Chapter 122: [122] "The Kids Are Alright 1"
Saturday morning.
Fourty-eight hours before AS Garonne would arrive at Stade Valois on Monday.
Luc parked his Porsche in the players’ lot. The icy chill of the past few weeks had marginally softened, leaving the air crisp but entirely bearable. He sat in the driver’s seat for a moment with the engine off, staring at the steering wheel.
He had a war chest. Fifty General Points and fifty Skill Points.
It was the wealthiest he had ever been in the system’s economy, a direct payout for slaughtering the Parisian empire and executing a hat-trick under maximum pressure. He hadn’t touched the points yet, waiting for the physical ache of the match to subside before diving into the interface.
"TES," Luc thought. "Open store. I need upgrades tailored for the final stretch. Specifically, I need to catch twenty-three goals."
[System Notification]
[Balance: 50 General Points | 50 Skill Points]
[Analyzing current objectives: Golden Boot Race (Fresko - 23), AS Garonne revenge, Champions League qualification.]
[Item 1: Absolute Poacher (Passive)]
[Cost: 25 Skill Points]
[Effect: Increases your shot conversion rate in chaotic, high-traffic areas inside the penalty box by 15%. Reduces the time required to set your feet before striking by a fraction of a second.]
[Item 2: Physical Anchor (Passive)]
[Cost: 20 General Points]
[Effect: Increases core stability and balance. Center-backs will find it 10% harder to move you off your spot when you are shielding the ball.]
[Item 3: Tunnel Vision Suppressor II (Passive)]
[Cost: 30 Skill Points]
[Effect: Further expands peripheral vision in the attacking third, slowing down the perceived movement of defenders when you are inside the box.]
Luc didn’t hesitate. The 4-3-3 formation demanded that he operate as a lone target man. He was constantly battling two center-backs, taking elbows and absorbing sheer mass just to hold the play up for Sordell and Gabriel. He needed to be immovable, and he needed to be ruthless when the ball finally dropped to him.
"Purchase Absolute Poacher and Physical Anchor."
[Transaction Complete: -20 GP, -25 SP]
[Balance: 30 General Points | 25 Skill Points]
[Passives equipped. Your center of gravity has been optimized. Your trigger speed in the box has been refined.]
Luc dismissed the screen. He stepped out of the car, instantly feeling a strange, grounded solidity in his footing. He walked toward the main complex doors, rolling his shoulders, feeling ready for violence.
Inside the locker room, beating Paris Royal had effectively removed the imposter syndrome from the new signings. Jose Mallorca was lacing his boots while arguing with Cillian about the proper way to brew tea, while Bachra Goza was showing Gabriel a video on his phone, the two wingers laughing loudly.
Coach Henri walked in, immediately killing the noise.
He didn’t carry a clipboard today. He carried a tablet, his face set in a hard, uncompromising mask.
"Monday night," Henri started, his voice projecting across the silent room. "AS Garonne. I don’t need to remind any of the original squad members what happened in November. Four-nil. They bullied us. They ran through our midfield, they outmuscled our defenders, and they embarrassed us in front of the entire country."
Henri tapped the screen of his tablet.
"They are coming here expecting to do it again. They think our January signings are nothing. They think we are soft. Today’s session is not about tactics. We know the 4-3-3 works. Today is about execution in isolated moments. I want to see who can win their individual battles. Because if you lose your battle on Monday, Garonne will make you bleed for it. Out on the pitch. Five minutes."
The squad filed out into the crisp morning air.
Henri wasted no time. He immediately split the squad into two groups. The first group, overseen by the assistant coach, worked on defensive shape and transitions. The second group, managed by Henri himself, was put into a grueling, tight-space possession drill inside a marked grid barely the size of a penalty box.
"Four versus four inside the grid!" Henri barked. "Two touches maximum. If you lose the ball, you press until your lungs collapse. Go!"
Luc was in the grid with Klaus, Baini, and the sixteen-year-old American youth promotion, Max Caster. They were up against Leo Hernandez, Amadou Fall, Jose Mallorca, and Cillian Doyle. It was an absolute gauntlet of physicality. Hernandez and Mallorca were both players who treated training ground tackles like cup finals.
The ball zipped around. Klaus to Baini. Baini to Luc.
Luc laid it off perfectly, feeling the immediate benefit of his new Physical Anchor passive as Leo Hernandez slammed into his back. Luc didn’t even budge, completely absorbing the center-back’s momentum before tapping the ball to Max Caster.
Max received the ball in the tightest possible corner of the grid.
Cillian Doyle sprinted at the teenager, intending to aggressively trap him against the white chalk line. Mallorca closed the angle from the other side. It was a suffocating, dual press that would have forced even an experienced player like Lacombe to panic and clear the ball out of bounds.
Max didn’t panic.
As Cillian’s boot lunged forward, the sixteen-year-old dropped his center of gravity. With a quick roll of his studs over the top of the ball, Max dragged it backward an inch, avoiding Cillian’s tackle. In the exact same fluid motion, he chopped the ball behind his standing leg with the inside of his heel, pivoting his hips and slipping right through the rapidly closing gap between Cillian and Mallorca.
It wasn’t flashy like Bachra’s elastico. It was purely functional, incredibly tight ball manipulation.
Hernandez immediately stepped up to crush the kid, but Max utilized the outside of his left boot to flick the ball into space, spinning off the massive defender’s shoulder and recovering the ball on the other side.
He had navigated a booth with three elite professionals actively trying to destroy him.
"Good feet!" Baini called out, receiving Max’s subsequent pass.
Luc watched the sequence, genuinely stunned. Max Caster’s close control wasn’t just good... it was phenomenal. The ball seemed surgically attached to his laces. He didn’t take heavy touches, he didn’t need a runway to accelerate. In pure, chaotic traffic, the kid was phenomenal.
"He’s got the best tight-space control out of all of us," Luc thought to himself, comparing Max’s footwork to his own and Idriss’s. Luc relied on spatial awareness and power, Idriss relied on explosive bursts and late runs. But Max could apparently dribble his way out of a locked safe.
Ten minutes later, Henri blew the whistle, transitioning the drill into the final third.
"Finishing phase!" Henri commanded. "Wingers provide the cutbacks. Strikers, I want one-touch finishes. Goalkeepers, no mercy, save every shot."
Gabriel Assis drove down the right flank, whipping a low, violently paced ball toward the penalty spot.
Idriss stepped up first. The Ivorian met the ball in stride, driving his laces through it and burying it into the roof of the net past Pinto. Pure, aggressive lethality.
Luc was next. Dário provided the cross from the left. The delivery bounced awkwardly off a divot in the grass, coming in at a difficult height. Luc didn’t even have to consciously adjust his footing. His body reacted mechanically, his hips snapping into position a fraction of a second faster than normal. He caught the ball on the half-volley, smashing it cleanly into the bottom corner.
"Next!" Henri shouted.
Max Caster stepped up to the edge of the box.
Bachra Goza hit the byline and cut a perfectly weighted ball back to the penalty spot. The delivery was flawless, rolling smoothly across the turf right into Max’s path.
Max arrived on time. His first touch to set himself was immaculate, instantly killing the pace of the ball. He opened his body, looking at Blažek, trying to place the ball perfectly into the far corner.
He struck it.
It lacked venom. The shot was accurate, aimed precisely at the corner, but the ball traveled with a soft, hesitant float. Blažek took two quick steps, dove, and caught the ball with both hands comfortably.
"Too soft, Max!" Henri yelled. "Put your foot through it!"