The Clairefontaine training facility looked exactly as Ethan remembered from his youth days. Same pristine pitches. Same modern buildings with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest. Same sense of history hanging in the air—this was where French football's greatest players had prepared for their biggest moments.
But Ethan wasn't a teenager anymore. He wasn't even the promising young player from the 2018 World Cup or the heartbroken runner-up from 2022.
He was twenty-five years old, four-time Champions League winner, two-time Ballon d'Or holder, and the captain of Barcelona.
And he'd just arrived for France's Euro 2024 training camp, where he'd have to share a locker room with his best friend turned bitter rival.
The parking lot was already full when Ethan pulled up in his black Mercedes G-Wagon at 2:37 PM on June 3rd. He recognized several cars: Griezmann's BMW, Dembélé's Range Rover, Kanté's modest Volkswagen (the most humble superstar in football), and—his stomach tightened—Mbappé's bright red Ferrari.
"You ready for this?" Sofia asked from the passenger seat. She'd driven up from Paris with him, wanting to see him settled before heading back for a work assignment.
"No," Ethan admitted. "But I don't have a choice."
"You could be mature about it."
"I am being mature. I haven't said anything publicly about the transfer."
"You liked three tweets criticizing Real Madrid yesterday."
"That's just good social media engagement."
Sofia rolled her eyes but smiled. "Just... try not to let this consume you. You're teammates for France. Save the rivalry for when you're wearing club colors."
She was right. Of course she was right. But that didn't make walking into Clairefontaine any easier.
The lobby of the main building was controlled chaos. Players arriving. Staff checking them in. Camera crews filming B-roll for French television's Euro 2024 documentary. Didier Deschamps stood in the center of it all, somehow appearing calm despite coordinating the arrival of twenty-six millionaire footballers with egos the size of small countries.
"Ethan!" Deschamps called out when he spotted him. "Good to see you. Conference room in thirty minutes. Team meeting."
"Got it, boss."
"And Ethan?" Deschamps lowered his voice. "Whatever happened with Mbappé and Real Madrid—I need you to put it aside. We have a tournament to win. Can you do that?"
"Of course."
"Good. Because if I sense any tension in this squad, I'm benching both of you. I don't care if you've won ten Champions Leagues between you. Team unity comes first."
The message was clear. Ethan nodded and headed toward the player accommodations.
His room was on the second floor, number 214. Clean. Spartan. A single bed, a desk, a small bathroom. This wasn't a luxury hotel—this was a professional training facility designed for focus and preparation.
He was unpacking his suitcase when someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," he called out.
The door opened and Kylian Mbappé walked in, looking uncomfortable in a way Ethan had never seen before. They'd known each other for thirteen years. Been best friends for thirteen years. Shared dreams, celebrations, heartbreaks, victories.
And now they stood three feet apart in a small room at Clairefontaine, suddenly unsure how to act around each other.
"Hey," Mbappé said.
"Hey."
Silence. Awkward, heavy silence.
"Look," Mbappé finally said, "I know this is weird. The Real Madrid thing. But we're still teammates here. Still brothers. Can we just... not make this harder than it needs to be?"
Ethan wanted to be angry. Wanted to tell Mbappé he'd betrayed their friendship by joining the enemy. But looking at his friend now—seeing the genuine discomfort in his eyes—the anger faded.
"You're right," Ethan said, walking over and pulling Mbappé into a hug. "We're good. France first."
Mbappé hugged him back tightly. "France first. But after the Euros, when we're playing club football? I'm coming for you."
"I expect nothing less."
They pulled apart, both smiling now.
"Four Champions Leagues," Mbappé said, shaking his head. "You've already passed me historically. I've got some catching up to do."
"You've got time. You're only—what, twenty-five?"
"Same age as you, jackass."
"Exactly. Ancient by modern football standards."
They both laughed and the tension broke. This was familiar. This was them.
"Team meeting in twenty minutes," Mbappé said. "Want to walk down together?"
"Yeah. Let's do it."
The conference room held all twenty-six players plus Deschamps and his coaching staff. Ethan recognized every face—this was France's golden generation, now in their prime.
In goal: Mike Maignan, looking every bit the elite goalkeeper he'd become at AC Milan.
Defense: Jules Koundé, William Saliba, Dayot Upamecano, Theo Hernández, Benjamin Pavard. Young, fast, technically gifted.
Midfield: Aurélien Tchouaméni, Eduardo Camavinga, N'Golo Kanté (somehow still going at thirty-three), Adrien Rabiot. Perfect balance of youth and experience.
Attack: That's where things got interesting. Griezmann, now thirty-three but still brilliant. Marcus Thuram, son of the legend. Ousmane Dembélé, finally staying healthy. And then the two superstars—Ethan and Mbappé.
Deschamps stood at the front of the room, a tactical board behind him showing France's probable starting XI in a 4-3-3 formation.
"Gentlemen," he began, "we are three weeks from our first match against Austria. We are the betting favorites to win Euro 2024. We have the deepest squad in the tournament. And we have something to prove after the disappointment of Qatar."
Every player in the room tensed at that. The 2022 World Cup final loss still haunted them.
"But I'm not interested in revenge or redemption narratives," Deschamps continued. "I'm interested in winning a European Championship. France hasn't won the Euros since 2000. Twenty-four years. That's unacceptable for a nation of our quality."
He clicked his remote and the tactical board changed to show Germany's formation.
"We're in Group D. Austria, Netherlands, and a playoff winner still to be determined. It's not an easy group. But if we can't get out of that group, we don't deserve to win the tournament."
More formations appeared on the screen. Tactical breakdowns. Set piece arrangements. Pressing triggers.
For the next ninety minutes, Deschamps went through everything. His philosophy. His tactics. His expectations.
Then he got to the elephant in the room.
"I'm aware that some of you will be rivals at club level next season," he said, looking directly at Ethan and Mbappé. "Clásicos. Title races. Whatever. That's football. But when you wear this jersey—" he pointed to the blue France shirt hanging behind him "—none of that matters. You're brothers. You're teammates. And you'll act like it."
The room murmured agreement.
"Loki, Mbappé—stand up."
Ethan and Mbappé both stood, confused.
"You two are the co-captains of this team along with Griezmann. That means you set the tone. If there's tension between you, the whole squad feels it. If you're united, we're unstoppable. I need you to be united. Can you do that?"
"Yes, boss," they said in unison.
"Good. Now shake hands."
They looked at each other, then reached across the table and shook hands while twenty-four other players watched.
"That's the last time I want to address this," Deschamps said. "Now let's go win a tournament."
Training that afternoon was intense. Deschamps ran them through possession drills, pressing exercises, and small-sided games. Despite the awkwardness earlier, Ethan and Mbappé fell into their familiar rhythm on the pitch.
Ethan would drop deep, receive the ball, and thread a pass between two defenders into Mbappé's run. Mbappé would spin his defender and finish clinically. It was muscle memory from years at Monaco, from countless France camps, from understanding each other's games better than anyone else.
During a water break, Griezmann approached both of them.
"It's good to see you two working together," the veteran said. "We're going to need that connection if we want to win this thing."
"We're professionals," Mbappé said. "We know what's at stake."
"Plus," Ethan added with a slight smile, "I've always wanted to win the Euros. Never done that before."
"Same," Mbappé agreed. "World Cup, yes. Euros, no. Let's fix that."
Griezmann nodded approvingly and walked away.
"He's right, you know," Mbappé said once they were alone. "We do need each other. At least for the next month."
"And then?"
"And then all bets are off. First Clásico is October 26th at the Bernabéu."
"I've already marked my calendar."
"Good. Because I'm scoring a hat-trick."
"Not if I score four."
They stared at each other for a moment, then both burst out laughing.
This was going to be the strangest professional relationship in football history. Best friends who were also mortal enemies. Brothers who would go to war twice a season.
But for now, for the next month, they had a tournament to win.
That night, after dinner in the Clairefontaine cafeteria (grilled chicken, vegetables, and plain pasta—the glamorous life of a professional athlete), Ethan called Sofia.
"How was day one?" she asked.
"Weird but manageable. Mbappé and I are okay. Deschamps made us shake hands in front of the whole team."
"That must have been awkward."
"It was. But necessary." He paused. "I just... I keep thinking about what happens after the Euros. When we're actually rivals. When every goal one of us scores will be compared to the other."
"You mean like how it's been your entire careers?"
"This is different. This is Barcelona versus Real Madrid. The biggest rivalry in sports. Every match watched by a billion people. Every performance dissected for weeks."
"And you love that pressure. You thrive on it."
She was right. Of course she was right. Pressure didn't break Ethan Loki—it forged him.
"You know what I love about you?" he said.
"My brilliant journalistic insights?"
"That too. But mainly how you keep me grounded. Everyone else treats me like I'm some sort of football god. You treat me like I'm just a guy who happens to be good at kicking a ball."
"That's because you are just a guy who happens to be good at kicking a ball. A guy who also leaves his socks on the floor and forgets to buy groceries and watches terrible action movies at two in the morning."
"Hey, The Expendables franchise is cinematic art."
"Ethan, there are like nineteen of those movies and they're all the same."
"Exactly. Consistency. Like my goal-scoring record."
She laughed and he felt better. Whatever happened with Mbappé, with Real Madrid, with the insane pressure that was coming—Sofia would be there to remind him who he really was.
They talked for another hour about everything and nothing. Wedding plans (they'd set a date for June 2025). Where they'd buy a bigger house (probably still Barcelona, maybe with a view of Tibidabo). Whether they wanted kids right away or wanted to wait a few years (wait, definitely wait).
Normal couple stuff. The kind of conversation that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with building a life together.
When they finally hung up, Ethan felt centered again. Ready.
Tomorrow they'd train again. Work on set pieces. Run through game scenarios. Prepare for Austria.
But tonight, lying in his small bed at Clairefontaine, Ethan allowed himself to imagine what was coming:
Euro 2024. A chance to win the only major trophy that had eluded him.
Then the 2024-25 season. Mbappé at Real Madrid. The greatest rivalry in football history reignited.
Then the Ballon d'Or race. Him versus his best friend for the title of best player on earth.
And beyond that? World Cup 2026. Another chance at glory.
Three moves ahead. Always three moves ahead.
But for now, focus on move one: win the Euros.
Everything else could wait.
End of Chapter 52