Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

A lice

A week went by. I knew I should be trying to figure out how to get a student visa that didn’t depend on the mercies of the Selecta Scholarship program, but instead I plunged as deeply into my coursework as I could, and to the exclusion of almost all else, including food and sleep.

Except that I also followed the news about Paris Saint Germain, and Lucas Moreau, obsessively. I found myself constantly refreshing sports news websites, my eyes scanning for any mention of Lucas. The rumors about his potential transfer to a Japanese club swirled, growing more insistent with each passing day. I devoured every article, every speculative social media post, searching for some hidden insight into his state of mind.

One evening, as I huddled over my laptop in my tiny apartment, I came across a photo that made my heart skip a beat. Lucas, leaving practice, his chiseled features set in a grim expression. His eyes seemed to stare right through the camera, filled with an intensity that made my breath catch. I zoomed in, studying every pixel, searching for some sign of how he was coping with our separation.

That’s a rather grandiose way to think of it, n’est-ce pas ? I chided myself, but it felt that way to me.

Yes, I’d been with the most famous footballer in the world for only a few days, but in my mind we had, well, been together . I blushed, thinking about everything that being together had meant, when it came to Lucas and me.

Was that a new line around his eyes? Did the set of his jaw betray tension, stress? I shook my head, disgusted with myself. What did it matter? I had ended things. I had no right to care about his emotional state.

Yet I couldn’t stop myself from poring over every scrap of information. The upcoming match against Lyon loomed large in the football world, and questions about Lucas’ conditioning dominated the sports pages. Pundits debated whether the transfer rumors were affecting his performance, dissecting every minute of his recent games and even his practices.

I read their analyses with a mixture of fascination and frustration. None of them knew Lucas like I did. None of them understood the complexity of the man behind the footballer. I wanted to scream at the screen, to tell them they were all missing the point—the point was…

The point was me . The point should be me. Such a stupid thing to think, but I couldn’t help it.

As I scrolled through yet another article speculating about Lucas’ future, a realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The paparazzi seemed to have forgotten about me entirely. There were no more grainy photos of us together, no breathless speculation about the mysterious student who had captured the heart of Paris’ most eligible bachelor. It was as if I had never existed in Lucas’ world at all.

The hurt that washed over me at this realization was both unexpected and overwhelming. I found myself staring at my reflection in the darkened computer screen, searching for some trace of the woman who had been deemed worthy of Lucas Moreau’s attention. Had I imagined it all? The intensity of his gaze, the possessive touch of his hands, the way he had made me feel simultaneously cherished and owned?

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, wincing as they caught on knots. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, a testament to too many late nights spent obsessing over football news and neglecting my studies. My skin looked pale and drawn in the harsh glow of the computer screen.

With a frustrated groan, I slammed the laptop shut and flopped back onto my too-big bed. The luxurious linens, provided for the comfort of my wealthy sponsors, only reminded me of Lucas, of the brutal, degrading, but overwhelmingly pleasurable way he had fucked me here. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the memories of how it felt to be wrapped in his arms, cocooned in silk and warmth and the intoxicating scent of his skin.

Even the seminar room didn’t really provide a respite. Louise Montreuil had of course noticed that I hadn’t made the news recently. As I tried to focus on Professor Durand’s lecture about fifteenth-century peasant revolts, I felt her eyes on me. Her gaze seemed to burn into the side of my face, a mixture of curiosity and something else I couldn’t quite identify. When la pause came, I braced myself for the inevitable conversation.

“So,” Louise said, sliding into the seat next to me. “I see you’ve come to your senses about Lucas Moreau.”

I looked up from my notes, my heart skipping a beat at the mention of his name. Louise’s dark eyes studied me intently, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“I’m glad you ended things with him,” she continued, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I was worried he might have gotten his hooks into you too deeply.”

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. Part of me wanted to defend Lucas, to tell Louise she didn’t know him like I did. But another part preened under her approval, grateful for the validation from this brilliant, fiercely independent woman I couldn’t help admiring.

“It wasn’t… It wasn’t quite like that,” I mumbled, fiddling with my pen.

Louise raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell.”

I struggled to find the right words, my mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts and emotions. “It’s complicated,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Lucas isn’t… he’s not what everyone thinks he is.”

Louise leaned in closer, her dark eyes gleaming with interest. “Oh? Definitely do tell,” she urged, her voice low and conspiratorial.

I bit my lip, desperately trying to articulate the complexity of my feelings for Lucas without revealing too much. “He’s… he’s not just some mindless jock,” I began hesitantly. “He’s intelligent in his own way, and he can be surprisingly gentle and considerate.”

Even as the words left my mouth, I felt a pang of guilt. Was I betraying Lucas by discussing him like this? Or was I betraying my own principles by defending him?

Louise’s eyebrow arched skeptically. “Gentle and considerate? The man who thinks women should be subservient to their husbands?”

I flinched at her words, remembering the article that had caused me so much turmoil. “It’s not that simple,” I protested weakly. “He has traditional values, yes, but he’s not… he doesn’t want to oppress women.”

As I spoke, I felt a familiar warmth blooming in my core. My body seemed to come alive at the mere thought of Lucas, yearning for his touch, his dominance. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, acutely aware of my body in a way I had tried to keep at bay since that last night with Lucas.

Thankfully another student distracted Louise at that moment, so I was left to do my best to quiet the tension in my body. I thought I had succeeded too; I was actually thinking about the outline for my seminar paper when I saw the poster about the discount student tickets for Paris Saint Germain matches.

I couldn’t have said exactly what really made me scan the code on the poster, or what made me buy the ticket. I told myself it was only fair to Lucas that he should get back some of his money, but even as I formed the thought I knew it made no sense at all.

The match was the next night, ten days after Lucas had taken my anal virginity and I had broken up with him. As I entered the Parc des Princes, I found myself swept along with the sea of excited fans flooding into the gate. The energy in the air was electric, a palpable buzz of anticipation that set my nerves on edge. As I made my way to my seat, I couldn’t help but feel like an imposter. What was I doing here, pretending to be just another supporter when my connection to Lucas ran so much deeper?

My seat was high up in the stands, offering a panoramic view of the pitch below. The pristine green turf seemed to glow under the bright stadium lights, a stark contrast to the sea of blue and red jerseys filling the seats around me. The smell of beer and tobacco wafted through the air, mingling with the sharp scent of excitement and nervous sweat.

As the teams took the field for warm-ups, my eyes were instantly drawn to Lucas. Even from this distance, I could see the fluid grace of his movements as he jogged and stretched. His trademark intensity was evident in every motion, his focus laser-sharp as he prepared for the match. I felt my heart rate quicken, my palms growing damp with nervous sweat.

The fans around me chattered excitedly, their voices rising and falling in animated waves of conversation. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop, desperate for any morsel of information about Lucas.

“Did you hear about the offer from Yokohama?” a young man in a PSG jersey asked his friend.

I leaned in slightly, straining to hear more of their conversation over the roar of the crowd.

“Yeah, apparently it’s a massive offer,” his friend replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “But I heard Lucas is hesitating. Some say he’s considering retirement instead.”

My heart clenched painfully at the words. Retirement? I had known Lucas had reached the late stages of his career, but the word was that he would play forever. The thought of him leaving football seemed impossible, like the sun deciding to stop shining.

“No way,” another fan chimed in, her voice incredulous. “Lucas Moreau, retire? He lives and breathes football. He’ll play until he can’t walk.”

“Well,” the first man lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I read online that he’s been distracted lately. Some say he had his heart broken by that mystery girl from a few weeks back.”

Heat flooded my cheeks as I realized they were talking about me. I slouched down in my seat, irrationally afraid they might somehow recognize me.

“Oh, please,” a woman in front of us scoffed. “Lucas Moreau, heartbroken? That man goes through women like tissues. I’m sure he’s already moved on to his next conquest.”

Her words stung more than I cared to admit. Was that all I had been to Lucas? Just another in a long line of disposable women? I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. I knew better. I had seen a side of him I felt certain no one else had.

As the match began, I found myself utterly captivated by Lucas’ performance. From the moment he took the field, it was clear he was playing with a ferocious intensity I had never seen before. His movements were fluid and precise, each pass perfectly placed, each run timed to perfection.

Lucas seemed to be everywhere at once, orchestrating the PSG attack with masterful skill. When he received the ball, time seemed to slow down. He danced around defenders as if they were standing still, his footwork so intricate and beautiful it was like watching a ballet. The crowd gasped and cheered with each deft touch, each clever feint.

In the thirty-seventh minute, Lucas received the ball just outside the penalty area. With a burst of speed, he cut inside, leaving two Lyon defenders stumbling in his wake. The goalkeeper rushed out to close down the angle, but Lucas remained calm. With exquisite technique, he chipped the ball over the keeper’s outstretched arms. Time seemed to stand still as the ball hung in the air, before nestling perfectly in the top corner of the net.

The stadium erupted in jubilant celebration. All around me, fans leapt to their feet, screaming Lucas’ name. But I remained frozen in my seat, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. As Lucas wheeled away in celebration, pumping his fist and roaring with triumph, I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

As the final whistle blew, sealing PSG’s three-to-one victory over Lyon, I found myself swept up in the tide of jubilant fans exiting the stadium. The crisp night air hit my flushed cheeks as I emerged onto the crowded street, my mind still reeling from the intensity of the match and Lucas’ breathtaking performance.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice the man approaching me until he was right at my side. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd. “You’re Alice Morgan, aren’t you?”

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. How did he know my name? I turned to face him, taking in his eager expression and the expensive camera hanging around his neck. A paparazzo. I should have known.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, already backing away. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

But the photographer’s eyes lit up, confirming that he’d found his target. “No, no, I’m certain it’s you,” he insisted, falling into step beside me. “Listen, I have a message from Lucas Moreau. He wants to see you.”

My breath caught in my throat. Lucas wanted to see me? Despite my better judgment, I felt a flutter of hope in my chest. “He… he does?”

The photographer nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, he asked me to bring you to the post-game press conference.”

My heart raced as I followed the photographer through the crowded streets surrounding the stadium. The roar of jubilant fans faded to a distant hum as we made our way to a more secluded area. I knew I should turn back, that nothing good could come from this encounter. But the pull of possibly seeing Lucas again was too strong to resist.

We reached a nondescript side entrance, guarded by a burly security officer. The photographer flashed his press credentials, gesturing for me to follow. As we stepped into the fluorescent-lit hallway, I felt a sense of unreality wash over me. How had I ended up here, in the bowels of the Parc des Princes, about to face the man who had turned my world upside down?

The press conference room was a hive of activity. Journalists jostled for position, their voices a cacophony of different languages as they prepared their questions. Camera flashes popped intermittently, creating a strobe-like effect that left me feeling disoriented. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation.

The photographer guided me to a spot near the front, his hand on my elbow steering me through the crowd. I felt exposed, vulnerable, acutely aware of the curious glances thrown my way. My simple jeans and sweater felt woefully inadequate in this sea of sharp suits and press badges.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. My breath caught in my throat as Lucas strode in, flanked by the club manager and another teammate.

As Lucas took his seat at the table, his eyes scanned the room. For a brief moment, our gazes locked. I saw a flicker of surprise cross his face, quickly masked by his usual composed expression. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone in the room must hear it.

The press conference began, with journalists peppering Lucas and his teammates with questions about the match. Lucas answered with his trademark poise, his deep voice carrying easily through the room. I found myself mesmerized by the way his lips moved as he spoke, memories of those lips on my skin sending shivers down my spine.

Suddenly, the photographer who had brought me here raised his hand. “Lucas,” he called out, his voice cutting through the din. “Your performance tonight was particularly impressive. Some might say you played like a man with something to prove. Perhaps to a certain someone?”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Lucas. I felt the blood drain from my face as I realized what was happening. The photographer wasn’t done, however. He gestured toward me, drawing everyone’s attention. “I couldn’t help but notice that Alice Morgan is here tonight. Care to comment on her presence and how it might have affected your game?”

A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd as journalists turned to look at me. Camera flashes exploded in my face, momentarily blinding me. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger. How could I have been so stupid as to fall for this trap?

Lucas’ expression remained impassive. “I’m afraid Mademoiselle Morgan and I have parted ways,” he said, with a little smile that gave nothing away. “Next question.”

His eyes returned to me for just a moment, and the look in them made my blood run cold. It took me a heart-pounding, tummy-dropping moment to figure out why. Lucas’ face didn’t say, “I don’t want to see you here again,” which was what I had felt sure he would think once he had realized the trick the photographer had played.

No: Lucas’ eyes’ private message to me—I felt absolutely sure, though I also knew no one else in the room could understand it—said, “You have serious consequences coming, you naughty little whore.”