Tales of the Tournaments

The French team trailed down the tunnel, Lindsey Horan following. She let her mind wander, knowing that they would be on the plane back to Lyon early tomorrow, probably, and she wasn't feeling thrilled about the fact she'd have to head back to France in the company of their defeated national team. 

Still, it wasn't as though she'd be in any different of an atmosphere if she'd accompanied her own teammates home, was it?

At least her family would be waiting for her when she disembarked. She tried to look on the bright side.

They returned to the locker room and retrieved their sports bags. The French group text was going mad, Lindsey could tell as the girls pulled out their phones.

More than one face paled. There were several indrawn, sharp breaths.

Lindsey sat down on the bench, clutching her mercifully silent phone, and hazarded a glance at Selma Bacha, who was staring at her phone anxiously. "What is it?" Lindsey ventured in French.

"The Headmistress," Selma replied darkly in the same language. 

Lindsey frowned. "Renard? She's right here," she pointed out. "She's okay....I think."

"No, not Renard," Selma contradicted.

As though she'd heard her name, Renard turned to face the girls.

"She's going to let me handle the lot of you - except you, Le Sommer," Renard said quietly. "Diani, Lakrar, Dali, Karchaoui, Bacha, De Almeida, Becho, go sit on the bench by the wall. Le Sommer, go stand facing the corner. The rest of you, ice baths."

She was obeyed immediately - even by Eugenie, Lindsey noted with interest, though Eugenie clearly wasn't thrilled about being sent to stand in the corner like a child. "What about me, Captain?" she asked, switching to English, voice a little shaky. Renard answered her in the same language.

"You sit on the bench next to Selma."

"Yes ma'am," Lindsey said with a nod, moving to obey as Renard addressed her team.

"Karchaoui, how are you managing?" Renard asked first of all. Her gaze swept the twenty-seven-year-old defender, who looked...well, like hell if Lindsey was honest, observing. Sakina Karchaoui's ankle was wrapped, and fitted with a soft brace to keep it as still as possible. 

"It hurts, Captain," Sakina replied, in the tone of one stating the obvious. "Look, I wouldn't ordinarily try to beg off, I know I fucked up, but--"

Renard lifted a hand and sighed. "But Foord did who knows what to your ankle, and you have to be cleared before we're even sure you can fly home with us tomorrow."

Reluctantly, Sakina nodded.

"Go with the med staff," Renard ordered. "They'll take you to the medical centre overnight, we'll revisit this tomorrow. If you're coming home with us, well, it is only one smack you're due, Mademoiselle Julia can handle it before she collects you for us."

Sakina sniffled and nodded. "Yes, Captain, I'll be good for them and for Mademoiselle Julia, I promise."

"Good girl. Feel better, please."

Sakina let the med staff take her away, sitting on the stretcher with her sports bag next to her. Lindsey watched after the PSG player, biting her lip.

"Will her Captain send for her if we have to leave her here?"

"Yes, don't worry, Horan," Renard reassured her. "She'll be well taken care of."

Lindsey nodded, and Renard turned her attention back to the other penitents by the wall. "Diani, I imagine you and de Almeida would rather be out of here sooner rather than later, so you can check on her. You'll take Geyoro with you?"

"Yes Captain," the two PSG players chorused, nodding quickly. Of course they would take their club captain with them, so she could assess Sakina for herself as soon as she was permitted visitors. 

"Alright, I'll make this quick, then. Lakrar, I'd ordinarily have de Almeida after you, going by age, but considering..." Renard raised an eyebrow.

The single Montpelier player nodded, understanding. "Of course, ma'am, they need to go first." She scooted closer to Lindsey on the bench, and the two of them had a good view as Renard took out the plimsoll.

"You two, get up and bend over, hands on the bench," Renard ordered. 

Diani and de Almeida scrambled to do as they were told, neither eager to feel the plimsoll, but both very eager to escape, grab their club captain, and head to the med center. 

The position stretched their football uniform shorts tight over their bottoms, and despite the protection of shorts and panties, neither player had trouble feeling the single hard smack that cracked down across the middle of their bottom cheeks. The swats brought undignified yelps and hasty apologies, but then Renard let them go, and hurriedly, they went through to the ice baths to get Geyoro and leave.

"Alright, Lakrar, your turn."

Maëlle nodded reluctantly, the twenty-three-year-old defender taking up position obediently and accepting the single hard swat with a keening whine. She let Renard help her stand, and apologized, before heading to the ice baths.

The other girls on the bench exchanged looks, Lindsey covering Vicki Becho's hand with hers. The teen clung to Lindsey for support, feeling anxious.

"Dali. Bacha. I'll have you next," Renard said. "You each missed three shots. That means three each for you."

The pair swallowed nervously, but took their positions, side by side. First Kenza Dali - who as an Aston Villa player was familiar enough with the slipper already - and then Selma Bacha, who was much more used to Renard's martinet, had to stand as still as they could and take the three swats. Kenza reacted much less visibly, but then she was older and used to it. Selma had burst into tears by two and was shaking when the third and last was given. She stumbled into Renard's arms when Renard helped her back up.

"Alright, little girl," Renard soothed, "you took it like a good girl, shh, Selma, I've got you." 

"Mama Wendie," Selma sobbed, and Renard shook her head, patting her back. 

"Now's not the time, petite. Go with Kenza like my big girl please."

"Come on," Kenza said bracingly, "we'll get you back to the ice baths and you'll feel better little one."

Selma nodded unhappily, letting Kenza lead her away. 

Lindsey raised her eyebrows slightly at the unexpected revelation, but after all, she herself was Carli Lloyd's platonic little, so it wasn't as though she could comment. At least, Lindsey thought, Selma's Mama was closer to her than her own Mummy was right now. That was something Selma should be grateful for.

"Vicki."

Vicki Becho jumped at hearing her first name, rather than surname. The nineteen-year-old regarded her Captain warily.

"Ma'am?"

"It ought to be four, to deal with that last penalty shot. Do you think you can handle four?"

Renard was asking her opinion? Vicki swallowed nervously and looked at her club and national captain.

"Uh huh. I mean, yes, Captain."

"Into position then."

Vicki obeyed, trying not to show Renard how anxious she was. When she was bent over, hands flat on the bench, she felt Renard's fingers slip below her waistband, pulling her shorts and panties down together, and squealed.

"Captain, please--"

"Shhh, easy Vicki," Renard soothed. "Hold still, it won't be as bad as you think. Just enough."

Lindsey gaped at Renard as Vicki ceased her squirming.

Renard swatted down four times with her palm, two spanks to each of Vicki's bare bottom cheeks, before tugging her clothes back up and helping her to stand. Vicki stumbled in shock, but Renard helped her to sit down on her barely stinging bottom, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"It's alright little one. Go be with Selma, I know you're sorry for your missed shots today."

Vicki nodded, eyes wide, and fled to the ice baths to share Selma's tub. 

That left Le Sommer and Lindsey behind with Renard. 

They joined the rest of the team for the bus ride back to the hotel, and Lindsey reluctantly joined Renard and Le Sommer on the walk up to their suite, knowing she’d have to stay this last night with them. At least she had her own room, she reflected, because when they got there, someone was waiting for Wendie Renard and Eugenie Le Sommer, and it looked like she meant business.

Lindsey Horan had no wish to be involved in said business.

“Go to your room, Horan,” Renard ordered, and Lindsey was only too glad to obey. Renard switched back to French, addressing the newcomer respectfully. “Mademoiselle Julia, welcome. Come in, please.”

The three women walked inside the suite, to the room with two queen beds that Renard and Le Sommer shared.

“Sit, little girls,” Mademoiselle Julia said firmly. “We need to discuss your behaviour. It was unworthy of you both.”

Eugenie’s protest died on her lips; obediently, they sat on the nearer bed side by side, and waited for her to begin.