Chapter 179: [179] "Joking demeanor"
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The casual, joking demeanor evaporated, replaced by the professionalism that defined the squad. Cillian stopped smiling, his jaw tightening as he leaned against the back of the armchair. Bachra crossed his arms, staring at them.
Hugo reached out, tapping the screen of his tablet, and slid the device across the smooth surface of the kitchen island so Luc could see it from the sofa.
"Union Aquitaine," Hugo announced, his voice devoid of any inflection. "Away."
Luc stared at the digital crest glowing on the tablet screen. The deep navy blue and crimson shield of Union Aquitaine.
It was arguably the worst possible draw they could have received for a knockout fixture.
"Aquitaine," Luc muttered, rubbing a hand aggressively over his face. "Of course."
Union Aquitaine wasn’t a flashy team. They didn’t possess a generational talent like Fontaine or a predatory system-striker like Fresko. They were currently sitting twelfth in the Ligue Alpha table, built entirely on grit, hostility, and a suffocating tactical structure. SC Valois only beat them 1-0, that was all the way back in MD4. Their stadium was notorious for its vicious atmosphere and a pitch that always seemed deliberately overwatered to slow down technical passing teams.
"They play a rigid three-five-two," Hugo began, stepping away from the island and walking into the living room. The teenager began pacing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tracksuit jacket. "Three massive center-backs who do not leave the penalty width. Two wing-backs who operate with the stamina of marathon runners. And a central midfield trio designed exclusively to destroy the opposition’s rhythm."
Cillian added bluntly. "I didn’t play when we played them away in late August, but I saw they fouled fourteen times. Fourteen. The referee only booked them twice because they rotate the tactical fouls perfectly. They never let the same player commit the foul twice in a row."
"That is their defensive philosophy," Hugo agreed, stopping his pacing to look at Luc. "They disrupt. They fracture the game into small, ugly pieces. But their offensive transition is what makes them lethal in knockout formats. When they win the ball, their wing-backs instantly bypass the midfield and overload the flanks."
Luc leaned his head back against the sofa. His mind automatically began processing the 3-5-2 formation. He visualized the pitch, placing the black and gold pieces against the navy and crimson.
"They flood the center," Luc stated, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "If we try to play through the middle, Klaus and Baini will be outnumbered. If you drop deep to help them, Hugo, you bring their central center-back with you, condensing the space even further."
"Correct," Hugo said. "The center of the pitch will be quite compact. The space exists exclusively in the wide areas, in the channels behind their wing-backs."
Luc lowered his gaze, looking at Bachra. "That means the match rests on the wingers. Gabriel, Dário, Bachra, the other guy."
Luc’s teammates smiled a bit.
He continued, "They have to pin those wing-backs down. If Aquitaine’s wide men are forced to defend their own penalty area, they can’t transition forward."
"Henri is starting me," Bachra said quietly.
Luc blinked, surprised. "Over Gabriel? In a physical away match?"
"Gabriel lost his temper," Cillian reminded Luc. "Henri doesn’t forgive selfishness quickly. He told Bachra this morning that the right flank belongs to him on quarter final night. He told him if he gets bullied off the ball, he’ll be walking back to the Valois complex on his own."
"I won’t get bullied," Bachra said defensively, his posture stiffening. "I isolated the Belleville defender and got him sent off. I can handle a wing-back."
"An exhausted left-back on a yellow card is not the same as an Aquitaine wing-back operating on full rest," Luc warned, stripping the sugar-coating off the reality. He couldn’t afford to coddle the teenager. Not when a semi-final spot was on the line. "They will hit you early, Bachra. They will try to rattle you in the first five minutes. If you take an extra touch to try and embarrass them with a croqueta or something, they will put you into the advertising boards and I’m pretty sure the referee will call it a fair challenge. Fucking refs in this league never bring out cards."
Bachra swallowed hard, the bravado fading slightly under the harsh truth of his captain’s assessment. "So what do I do? Just pass it backward?"
"No," Luc commanded, leaning forward slightly, ignoring the flare of pain in his knee. "You play one-touch. You receive the ball on the half-turn and you instantly push it into the space behind them. Make them turn and run. Make them chase you toward their own corner flag. If they are running toward their own goal, they cannot tackle you without risking a penalty of some sort."
Hugo nodded in agreement, his tactical mind aligning perfectly with Luc’s pragmatic experience. "The distribution must be flawless. If I hold the ball for more than two seconds in the center, their midfield will collapse on me. I have to release it the exact moment Bachra and Dário initiate their runs."
"What about the striker?" Luc asked, the most painful question of the morning.
The silence in the room returned. Cillian looked out the window. Bachra stared at his shoes.
"Henri is starting Idriss," Hugo finally answered.
Luc let out a breath. He had suspected it, but hearing it confirmed solidified his own uselessness for the fixture.
"Idriss is a target man," Luc analyzed, forcing his personal frustration down and focusing purely on the mechanics of the game. "Against a back three, a single target man is a death sentence. The central defender will mark him, and the two wide center-backs will step up to intercept any passes into his feet. He will be completely isolated."
"Henri knows that," Cillian said, turning back from the window. "That’s why he isn’t playing a standard four-three-three."
Luc frowned, his brow furrowing. "He’s changing the shape? Now? Before a quarter-final?"
"He has no choice," Hugo explained, walking back to the island and turning the tablet around, rapidly drawing lines on the digital pitch. "Without your supernatural physical anchoring ability to hold the ball against multiple defenders, a lone striker cannot survive Aquitaine’s back three. Henri is shifting to a four-two-three-one."
Hugo tapped the screen, highlighting the new positions.