's what people say when they don't want to admit they have nowhere else to be.”

He gave her a look.

She raised both hands. “Journalist. Occupational defect.”

Marc ordered coffee.

“Do you cover the club?” he asked.

“I cover everything because the Gazette has one and a half reporters. The half is an intern from Perpignan who believes council meetings are a violation of human rights.”

“Last season. Vallon-des-Corbières.”

Her expression changed, not dramatically, but enough.

“What about it?”

“Do you remember the game?”

“Of course. We nearly gave it away.”

“Who missed the last penalty?”

Claire watched him. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“You were never curious. You were suspicious.”

“Who?”

“Étienne Fabre. Fullback. Retired in June.”

“Good kicker?”

“Eighty percent from his side of the field.”

“And the miss?”

“Twenty-two metres. Almost in front.”

Marc said nothing.

Claire leaned back. “What have you found?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you've found something.”

Before he could answer, a black Peugeot stopped beside the café. Mayor Alain Vautrin climbed out wearing no jacket despite the heat. He was fifty-eight, silver-haired, compact, and perfectly aware of who was watching him.

He crossed the pavement with both hands extended.

“Marc! Our prodigal son.”

“I thought that one wasted his inheritance.”

“Details. Details.” Vautrin embraced him for the benefit of the terrace. “Your father would be proud.”

Marc's father had died nine years earlier of pancreatic cancer. He had also spent his final decade calling Vautrin “a salesman with a town hall.”

“I'm sure he'd have an opinion,” Marc said.

Vautrin laughed loudly.

“We must talk,” he said. “The club is central to our renewal plan. Sport, tourism, regional visibility. We have investors interested.”

“Jean said the budget was tight.”

“Budgets are always tight before elections. Afterwards, suddenly everyone discovers mathematics.”

Claire looked down to hide a smile.

Vautrin noticed her. “Madame Roussel.”

“Monsieur le Maire.”

“You'll give our coach some peace, I hope.”

“I've never been accused of that.”

His smile thinned by one degree.

He turned back to Marc. “Dinner Monday. Town hall. Eight. We'll discuss what Saint-Aurèle can do for the club, and what the club can do for Saint-Aurèle.”

“I coach rugby.”

“Exactly.” Vautrin squeezed his shoulder. “And in this town, rugby is never only rugby.”

When he had gone, Marc stared at his coffee.

Claire reopened her notebook.

“Don't,” he said.

“I haven't asked anything.”

“You're about to.”

“Fine. Then I'll tell you something instead.” She lowered her voice. “Three months ago, I started looking into sports betting linked to amateur rugby. Not big markets. Small stakes multiplied through dozens of accounts. Winning margin, first-half score, cards, total points. Things nobody outside these towns would think mattered.”

Marc felt the folded betting slip in his pocket.

“Why?”

“Because a bartender in Agde showed me a Telegram group where people were paying for ‘regional information.’ Injury lists, referee tendencies, lineup changes. Then someone started posting predictions that were too exact.”

“How exact?”

“Not who wins. How.”

Marc looked into the café. The odds screen changed every few seconds.

“Saint-Aurèle?”

Claire's eyes stayed on him.

“I found six matches in two seasons that looked strange.”

“Looked strange isn't evidence.”

“No. But patterns are where evidence starts.”

From inside the café came a cheer at a horse race.

Marc thought of the envelope.

“Who owns this place?”

“Officially? Gérard Maret.”

“Unofficially?”

Claire shut the notebook again.

“Welcome home, Marc.”

Marc did not go straight home. He crossed the square and walked toward the river, where the Orbe moved low between exposed stones. As a teenager he had come there after losses, convinced defeat altered the physical world. The water had always disappointed him by continuing downstream.

A group of boys in Saint-Aurèle jerseys were throwing a ball near the embankment. One recognized him and asked whether the team would be promoted.

“We have played one match,” Marc said.

“So?”

“So promotion generally requires more.”

The boy considered this as evidence of poor ambition. “My father says Vautrin will buy players in January.”

“Your father says too much.”

“He says the mayor saved the club.”

Marc handed back the ball. “Ask him who saved it before the mayor.”

“Who?”

“People who washed shirts. Drove buses. Sold raffle tickets. All the boring people.”

The boys lost interest immediately and resumed passing.

At home, Marc opened the cupboard where his mother had stored his father's papers after the funeral. Receipts, insurance documents, old federation licenses, match programs. At the bottom lay three treasurer's notebooks from the late 1990s and early 2000s.

The entries were handwritten in Henri's square script. Gate receipts. Bar income. Referee expenses. Sponsor checks. Beside some names he had added blunt private comments.

MARTIN GARAGE — LATE AGAIN.

COOPÉRATIVE — GOOD FOR 10K IF YOUTH TEAM INCLUDED.

VAUTRIN — WANTS PHOTO, GIVE PHOTO, NOT TEAM SHEET.

Marc smiled despite himself.

Farther on, a line from 2003 stopped him.

NEVER LET ONE MAN PAY FOR THE CLUB. THEN HE THINKS HE BOUGHT IT.

There was no prophecy in it, only practical suspicion. Yet Marc read the sentence three times.

His phone buzzed. Claire had sent a photograph from the Gazette archive: Étienne Fabre lining up the missed penalty against Vallon. In the background, almost blurred, Gérard Maret stood behind the barrier beside Serge Kovač.

Claire added one message.

COINCIDENCE, OBVIOUSLY.

Marc typed back:

YOU'RE ENJOYING THIS TOO MUCH.

Her reply came at once.

NO. I ENJOY BEING RIGHT TOO MUCH. DIFFERENT VICE.

Marc put down the phone and looked again at his father's notebook.

The club had always needed money. The danger had never been money itself.

It was the moment gratitude became obedience.