Chapter 141: [141] "Absolute Execution"
The transition from the sanctuary of Juliette’s apartment to the blistering, high-stakes cauldron of Stade Valois usually required a mental recalibration.
For months, Luc Beaumont had relied on many things within himself, the manufactured adrenaline of The Everything System being one of them, using the glowing blue text as a crutch to force his mind into a state of predatory focus. He would walk into the stadium parking lot with his jaw mewed, his muscles already coiled with the stress of the impending ninety minutes ahead, carrying the weight of Valérie Laurent’s expectations and the Golden Boot race like a physical yoke across his shoulders.
But on the evening of Thursday, February 29th, as his matte-black Porsche slid into its designated VIP parking space beneath the stadium, that familiar, suffocating pressure was... absent.
He killed the engine and sat in the quiet leather interior for a moment. He was twenty-one years old now. He was well-rested, his central nervous system completely reset after a night of profound, unplugged intimacy. The dull, persistent ache in his spine had receded to a faint, manageable whisper.
Luc stepped out of the car. He wasn’t wearing the standard club tracksuit...as already stated before. To restate...for aura sake, he wore the tailored midnight-black suit Valérie had mandated for the squad’s arrivals, a crisp white shirt beneath it, completely unbothered by the February dew cutting through the underground concrete.
He grabbed his bag and walked toward the player’s entrance. His strides were long, fluid, and completely devoid of the frantic, hyper-vigilant tension that had defined his January.
The stadium corridors were already humming with the energy of a matchday.
Security personnel nodded respectfully as he passed. Camera shutters clicked from the designated press zones, capturing the arrival of the man whose face was currently dominating every newsstand in France. Luc didn’t glare at the lenses, nor did he offer a manufactured smile. He walked past them with the cold certainty of a star player arriving at his place of work.
When he pushed through the double doors of the home dressing room, the atmosphere was a mix of focused silence and local aggressive energy. The unmistakable scent of freshly cut athletic tape hung in the air.
"Captain," Klaus Becker rumbled from his corner locker. The massive German was meticulously threading his laces, his pale eyes flickering up to assess Luc. "You look dangerously calm for a man who is trailing by a goal."
"I don’t plan on trailing for long, Klaus," Luc replied smoothly, dropping his bag onto the bench in front of his locker. He began stripping off the tailored suit, methodically folding the expensive fabric. "Fresko can enjoy his twenty-five goals for another hour. Then, I’m taking the throne back."
Coach Henri walked into the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him. He carried his tactical tablet, his face beaned of rigid concentration. The low murmurs of player conversations instantly died out.
Henri stepped into the center of the room, looking around the squad.
"RC Alsace," Henri began, his voice projecting clearly off the walls. "Currently sitting eighth in the table. They are a physical, deeply annoying team. For the new arrivals, I want you to understand exactly who we are playing tonight. Back in the early weeks of the season, we traveled to their ground. It was a miserable, grinding affair. They didn’t try to outplay us. They tried to physically dismantle us. They man-marked Hugo out of the game every time he received the ball, and they flooded the central channels to starve Luc of service."
Henri tapped the screen of his tablet, pulling up the projected Alsace starting eleven to show sliwky to every player.
"Their manager has changed his philosophy just a little bit," Henri continued. "They are going to line up in a 4-5-1 instead of the 4-4-2 we played against last time. They will try to clog the midfield more, disrupt our passing lanes more, and hit us on the counter-attack using their newly established transitional wingers. They think they can frustrate us again. They think if they kick us hard enough in the first fifteen minutes, we will fold."
Henri locked his tablet and handed it to his assistant. He looked at a nervous eighteen-year-old sitting near the defenders.
"Zack."
Zack Florez jumped slightly, his head snapping up. "Yes, Coach?"
"You are starting at left-back tonight," Henri stated, the authority in his voice leaving no room for debate. "They are going to try to exploit that flank on the counter. I do not care about your overlap tonight. I do not care about your crossing statistics. Your sole responsibility is to isolate their transitional right-winger and completely erase him from the pitch. Can you do that?"
Zack swallowed hard, his eyes darting briefly to Luc, before hardening with sudden resolve. "I’ll lock him down, Coach. He won’t breathe."
"Good," Henri nodded. He pivoted toward the opposite side of the room. "Bachra."
The nineteen-year-old La Masia graduate was already nodding, a massive, arrogant grin plastered across his face. "Say no more, boss. I’m ready."
"You are starting on the right wing," Henri instructed. "Gabriel is taking a well-deserved rest on the bench. Alsace is going to pack the center. I need you to stay wide, stretch their fullbacks to the absolute breaking point, and force them to commit. Do not lose the ball trying to be a hero in traffic."
"Touchline to touchline," Bachra promised, tapping the side of his head. "I’ll keep them dancing."
Henri finally turned to the center of the room, his eyes resting on the seventeen-year-old playmaking prodigy who seemed like he had been playing for many years. Hugo Blanc was sitting quietly, adjusting his shin guards. He looked incredibly calm, a stark contrast to the boy who had been battered by this exact team months ago.
"Hugo," Henri said softly. "They are going to come for you early. They are going to try to rattle you again."
Hugo looked up, his face masked with total focus. "Coach, they won’t get close enough to touch me."
Henri smiled a razor-thin smile. "Show them what we have become. Out onto the pitch. Warm up everyone."
---
The floodlights of Stade Valois were blinding, washing the impeccably manicured grass in a harsh glow. The stadium was packed to absolute capacity, the thirty thousand fans generating a wall of sound.
As the two teams lined up in the tunnel, Luc looked at the RC Alsace captain standing next to him, a grizzled, scarred center-back who had made a career out of breaking strikers. The man tried to hold Luc’s gaze, attempting to project intimidation.