Read Chapter 21: Semifinal

The morning of the semifinal, Marc woke before dawn and walked to the stadium.

His father used to take him there early on match days, when dew silvered the grass and the stands were empty. Henri Delmas believed stadiums revealed themselves before crowds arrived.

“After people come,” he once told twelve-year-old Marc, “everyone thinks the noise is the club. It isn't. The club is who unlocks the gate.”

At six thirty, Thierry Masson was unlocking the gate.

Marc laughed.

“What?” Thierry asked.

“Nothing. My father was annoyingly right.”

“Frequently.”

“Did he know about Vautrin's arrangements?”

“Some.”

“Why didn't he expose them?”

Thierry looked at the empty stand.

“Because your father was not the statue you've built. He compromised too. He delayed taxes once. Paid a player cash. Let a sponsor's son start a youth final.”

Marc stared.

Thierry shrugged. “Good men are still men.”

Something in Marc loosened.

By kick-off, two thousand four hundred people packed the ground.

Gruissan scored first. Saint-Aurèle answered. The game became a contest of territory, nerve, and exhausted bodies.

At 65 minutes: 15-15.

Yannis took a high ball and was hit late. The referee awarded a penalty thirty-eight metres out.

“Posts!” Marc shouted.

Yannis looked at the wind.

Then pointed to touch.

Marc's rage lasted half a second.

He saw what Yannis saw: Gruissan had lost its tighthead prop to injury. Their replacement was struggling.

Marc nodded.

Yannis kicked to the corner.

Saint-Aurèle formed a maul. It moved one metre. Stopped. Moved again. Baptiste screamed from the middle. Eight men drove with the accumulated anger of a town that had spent too long being told survival required obedience.

Try.

20-15.

Gruissan came back with a penalty. 20-18.

Final minute.

Saint-Aurèle had the ball near halfway. Marc expected Yannis to kick long.

Instead the ten called a move they had practiced only twice.

Dummy pod. Inside pass. Léo through the seam.

He ran fifty metres and scored beneath the posts.

27-18.

Final.

The crowd invaded the pitch.

Marc was lifted despite protesting about his knee. Someone kissed his forehead. Someone else stole his cap.

Through the chaos, he saw Lucas standing behind the barrier.

Suspended players were not permitted inside the technical area.

Marc pushed through the crowd.

Lucas smiled.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Come here.”

“I can't.”

“Barrier isn't prison.”

Lucas stayed where he was.

“It's their night,” he said.

Marc understood.

He reached across and squeezed Lucas's shoulder.

“Next week is the final.”

“I know.”

“You coming?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

As Marc turned away, Lucas said, “Kovač's lawyer offered me a deal.”

Marc stopped.

“What kind?”

“Change part of my statement. Say he never threatened my house. Say arrangements were voluntary.”

“In exchange?”

“Debt erased. Civil claim withdrawn.”

Marc felt the old anger ignite.

“What did you say?”

Lucas looked toward the celebrating players.

“I said I already voted.”