Read Chapter 7: Margin

Saint-Aurèle won its second match by twelve and lost its third by three.

The loss bothered Marc less than the way it happened.

Against Union Salanque, they led 18-10 with fourteen minutes remaining. Then Lucas gave away a penalty for holding a player on the ground. Two minutes later, flanker Rémi Vidal was yellow-carded for entering a maul from the side. Salanque kicked to the corner, scored, and added another penalty at the death.

21-18.

In the dressing room, Marc waited until everyone sat.

“Lucas,” he said. “Why did you hold him?”

The captain unlaced his boots. “He was slowing the ball.”

“We had possession.”

Lucas looked up.

Marc continued. “Their player was on the ground. Our nine had the ball. You walked three metres to grab a man who wasn't involved.”

“So?”

“So it made no rugby sense.”

The room changed.

Players stopped looking at Marc and started looking at Lucas.

Lucas stood. “You accusing me of something?”

“I'm asking a question.”

“In front of everyone.”

“You did it in front of everyone.”

Yannis shifted on the bench.

Lucas crossed the room until he stood close enough for Marc to smell grass and blood.

“You think because your name was on television you're smarter than us?”

“No.”

“You think we waited six years for you to come back and explain rugby?”

“No.”

“Then what do you think?”

Marc held his gaze.

“I think you made a decision no captain should make, and I want to know why.”

Lucas shoved him.

Not hard enough to injure. Hard enough to declare something.

Two forwards rose.

Marc did not move.

“You're dropped next week,” he said.

Lucas laughed in disbelief.

“You can't be serious.”

“Thursday. You train. Sunday, you watch.”

Jean, standing near the door, said, “Marc—”

“No.”

Lucas kicked a bench. “You have any idea what this team looks like without me?”

“We'll find out.”

Lucas tore off his jersey and left.

The bus ride home was silent.

At midnight Marc received another anonymous message.

BAD LOSS. GOOD NUMBER.

He called Claire.

“Check the margin market.”

“I already did.”

“How?”

“I have alerts now.”

“And?”

“Salanque by one to five. Heavy movement an hour before kick-off.”

“How heavy?”

“For a match like this? Enough that one operator suspended the market.”

Marc sat on the edge of his bed.

“Lucas's roofing company,” he said. “Can you check it?”

“Public filings, yes.”

“Debt?”

“I'll look.”

The next morning, Jean arrived at Marc's house at seven without calling.

“You can't drop Lucas.”

“I already did.”

“We play Bédarieux.”

“I know.”

“Our scrum will be destroyed.”

“Lucas is a centre.”

“He organizes defense.”

“Then someone else learns.”

Jean paced across the kitchen. “There are things you don't understand.”

“Everyone keeps saying that instead of explaining them.”

Jean slammed a palm on the table. “Fine. Lucas's company owes Maret ninety thousand euros.”

Marc went still.

“Why?”

“Three years ago, his brother bought equipment and expanded. Then construction collapsed. Bank refused refinancing. Maret lent them money.”

“Personally?”

“Through a company.”

“And you knew.”

“I knew the loan existed. I didn't know—”

“Didn't know what? That a bookmaker lending ninety thousand to a player might be a problem?”

“Maret isn't a bookmaker. He owns licensed betting shops.”

Marc laughed without humor.

“That's the sentence you chose?”

Jean looked old suddenly.

“I've spent thirty years asking people for money for this club. Do you know what donors want? Their logo on a shirt. A table at dinner. Their nephew selected. Their company hired. Their ego washed. You tell yourself you can manage it.”

“And can you?”

Jean did not answer.

Marc opened the front door.

“Lucas stays dropped.”

“If he walks?”

“Then he walks.”

“If three sponsors walk with him?”

“Then we find out what the club costs without them.”

Jean stopped at the threshold.

“And if the answer is extinction?”

Marc looked toward the old photograph on the wall: his father in a Saint-Aurèle jersey, 1987, mud to his eyebrows.

“Then at least we'll know what died.”