Read Chapter 4: Sunday Points

The first league match was away at Pézenas-Bastide, a town with a better wine cooperative and a worse scrum.

Saint-Aurèle arrived in two minibuses and six cars because one of the club coaches had failed its inspection. Thirty supporters followed. By kick-off, there were nearly seventy, most clustered behind a blue flag large enough to cover a small house.

Marc had forgotten how intimate amateur rugby could be. At professional grounds, noise became weather. Here, every voice belonged to someone. A mother shouted advice to her son. A retired prop insulted the referee by first name. Children climbed the railings.

Saint-Aurèle started badly.

Pézenas scored from a rolling maul in the sixth minute. Yannis kicked two penalties, missed a third, then tried a cross-field kick from inside his own twenty-two that nearly gave Marc a cardiac event.

At halftime: 10-9.

In the dressing room, Marc said only three things.

“Stop solving every problem alone.”

He looked at Yannis.

“Stop waiting for permission to lead.”

He looked at Lucas.

“And if anyone gives away another penalty after the whistle, he walks home.”

They won 23-16.

The final try came from an ugly sequence Marc loved: a stolen lineout, three short carries, Lucas cleaning out two defenders, Yannis taking the ball flat and sending winger Léo Garnier through a gap barely wider than his shoulders.

Afterward, the squad sang in the changing room until the concrete shook.

Marc stood outside with Jean, drinking bad coffee from a plastic cup.

“One win,” Jean said. “Town will start planning the promotion parade.”

“Tell them to wait until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?”

“Video session.”

Jean groaned. “You really did become a coach.”

As the players loaded the minibuses, Marc noticed Lucas speaking to a man near the car park gate.

The man wore a navy polo shirt and mirrored sunglasses though the sun was low. Mid-forties. Thick wrists. He handed Lucas something small.

Lucas put it in his pocket.

Marc started toward them.

The man saw him first.

He smiled.

Not a friendly smile. Acknowledgment.

Then he walked to a silver Mercedes and drove away.

“Who was that?” Marc asked.

Lucas kept moving.

“Friend.”

“Name?”

“Since when do coaches approve my friends?”

“Since your friend looks like he collects debts.”

Lucas stopped.

“Be careful, Marc.”

“Of him?”

“Of thinking you understand everything because you've watched a few videos.”

“What did he give you?”

Lucas's jaw tightened.

“A key.”

“To what?”

“My business.”

He climbed into the minibus.

Marc stood there as the engine started.

His phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

A photograph appeared on the screen. It showed the scoreboard from that day's match: 23-16.

Below it, a message.

NICE START. SEVEN POINTS EXACTLY.

Marc stared at it.

The winning margin was seven.

He had not known any betting market existed on the match.

The second message arrived before he could respond.

DON'T CONFUSE COINCIDENCE WITH CONTROL.

Then a third.

OR CONTROL WITH COINCIDENCE.

On the drive home, Marc sat in the passenger seat beside Jean and watched vineyards unspool in the dark.

“Does anyone bet on our league?” he asked.

Jean laughed once. “People bet on two flies climbing a wall if the odds are posted.”

“Officially?”

“Some operators take regional rugby. Mostly small markets. Why?”

Marc showed him the messages.

Jean stopped smiling.

“You told anyone?”

“Claire.”

“Jesus.”

“She was already looking.”

“Marc, listen to me. If this is idiots trying to scare you, don't feed it. If it's not idiots—”

“What?”

Jean rubbed his forehead.

“If it's not idiots, then before you kick the door open, find out who's standing behind it.”

They drove another kilometre.

“Do you know?” Marc asked.

Jean looked out at the road.

“I know we were forty thousand euros from disappearing three years ago.”

“And?”

“And somebody made sure we didn't.”

“Who?”

Jean did not answer.

Marc understood anyway.

Not a name.

A structure.

Monday's video review began with the winning try and ended with the anonymous text.

Marc projected neither the message nor the betting data. He wanted first to see the game as a coach, not an investigator. He paused clips until the players groaned.

“Here,” he said, freezing Yannis with the ball in two hands. “What do you see?”

“Gap outside.”

“What else?”

“Fullback deep.”

“What else?”

Yannis leaned forward. “Lucas has fixed the guard.”

“Good. Why?”

“Because he carries hard.”

“Because he has spent sixty minutes carrying hard. The pass works because something boring happened fifteen times first.”

Marc let the sequence play. Lucas cleaned two defenders; Léo scored.

“Highlights are interest,” Marc said. “Boring work is capital.”

From the back, Baptiste whispered, “Coach has been reading finance books.”

“Coach hears hookers whisper at twenty metres.”

The room laughed.

Then Marc showed the last ten minutes. Pézenas had a penalty chance at sixteen all. Their captain chose touch, failed to score, and Saint-Aurèle countered. An ordinary tactical error.

Marc paused.

“How many of you knew betting markets existed on the margin?”

Four hands rose uncertainly.

“Who bets?”

Nobody moved.

“I am not asking because I'm police. I need to know what the culture is.”

A reserve prop admitted putting five euros on Top 14 accumulators. Another played fantasy pools. Someone joked that betting on their own scrum should be considered self-harm.

Marc smiled, then stopped.

“Do not bet on any competition connected to us. Do not pass inside information. If somebody offers money for a lineup, an injury, a referee rumor—tell me.”

Lucas's gaze stayed on the screen.

“You expecting that?” he asked.

“I am expecting people to notice information is valuable.”

“Sounds paranoid.”

“Paranoia is believing everyone is against you. Risk management is noticing when someone sends you the final margin before you ask.”

The laughter died.

Marc had revealed more than he intended.

After the meeting, Lucas waited until the room emptied.

“You got a message?”

“Yes.”

“Delete it.”

“Why?”

“Because idiots send things. You answer, you make yourself part of it.”

Marc watched him.

“That advice from experience?”

Lucas's face hardened.

“From living here.”

He walked out.

Marc returned to the frozen frame on the screen. Lucas was captured mid-cleanout, head down, body between the ball and two opponents. A perfect act of service.

It was difficult to reconcile that player with suspicion.

Marc was beginning to learn that contradiction was not evidence of innocence.