Chapter 172: [172] "Thank you Bachra"
The shockwave of Hugo Blanc’s knuckleball strike continued to replay through the large monitor.
Luc Beaumont, keeping his heavily wrapped right leg suspended an inch above the floor, needed to watch the rest of this.
Out on the grass, the celebration was finally breaking apart. Hugo was hauled to his feet once again by Klaus Becker, the teenager’s usually immaculate hair messed up by the aggressive congratulations of his teammates. The 2-0 scoreline glowed on the stadium’s digital boards.
Belleville’s goalkeeper was still sitting on his knees inside his own net, staring blankly at the grass. He had been beaten, brutally.
The referee blew a sharp blast on his whistle, gesturing for the Valois players to return to their own half. As the black and gold jerseys jogged back, Luc noticed the subtle shift in body language. The anxiety of the one-goal lead, compounded by their captain being forced off injured, had completely evaporated.
They weren’t playing with desperation anymore. They were playing with arrogant certainty, a team that knew the opposition was now theirs for the taking.
---
Belleville restarted the match from the center circle.
The away side was down to ten men, down two goals, and dealing with the psychological trauma of being dismantled by 3 youngsters. They had zero ambition to push forward. The moment the ball was tapped backward, their entire midfield retreated, forming a pathetic, compressed block twenty-five yards from their own goal line.
Minute fifty-eight.
Gabriel Assis received a switch of play on the right flank. The Brazilian winger trapped the ball under his sole and looked up. He was isolated against the Belleville left-back, a defender who had been chasing shadows for nearly an hour.
Instead of maintaining the possession structure or looking for Max Caster in the center, Gabriel put his head down. He wanted a goal. Hugo had just scored a world-class strike, Max was drawing standing ovations for his dribbling, and Gabriel felt the desperate, egotistical need to put his own name on the scoresheet to solidify his starting spot.
Gabriel drove straight at the full-back. He executed a rapid double step-over, attempting to force his way to the byline. The defender didn’t bite on the feint. He stepped across, using his body to shield the ball, and let it roll out for a goal kick.
Gabriel threw his arms up in the air, complaining about a nonexistent foul.
On the edge of the technical area, Coach Henri crossed his arms. The manager’s face hardened. He didn’t shout at the Brazilian. He only turned around and looked at the substitutes warming up near the corner flag.
"Bachra," Henri barked, his voice loud enough to hear over the stadium noise.
The nineteen-year-old Spaniard stopped his high-knees routine instantly. He sprinted back to the dugout, stripping off his warm-up bib before he even reached the manager.
"I’m ready, Coach," Bachra said, grabbing a water bottle and taking a quick sip.
"Gabriel is getting selfish," Henri stated bluntly, keeping his eyes on the pitch. "He thinks the match is his highlight reel now. I need width, but I need possession retention even more. The left-back over there is exhausted and sitting on a yellow card from the first half. You go in, you isolate him, and you make him commit a mistake. Do not force a shot from a bad angle. Feed the center."
"Isolate and feed. Understood," Bachra nodded, tossing the water bottle aside.
"Don’t be selfish, I won’t hesitate to sub you out immediately."
Bachra nodded fearfully.
The fourth official punched the numbers into the electronic board.
Minute sixty-two.
The ball rolled out of bounds for a Valois throw-in. The referee paused the play, pointing toward the touchline.
Red number for Gabriel. Green number for Bachra Goza.
Gabriel saw his number flash. The Brazilian winger stopped near the penalty arc, his jaw clenching. He stared at the bench in disbelief. He had played well, he had stretched the defense, but Henri was ruthless. A single instance of prioritizing personal glory over the gameplan was enough to end his evening.
Gabriel jogged off the pitch, his face stormy. He slapped Bachra’s hand in a stiff, mandatory gesture before marching to the bench and throwing a towel over his head. Bachra sprinted onto the grass, his fresh legs immediately injecting a new frequency into the right side of the attack.
He took his position wide on the touchline. The Belleville left-back took one look at the fresh, energetic winger and physically sagged.
Minute sixty-five.
Klaus Becker collected a loose clearance. He didn’t even bother to look up before drilling a flat, sixty-yard diagonal pass straight into Bachra’s path.
The teenager killed the ball with his first touch. He didn’t immediately sprint. He stood still first, the ball dead at his feet, inviting the full-back to step out of the defensive block.
"Come on," Bachra muttered under his breath.
The defender hesitated, then took the bait, stepping forward to close the distance.
The moment the gap closed to a single yard, Bachra exploded. He didn’t use a step-over. He used a simple but devastating elastico, pushing the ball outside before snapping it instantly back inside, completely wrecking the defender’s balance.
The left-back, desperate and already carrying a yellow card, stuck out a clumsy leg. He caught Bachra flush on the shin.
Bachra went down. The referee blew his whistle immediately, awarding the free-kick in a dangerous area just outside the penalty box.
The official reached into his pocket. A second yellow card. Followed instantly by a red.
Belleville was down to nine men!
The away section of the stadium fell silent, while the home ultras ratcheted the volume up to deafening levels.
"That is how you do it!" Henri shouted from the touchline, clapping his hands.
Bachra scrambled to his feet, winking at Cillian Doyle as the Irishman jogged up to set the ball for the free-kick. The set-piece amounted to nothing, cleared away by the remaining Belleville center-back, but the damage was done. Nine men could not adequately cover the width of the pitch.