Chapter 167: [167] "Caster"
The referee sprinted to the scene, blowing his whistle frantically, pushing his way through the escalating shoving match. He didn’t need to consult his linesman or review his already decided call. The malice in the tackle was undeniable.
The official reached into his back pocket.
A straight red card was thrust into the air, held directly in front of Khalil’s face.
The Belleville defender didn’t even argue. He knew exactly what he had done. He spat on the grass, offered a final, venomous glare toward the turf where Luc was lying, and began the long walk down the tunnel, showered in deafening boos from the Stade Valois supporters.
But the red card meant nothing to SC Valois in that specific second. The entire stadium’s attention was fixed on the medical staff sprinting onto the pitch.
The interim lead physiotherapist slid onto his knees beside Luc, his hands immediately going to the American’s right leg.
"Don’t move it," the physio commanded, his voice laced with urgency. "Tell me where it hurts."
"This side side. Just below the kneecap," Luc hissed, forcing himself to take shallow, controlled breaths to manage the adrenaline and the pain. He tried to flex his calf muscle. It responded, but the movement sent another spike through the joint.
The physio began manipulating the knee, testing the stability of the ligaments with practiced movements. He pressed his thumbs into the tissue, watching Luc’s face for reactions.
"Is it a tear?" Luc asked, his voice strained. The thought of losing the rest of the season...losing the Golden Boot race to Fresko simply because he was sidelined, was infinitely worse than the physical pain.
"No," the physio reported, letting out a small sigh of relief. "The ligaments feel intact. It’s a severe contusion, possibly a bone bruise, and some hyper-extension from the impact. But you are done for the day."
"I can walk it off," Luc argued immediately, attempting to prop himself up on his elbows. "Tape it tight. I’m not coming off in the thirty-fifth minute."
"You aren’t making that call," a voice interrupted.
Coach Henri was standing inside the pitch boundary, technically breaking the rules, looking down at his star striker. The manager’s face was pale with contained fury directed at the Belleville bench, but his eyes were pragmatic as he assessed Luc.
"I’m fine, Coach," Luc insisted, glaring up at him. "It’s just an impact injury. Let me finish the half at least."
"Absolutely not," Henri said flatly. The manager crossed his arms, offering no room for negotiation. "You have your goal. We are up one-nil, and they are down to ten men. I am not risking my best asset and the focal point of our entire system for the sake of your ego. We have the Cup Quarter-Final in three days. We have Stade Phocéen too soon. You are coming off right now."
Luc opened his mouth to argue, but the throbbing heat radiating from his knee killed the words in his throat. Henri was right. The schedule dictated preservation. If he stayed on and compensated for the pain, he risked a secondary, non-contact injury that could end his entire campaign.
"Fine," Luc muttered, letting his head drop back onto the grass for a second.
The physio helped him to his feet. Luc tested his weight. He could walk, but a distinct, heavy limp accompanied his every step. The stadium rose in a unified standing ovation as their captain was slowly escorted toward the touchline. Thirty thousand fans chanting his name offered a small measure of comfort, but the frustration of being forced out of the battle gnawed at him.
He crossed the white line, officially out of the match.
Henri patted his shoulder firmly. "Get inside. Ice it immediately. Juliette will meet you in the medical bay."
Luc didn’t walk down the tunnel right away. He grabbed a heavy winter coat from a staff member and turned to watch the substitution board light up.
Red number.
Green number...
Luc expected to see Idriss Konaté’s number flash on the board. The Ivorian was the natural replacement, a pure striker who could occupy the center-backs and finish crosses. Or perhaps Bachra Goza, shifting Gabriel centrally.
Instead, the green digits illuminated a completely different choice.
Max Caster stripped off his warm-up bib, handing it to an assistant coach. The sixteen-year-old American prodigy stepped up to the touchline, adjusting his shin guards, his youthful face a mixture of lackluster and intense concentration.
Henri wasn’t making a like-for-like swap.
"Max," Henri barked, grabbing the teenager by the shoulder before he could step onto the grass. "They have ten men. They are going to pack the box and refuse to step out. Idriss would be isolated in that traffic. I do not want a target man right now."
The manager pointed toward the center of the pitch.
"You play as a false nine. You drop into the midfield pockets. Make their remaining center-back and possibly a replacement for Khalil choose between holding his line or stepping up to follow you. If he steps up, Dário and Gabriel will run behind him. If he holds his line, you turn and run at them. Use your feet. Make them panic."
Max nodded frantically, absorbing the tactical adjustment. "Drop deep. Turn. Run."
"Go."
Max stepped onto the pitch.
Luc watched from the technical area, leaning heavily against the dugout partition to take the weight off his right leg. It was a brilliant, highly aggressive tactical shift from Henri. Without Khalil, Belleville’s defense lacked vocal leadership. Putting a technical dribbler like Max directly into their center was designed to cause absolute chaos.
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The match restarted.
Belleville immediately retreated into a desperate 4-4-1 formation, their sole objective reduced to surviving until halftime without conceding a second goal. They abandoned any pretense of pressing, allowing Klaus and Hugo to circulate the ball with zero resistance near the halfway line.
Max jogged into the attacking third. He looked incredibly small compared to the towering defenders surrounding him.