Chapter 125: [125] "The Garonne rematch 2"
The massive Garonne captain, desperate to assert his dominance, stepped across Luc’s path, throwing his shoulder violently into Luc’s chest, fully expecting to knock the twenty-year-old American off his stride just like he had in November.
Luc’s center of gravity plummeted...the physical anchor. His core muscles locked with absolute rigidity. When the Garonne captain’s shoulder connected, it was like a man throwing his weight against a reinforced concrete pillar.
Luc didn’t even stumble.
The Garonne center-back, entirely unprepared for the immovability of his target, bounced off Luc and stumbled backward, losing his balance.
Luc held his ground, the ball arriving perfectly into his path. The penalty box was a mess of scrambling defenders and chaotic movement.
Time seemed to dilate...the absolute poacher. The frantic, desperate lunges of the Garonne defenders slowed to almost like a crawl in Luc’s vision. He didn’t need to take an extra touch to set his feet. His trigger speed had been optimized by the TES.
Before the goalkeeper could even step off his line, Luc snapped his hips and drove his left boot through the ball.
The strike was lethal and utterly flawless. The ball tore past the keeper’s shoulder and smashed into the roof of the net.
Goal.
1-0.
Stade Valois erupted.
Luc turned around, walked directly past the Garonne captain who was still picking himself up off the grass, and offered a cold, dead-eyed stare.
"You aren’t bullying anyone tonight," Luc said softly.
He had twenty-two league goals. He was one away from Fresko who was goalless over the weekend.
The rest of the first half was a masterclass in suffocating pressure. Garonne was psychologically broken. Every time they tried to string passes together, Bense Baini and Klaus Becker simply dismantled them. Klaus was operating with a ruthless efficiency, stepping into tackles and leaving Garonne players checking their ribs.
The referee allowed a bit of revenge against Garonne who bullied all the time.
By halftime, the score remained 1-0, but the reality on the pitch was anything but. Garonne had registered zero shots on target. They had barely crossed the halfway line.
---
In the home locker room, there was only a cold desire to inflict more damage.
"They are gassed," Henri said, walking through the room. "Their legs are gone because they have spent forty-five minutes chasing shadows and bouncing off Klaus and Leo. The second half is where we bury them. Run them into the ground."
The second half began exactly as the first had ended.
SC Valois took the kickoff and immediately pinned AS Garonne deep into their own defensive third. The 4-3-3 shape was stretching Garonne to their breaking point. Gabriel Assis was terrorizing the right flank, using his explosive pace to constantly threaten the byline, forcing Garonne to double-team him and leaving the center dangerously exposed.
Minute fifty-nine.
Baini recycled possession, finding Hugo in the pocket of space just outside the penalty area. Hugo played a brilliant, disguised pass through the legs of the Garonne defensive midfielder, finding Gabriel Assis making a darting diagonal run into the box.
Gabriel looked up. He had the angle for a shot, but the Garonne goalkeeper had rushed out to cut it off.
Gabriel showed a flash of the maturity Luc had talked into him over the past weeks. Instead of forcing the glory, the Brazilian winger squared the ball across the face of the six-yard box.
Luc, arriving at the back post.
He had completely lost his marker with a delayed, ghosting run. The ball rolled smoothly across the turf. The net was entirely empty.
Luc simply tapped it in with the inside of his left boot.
Goal.
2-0.
Too easy...
Luc jogged into the net, scooped the ball up, and pointed directly at Gabriel, acknowledging the completely unselfish assist. Gabriel grinned, jumping onto Luc’s back as the rest of the team swarmed them.
[System Notification]
[League Goals Scored: 23]
[You are currently tied for the Ligue Alpha Golden Boot.]
Luc was tied with Fresko. The GQ cover narrative was about to burn to the ground. He wasn’t the second-best striker in the country.
The cover said he was the co-king. But co-kings didn’t exist in his world.
He wanted the throne for himself.
The match resumed, but AS Garonne had officially surrendered. Their body language was disastrous. Shoulders slumped, heads down, arguing with each other over missed assignments. They were experiencing the exact same humiliation they had inflicted upon Valois months prior.
Valérie Laurent, watching from her VIP box with a glass of red wine in her hand, smiled a deeply satisfied smile. She loved revenge more than anything.
But SC Valois wasn’t finished.
---
Minute seventy-six.
Klaus Becker won a towering header in the midfield, knocking the ball down into the path of Jose Mallorca, who had been subbed on ten minutes prior to inject even more physicality into the center of the park.
Mallorca took one touch and fired a laser-guided pass out to the left wing.
Dário Ferrão, who had also come on as a substitute, brought the ball down with a pristine first touch. The Portuguese winger was fresh, hungry, and facing a Garonne right-back who looked like he wanted to fake an injury just to get off the pitch.
Dário accelerated, dropping his shoulder and completely destroying the defender with a sudden burst of pace. He drove into the penalty area, his eyes scanning for options.
Luc was occupying the two center-backs, dragging them desperately toward the near post with an aggressive run.
Dário saw the space open up behind them. Instead of crossing to Luc, Dário cut the ball back toward the penalty spot.
Hugo Blanc arrived perfectly on time.
The seventeen-year-old playmaker, who had been kicked and battered by this exact team in November, stepped onto the ball. He didn’t try to place it delicately. He channeled every ounce of frustration from the ankle injury he was forced into, opening his hips and driving his laces through the leather.
The shot was an absolute rocket. It tore through the night air, completely bypassing the diving goalkeeper, and smashed into the top right corner of the net with a thunderous crack.
Goal.
3-0.
The stadium erupted into absolute pandemonium. Hugo ran straight toward the corner flag, his face locked in a mask of pure, vindicated fury, screaming into the roaring crowd.
Luc sprinted over, tackling the teenager from behind, wrapping him in a massive bear hug. Klaus arrived a second later, ruffling the kid’s hair, while Amadou and Hernandez jogged all the way from the backline to join the celebration.
The digital clock on the massive stadium scoreboard ticked over.
78:02.
The scoreline read 3-0.
AS Garonne was completely destroyed. Their captain was staring at the grass, his hands on his hips, thoroughly humiliated.
Luc stood up from the pile of celebrating teammates, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The new SC Valois had arrived, and they were taking no prisoners. "Who the hell is Garonne?"