The gravel of the park path crunched.

December in Paris was a bit dry, the sky pressing down over the bare trees. The air was sharp enough to burn the back of the throat if you breathed too fast, but neither of them was breathing fast. They were both professionals. A light recovery jog was nothing to their bodies.

Rose ran on his left. Her pink hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail that caught the dull afternoon light. She ran with her weight on the front foot, leaning into the momentum, her stride shorter and faster than Luc’s long, measured pacing.

"You didn’t look at the keeper," Rose said.

She didn’t pant. Her voice was perfectly level.

"For which one?" Luc asked, keeping his eyes on the path ahead.

"The third one. The chip that hit the crossbar. You activated the run, beat the center-back, and you didn’t even glance at the goal line before you chipped it."

"I knew where he was," Luc said. "He’s an aggressive keeper. He spent the whole match rushing off his line to narrow angles. If you know a man’s habit, you don’t need to look at him to know what he’s about to do."

Rose laughed. It was a warm, immediate sound that broke through the biting cold of the park. It wasn’t a polite laugh. But it was just genuine.

"God, you’re arrogant," she said, bumping her shoulder lightly against his arm without breaking stride. "But it was beautiful. Even our coach brought it up in the film room yesterday. Said you manipulated the pocket perfectly."

"We still lost," Luc said flatly.

"You lost 5-3 away at the hardest stadium in the country," Rose corrected. She didn’t offer pity. She was an athlete, she knew pity was an insult. "Our women’s team plays there. The atmosphere during our European fixtures there is something else. The architecture of the roof traps the sound and pushes it straight down onto the pitch. It’s designed to suffocate you. You didn’t suffocate, Luc. You scored."

"Fontaine scored three."

"Fontaine has played there for years, Luc. Trust me, he might even know which blades of grass are uneven." Rose glanced sideways at him, her eyes bright in the cold. "He’s three goals ahead. You have two matches left. Are you panicking?"

"Panic doesn’t score goals."

"Good." She smiled, facing forward again. "Because I’d hate to be jogging with a loser."

[System Notification]

[Observation: She is good for you]

[No objective assigned. Enjoy the park]

Luc exhaled, a white cloud of breath in the cold air. TES was right, as much as he hated to admit it.

He liked this. He actually just liked being here.

With Juliette, every conversation leaned to a tactical dissection of his body or his career, layered with intense, guarded intimacy. With Valérie, every interaction was a transaction, a high-stakes power play where he was an asset that needed to prove its return on investment.

Rose was just Rose. She didn’t own his contract. She wasn’t responsible for his hamstrings. She was just a girl with pink hair who understood the football and wasn’t afraid to leave her feelings sitting bare and unprotected.

"Zara told me she threw the note I left away," Luc said.

Rose groaned, her stride faltering for a fraction of a second before she caught the rhythm again. "Uhhh! I’m going to kill her. I swear to god, I’m going to slide tackle her in training tonight."

"She said she did it to protect you...her words."

"She did it because she’s a robot who thinks everything is a distraction," Rose muttered, her cheeks flushing a slightly darker shade of pink that had nothing to do with the winter wind. "I was so angry, I thought you’d atleast leave me with something. I tore my kitchen apart."

"And when she finally gave you the number?"

"I wanted to text you immediately." She looked at him, her expression dropping the playful frustration and settling into something direct and entirely honest. "But I waited. I didn’t want to get in your head before Parc des Royals. I know what that match meant to you."

Luc slowed the pace slightly as they approached the northern curve of the park, where the path sloped upward. Rose matched his deceleration seamlessly.

"You don’t get in my head," Luc said.

"What? Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"I--I’m glad you texted."

Rose smiled again, a satisfied one. "Me too."

They transitioned from a slow jog into a walk, the gravel crunching louder under the change of pace. The park was mostly empty, just a few dog walkers wrapped in heavy coats and the distant sound of traffic.

"I have to head to the complex soon," Rose said, checking a smartwatch on her wrist. "Evening session. Zara is probably already there, calculating the wind resistance of the training balls or whatever she does when she’s early."

"Don’t break her ankles," Luc said. "She gave me your birthday date. June third."

Rose stopped walking. She turned to fully face him, her eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Zara gave away personal data? Voluntarily?"

"I guess she was feeling bad."

Rose threw her head back and laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the bare trees. "That is the most Zara thing I have ever heard in my entire life. God, you two are terrifyingly similar."

She stepped closer. The distance between them vanished, the cold air suddenly displaced by the warmth of her proximity. She didn’t hesitate or overthink it this time. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him.

It wasn’t a tentative, polite hug. It was firm and displayed the extent of their relationship.

Luc’s hands found the back of her waist. He stood there for a moment, letting the quiet of the park and the easy, uncomplicated weight of her settle into him.

"I enjoyed the company, Luc Beaumont," she murmured against his jacket.

"Yeah," he said softly.

She pulled back, her eyes lingering on his for a second longer than was necessary, before she stepped away with a bright smile.

"Go catch him," she said, walking backward a few steps down the path toward the park exit. "Three goals. Two games. Don’t make me look stupid for backing you."

"Have I ever made you look stupid," Luc called back.

She waved once, turned, and jogged away, her pink ponytail bouncing against the dark fabric of her training jacket until she disappeared around the bend of the tree line.

Luc stood on the gravel path for a moment. The cold bit into his cheeks again now that the run was over.

His muscles felt loose. His head felt clear. The bitter taste of the 5-3 loss that had been sitting in the back of his throat since Saturday was almost gone... almost.

He turned and started the walk back to where he had parked the Porsche. The afternoon was fading away into evening, the streetlights flickering on across the city.

The quiet was over. Tomorrow was Wednesday.

His mind shifted gears.

Lyon B was waiting. The cup match, the tiki-taka-esque style system of play, the demand from Valérie to win the tie.