Read Chapter 8: Without the Captain

Bédarieux arrived with a pack built like farm machinery and every intention of humiliating Saint-Aurèle.

Lucas sat in the stand beside his wife and two children, arms folded.

Marc named twenty-three-year-old hooker Baptiste Rey as captain. Baptiste responded by vomiting before warm-up.

“Leadership suits you,” Yannis told him.

“Shut up.”

The first half was brutal. Bédarieux scored twice from mauls. Saint-Aurèle's scrum retreated so fast at one point that Yannis caught the ball standing behind his own number eight.

At halftime they trailed 17-6.

Nobody spoke.

Marc entered last.

“Good,” he said.

Several players looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Good. Now we know exactly what happens when our plan fails.”

He drew three lines on the whiteboard.

“We stop contesting every maul. We sack the lifter before it forms. On our ball, no hero carries. Two passes minimum before contact. Make their big men move sideways.”

He looked at Yannis.

“You've spent your whole life wanting a game to belong to you. Here. Take it.”

Yannis swallowed.

The second half became the best rugby Saint-Aurèle had played in years.

Not elegant. Intelligent.

Yannis kicked behind Bédarieux's heavy wings. Léo chased. Baptiste stole a lineout. Reserve centre Mathieu Cazals, playing in Lucas's position, made twelve tackles and missed none.

With four minutes left, the score was 20-19 to Bédarieux.

Saint-Aurèle won a penalty forty-three metres out, near the right touchline.

Yannis looked at Marc.

Marc said nothing.

The young fly-half pointed at the posts.

The crowd rose.

Marc remembered the missed kick on the betting slip.

Yannis set the ball, took four steps back, two left.

The stadium went quiet enough to hear a dog bark outside the gate.

He struck it clean.

The ball curved inside the left post.

22-20.

Saint-Aurèle held on.

After the whistle, people flooded the rail. Children climbed onto shoulders. Baptiste cried openly and pretended it was sweat.

Marc looked toward the stand.

Lucas had not moved.

Their eyes met.

Then Lucas stood and left.

In the clubhouse, Jean found Marc.

“You've created a problem.”

“We won.”

“That is the problem.”

Marc laughed.

“Maret left at halftime,” Jean said. “Vautrin too.”

“Maybe they had dinner.”

“Don't be stupid.”

Marc's phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

YOU CHANGED THE SCRIPT.

A second message.

THAT COST PEOPLE MONEY.

Marc showed Jean.

The president's face drained.

“This isn't games now,” Jean whispered.

“It never was.”

Outside, the team sang the old club song. The melody came through the wall, imperfect and loud.

Marc typed a reply for the first time.

WHO ARE YOU?

The answer came almost immediately.

SOMEONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THAT CLUBS NEED MONEY.

Marc wrote:

AND PLAYERS?

A pause.

PLAYERS NEED MONEY TOO.

He saved screenshots and forwarded them to Claire.

Then another message arrived.

ASK LUCAS WHAT HIS HOUSE IS WORTH.

Marc walked outside.

Lucas was at the far end of the car park, alone beside his van.

“Lucas.”

The captain turned.

Marc held up the phone.

“We need to talk.”

Lucas saw the screen from several metres away.

His shoulders dropped.

For the first time since Marc had returned, he did not look angry.

He looked afraid.

Lucas did not agree to talk in the car park. He drove away and sent Marc an address twenty minutes later: the cemetery above town.

Marc found him beside the Vernet family grave, where his father and grandparents were buried under pale stone. The mistral moved cypress branches overhead.

“Dramatic,” Marc said.

“Only place my mother won't interrupt.”

Lucas lit a cigarette, then put it out without smoking.

“You got a message about my house.”

“Yes.”

“They know you're looking.”

“Who are they?”

Lucas stared at the grave.

“You think it's one group. It isn't. Maret lends. Kovač collects. Other people place bets. People in bars sell information. Some players just talk. Some take cash. Nobody holds meetings with a sign saying criminal conspiracy.”

“How do you know?”

Lucas said nothing.

Marc's pulse quickened.

“Did you manipulate Bédarieux?”

“No.”

“Today?”

“No.”

“Other matches?”

Lucas looked toward town. From the hill, Saint-Aurèle appeared almost prosperous: red roofs, church tower, stadium lights, vineyards beyond. Distance was flattering.

“My brother nearly killed himself three years ago,” Lucas said.

Marc went quiet.

“After the business failed?”

“Before we got the loan. He drank a bottle of whisky and sat in the van with a hose from the exhaust. I found him.”

Marc felt some of his anger change shape.

“Maret gave us money two weeks later.”

“And then?”

“Then there was always another favor.”

“Information?”

“At first.”

“Then margins.”

Lucas looked at him sharply.

Marc knew.

The captain's shoulders sagged.

“Not here,” Lucas said. “Not now.”

“When?”

“Monday. Workshop. Before employees arrive.”

Marc nodded.

Lucas started down the path, then turned.

“You won without me today.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It was not bitterness. It sounded like relief.

Marc remained among the graves after Lucas left.

His father's grave lay two rows away. He had not visited since returning.

He walked to it now.

HENRI DELMAS, 1954–2017.

BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND.

No mention of rugby.

Marc touched the stone.

“You'd have enjoyed being right,” he said.

The wind answered with leaves.

“Don't get smug.”

For the first time since coming home, he understood that saving the club might require refusing the kind of salvation his town had learned to depend on.