Chapter 112: [112] "Paris Royal Part 8"
The closest center-back bit hard, throwing himself into a sliding block that met nothing but empty air.
In the same fluid motion, Luc dragged the ball back with the sole of his left boot, slipping the ball right between the remaining two defenders.
He emerged from the tangle of bodies on the other side, completely clear, just twelve yards from the goal.
The Paris Royal goalkeeper rushed off his line, spreading his arms wide to make himself massive.
Luc didn’t blast or rely on raw power. He simply looked the keeper in the eyes, opened his hips, and delicately, beautifully, chipped the ball.
The leather lifted off the Parisian grass, floating in a agonizingly slow, perfect parabolic arc over the desperately flailing fingertips of the goalkeeper. It hung in the air for what felt like an eternity, silencing the entire stadium, before dropping neatly over the goal line and bouncing into the back of the net.
Goal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
3-2.
Luc ran to the corner flag and slid on his knees.
He stood up and turned around, facing the stunned, silent wall of Parisian ultras, and slowly raised his arms out.
The silence inside Parc des Royals lasted precisely two seconds before it shattered into a cacophony of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Sixty thousand Parisian ultras, realizing that the twenty-year-old American captain of SC Valois had not only breached their fortress twice but was now actively making them lose their collective minds. Plastic beer cups and lighters rained down from the lower tiers near the corner flag. The deafening whistles were so piercing they vibrated in the teeth of the players on the pitch.
Luc Beaumont stood his ground facing the wall of deep blue, his two arms still suspended in the air.
Olivier Fontaine was standing just outside the penalty area, his hands resting on his hips. The Paris Royal striker’s face was usually a mask of impenetrable, statuesque calm, but as he watched Luc steal his shine almost immediately after he scored, a dark, furious shadow crossed his face. He did not appreciate being outshined.
Luc finally lowered his hands and jogged back toward the center circle, surrounded by the ecstatic black and gold jerseys of his teammates. Sordell slapped his shoulder, Hugo was screaming in pure adrenaline, and Klaus Becker was laughing a deep, rumbling laugh that sounded like a revving engine.
"Shape!" Luc yelled, pushing his teammates away as they crossed the halfway line. "They are going to throw everything at us! Nobody switches off! We suffer for the next twenty-five minutes!"
The referee, eager to restart play and quell the escalating tension in the stands, blew his whistle sharply.
---
Minute sixty-six.
The siege began. Paris Royal, operating in their hyper-aggressive 4-2-4, threw caution to the wind. Bastien Leroux, desperate to prove his worth to his new Parisian masters, began demanding the ball at every opportunity. The young midfielder was brilliant, zipping passes through the tightest of corridors, trying to feed Fontaine and the wingers.
But SC Valois was defending like a team possessed. The lead was radiating confidence at full capacity, blanketing the squad in a stubborn, unbreakable resolve.
Amadou Fall, having recovered his confidence, threw himself into a diving header to clear out a vicious cross. Leo Hernandez was a bruiser...legally but forcefully putting his shoulder through the Paris Royal attackers every time they tried to turn in the box.
By minute seventy, the physical toll of the match was painfully obvious.
Gabriel Assis, the Brazilian who had spent the entire match sprinting up and down the right flank, suddenly went down. He hit the turf clutching his right calf, his face contorted in agony. The cramping was severe. He had literally run his muscles to failure, defending a world-class left-back while simultaneously launching lethal counter-attacks.
On the opposite flank, Idriss Konaté was bent over, his hands resting heavily on his knees, gasping for air. The Ivorian had his goal, but playing as an inside forward had demanded a defensive work rate his body simply wasn’t accustomed to.
Even Bense Baini was struggling. The twenty-eight-year-old veteran had been brilliant, but trying to plug the gaps against a four-man frontline featuring Olivier Fontaine was draining the last drops of gas from his tank.
Henri stood on the touchline, his arms crossed. He waited for things to collapse up to this point, but it was finally time he turned to his bench.
He pointed three fingers. "Dário! Bachra! Jose! Get yourselves warmed up. Now!"
---
The electronic substitution board was held up by the fourth official.
OUT: RW (Gabriel Assis), LW (Idriss Konaté), CDM (Bense Baini).
IN: LW (Dário Ferrão), RW (Bachra Goza), CM (Jose Mallorca).
Gabriel limped off the pitch, supported slightly by the medical staff. As he crossed the touchline, he looked back at Luc. The Brazilian was exhausted, coated in sweat and mud. Luc nodded at him...a silent acknowledgment of the shift Gabriel had put in. The winger had swallowed his pride, and he had delivered.
The three substitutes stepped onto the pitch.
Dário Ferrão sprinted toward the left flank, his fresh legs immediately giving the exhausted Paris Royal right-back a reason to panic.
Bachra Goza, sporting a fresh fade and bright boots, trotted out to the right wing, pulling at the collar of his jersey.
But the most critical shift happened in the center of the park.
Jose Mallorca, the twenty-four-year-old midfielder acquired from London Blue, jogged into the defensive midfield slot alongside Klaus. He wasn’t a direct defensive midfield and didn’t have Baini’s elegant, sweeping passing range, but coming from the grueling, high-octane environment of the English League, Mallorca brought something entirely different. Pure, unadulterated grit and an endless, turbocharged engine, almost like a more refined Cillian.
Henri shouted his final instructions from the technical area. "Jose! Anchor the midfield! Nothing gets through! Dário, pin their fullback! Bachra, show them what we bought!"
Minute seventy-three.
The impact of the substitutions was immediate. Paris Royal attempted to recycle the ball through Bastien Leroux, trying to exploit the fatigue they assumed was still lingering in the Valois ranks. Bastien took a heavy touch, preparing to spin and thread a pass to Fontaine.
He never got the chance