NIKE -Blue Lock-

Touch

"Master, the reporters are here."

"Send them away."

"Yes master."

The man frowned, continuing to stare into the fireplace as he smoked a Cuban cigar, letting the ashes fall to the floor, swept up immediately by the maid assigned to stand beside him and clean up where he soiled.

His eye was still black, and his face swollen with purple and red patches in the process of healing.

Cautiously watching him from near the door was Abigail, whose pale face was still as perfect as a model's, while her delicate body ached from the old man's unwanted and now violent sexual attentions.

The girl was visibly tired, the beauty of her usually bright and smooth skin had been marred by absent sleep and stress. Deep dark circles under her eyes, the color of which was now dull and lightless, and her lips of a color more tending to her complexion than pink.

And it was Nicole's fault.

"Any updates on that bitch?" the old man asked suddenly, not that it was so sudden since that was the only thing he asked those days, forcing Abigail to lower her gaze.

She was the one who had been in charge of reporting Nicole's movements since "her love for Nicole's let her betray her own master", so the owner of the house had sarcastically said.

But up to that moment she had not been able to know anything: since the same night of the match, the same night of the accident, nothing had been heard of the girl.

Then, two days ago, Nicole, or rather Nicklaus, appeared on television, on Blue Lock's new international program.

And how much had been the hatred, the anger, the fury that the old man had felt at seeing that annoying cover smile that many times he had dreamed of wiping permanently from her face.

Him, with his visage swollen and bruised, and her with that perfect, attractive mask that he so much wanted to slap.

"It seems that today she'll be training with Chris Prince, the master striker of Manshine City." stated the Russian girl, knowing full well that the man understood absolutely nothing about football teams.

Not that he cared about them, since the only thing he cared about was money, and particularly the money he could earn through the orphan champion.

The old man grimaced, throwing the remaining piece of cigar into the fire, and standing up.

The poor woman standing next to him was forced for the thousandth time to clean up the trail of ashes the man had left on the ground.

He didn't even care. 

"Public opinion?" the man asked then, heading for the window and moving the curtains slightly, just enough to check if there were still reporters outside, anxious to know why he had been in the hospital.

Abigail lowered her gaze to the computer next to her, scrolling down through various social media comments.

"His, her, charisma does not go unnoticed: people like the character. Some believe Nicklaus may be a relative, or even Nicole's twin. Others are more interested in the his relationships with other players." the blonde woman said, looking closely at some of the comments and being slightly disgusted by the vulgarity of some.

The man nodded, moving away from the window and starting to walk around the room, telling her to continue and to explain her last statement.

"It seems that people are creating some... ship... oни говорят о корабле?" she whispered confusedly in her language, not understanding what the word referred to.