Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“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.