Chapter 216: [216] "Morning jog after an injury hits different"

The sweet, sweet crunch of rubber soles striking ground echoed through the expanse of the park.

Wednesday morning. March 20.

The air hanging over the city was sharp and carrying a lingering chill. The trees lining the wide pedestrian path were still bare, their dark branches cutting lines against a pale, overcast sky.

Luc Beaumont maintained a steady pace. He wasn’t doing the high-intensity interval bursts that usually defined his midweek conditioning sessions. He was simply jogging, keeping his heart rate operating low and his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

His entire focus was directed internally, routed specifically to his right knee.

It has been 3 days since Nantaise. It has been ten days since Belleville, the fixture that caused his injury. Ten days since Khalil had launched a pair of studs into his tibial tuberosity. He had served his mandatory five days of zero impact, confined to sofas, subjected to the ruthless compression machine and Juliette’s unrelenting medical oversight.

He had survived the agonizing spike of pain that had flared when Valérie Laurent had celebrated the equalizer in the executive suite, an accident that had thankfully caused no regression.

Now, he was testing the limits of the recovery.

He planted his right foot against the ground, transferring his full body weight through the joint as he pushed off for the next stride.

Nothing.

No sharp sting. No dull throb. No lingering heat radiating from the bone. The grade-two contusion had officially subsided, the deep tissue bruising fading into a yellowish shadow beneath the skin of his shin.

Luc exhaled, white breath pluming in the cold air. The relief settling in his chest was immense. Being sidelined for Matchday 26 against Olympique Nantaise had been psychological torture. Sitting behind glass, watching his midfield run themselves into physical exhaustion, had tested his patience.

They had dropped points at home. A 1-1 draw against a team fighting relegation.

The title race had violently contracted as a direct result. Stade Phocéen had secured maximum points over the weekend, and more importantly, Fresko had scored a brace. The Phocéen striker was currently sitting at twenty-nine league goals.

Luc was at thirty.

The four-goal cushion he had literally bled to build had been slashed to a single strike. Olivier Fontaine was hovering at twenty-six goals for Paris Royal, lurking in the peripheral vision of the Golden Boot race, ready to capitalize on any further slip-ups.

Luc adjusted the zipper of his black windbreaker, pulling it up to his chin. He needed to be cleared by the medical department in earnest. SC Valois was traveling to face FC Côte d’Azur on Sunday for Matchday 27. It was an away fixture against a highly organized squad that now operated a traditional, wide 4-4-2 system.

Côte d’Azur didn’t bother with intricate passing through the center. They relied on funneling the ball to their wingers and whipping heavy, early crosses into the penalty area. It was the exact profile that would brutally expose a backup goalkeeper who refused to command his box. If Pinto stayed glued to his goal line against Côte d’Azur, Valois would be dismantled in the air under the heavy pressure of two strikers.

Luc had to be on the pitch. He had to lead the line, occupy their center-backs, and operate as the physical anchor to relieve the pressure on his own defense.

He rounded a wide curve in the gravel path, breaking out of the dense treeline into a massive grassy clearing in the center of the park.

He expected the area to be empty, maybe except for a few dedicated morning commuters or dog walkers braving the cold. Instead, a rhythm of upbeat 1980s pop music cut through the quiet morning air.

Luc slowed his jogging pace slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion.

In the center of the clearing, positioned on a flat patch of grass, stood a group of approximately fifteen elderly women. They were dressed in an aggressive assortment of pastel tracksuits, thick woolen headbands, and heavy running sneakers. They were arranged in three slightly uneven rows, currently engaged in a synchronized routine.

Standing at the very front of the formation, facing the group and enthusiastically shouting instructions over the tinny bass of a portable Bluetooth speaker, was Rose.

She was wearing a bright neon pink windbreaker and black leggings. She was executing high knees with relentless levels of morning energy, clapping her hands to the beat of the music.

"Knees up, ladies! Drive through the core! We are fighting gravity today, gravity is not fighting us!" Rose shouted, her voice echoing across the almost empty park.

Standing three feet to her left was Zara.

The contrast was staggering. Zara was dressed entirely in black, wearing an oversized hoodie with the hood pulled up over her head, burying half her face in the dark fabric. She looked incredibly cold, profoundly exhausted, and radiated a level of deep regret.

She was mirroring Rose’s high knees, but her feet were barely leaving the grass. She looked like she was praying for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

Luc brought his jog to a halt. He stood on the edge of the path, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched the spectacle unfold for a full minute, a highly entertained smirk breaking across his face.

Rose executed a sharp pivot, demonstrating a step-touch movement for the front row of women. As she turned, her eyes scanned the clearing. She spotted the towering, six-foot-plus frame of the SC Valois captain standing on the path.

Rose didn’t stop moving. She simply pointed a finger at him, a massive grin lighting up her face.

"Look who decided to join the real athletes!" Rose yelled over the pop music, waving him over with her free hand. "Come on! Don’t be shy!"

Zara stopped her half-hearted high knees instantly. She turned her head, pushing the hood back just enough to verify that Luc was actually standing there. When she saw him, her shoulders slumped even further. She let out a heavy sigh.