Chapter 114: [114] "Paris Royal Part 10"
To Fontaine, the rainbow flick hung in the freezing Parisian air like a suspended moment of pure audacity from the young Valois player.
The Emperor of French football, the man who dictated the terms of almost every match he played, had just been reduced to a training cone by a nineteen-year-old kid.
But to everyone else in the stadium asides Olivier Fontaine, Bachra had already long since accelerated down the right flank with the kind of blistering, uncontainable pace that had made Valois scouts open their pockets for him.
Paris Royal’s desperate 4-2-4 formation, designed to suffocate Valois in their own box, had left a gaping, catastrophic void in their defensive third. Because Fontaine had dropped so deep out of frustration, the entire left side of the Parisian defense had shifted to compensate for his absence.
Now, there was nothing but acres of well maintained green grass ahead of the teenager.
"Go! Go! Go!" Luc roared, sprinting straight down the center channel himself, his legs burning, demanding his body to find one last reserve of energy.
Bachra went flying.
The Paris Royal left was sprinting diagonally to cut off the angle. His face was twisted in a snarl of desperation. He couldn’t let the kid cross or come inside for a shot. He couldn’t let this humiliation stand.
Bachra reached the edge of the eighteen-yard box. He looked up, his eyes briefly meeting Luc’s as the captain crashed toward the penalty spot.
The Paris Royal left-back came in like a swipper. He didn’t drop his hips to jockey and he definitely didn’t try to contain. Driven by the panic of an impending Valois goal and the residual rage that would later follow from his captain being humiliated, the defender launched himself into a reckless, two-footed sliding tackle meant to take the ball, the man, and everything else into the advertising boards.
Bachra saw it coming.
With a microscopic, lightning-fast twitch of his right ankle, the teenager nudged the ball a mere inch forward.
The defender’s cleats missed the leather entirely. Instead, they caught Bachra flush on the shin guard with a sickening crack that echoed over the roaring crowd.
Bachra was launched into the air, flipping violently before crashing hard into the turf, clutching his leg.
The referee, trailing the play by twenty yards, didn’t even hesitate. He blew his whistle with immediate fury, sprinting toward the box while simultaneously pointing directly to the penalty spot.
Piii!
PENALTY.
Parc des Royals descended into a state of anarchy. The Paris Royal players swarmed the referee, screaming, gesturing wildly, pointing at the grass, claiming Bachra had dived, claiming the tackle was clean.
Bastien Leroux ran over, grabbing the referee’s shoulder in a frantic plea, only to be shoved away by an equally furious Klaus Becker.
"Back off the official!" Klaus bellowed, inserting his massive frame between the Paris Royal players and the referee like a riot shield. Jose Mallorca arrived a second later, shoving a Parisian center-back square in the chest, his own aggressive side flaring up.
"Don’t fucking touch him!" Mallorca growled, his eyes wide and wild.
Luc didn’t participate in the shoving contest. He didn’t argue with anyone.
He walked deliberately into the chaos, his eyes fixed on the penalty spot. He bent down, picked up the match ball from the mud, and tucked it under his left arm. The Aura of a striker about to bury a pen was practically vibrating off him, he made the protesting Paris Royal defenders part ways as he walked past them.
He walked over to Bachra, who was still sitting on the turf, rubbing his shin guard. Dário Ferrão was already there, helping the teenager stretch his leg out.
"You okay?" Luc asked, his voice steady.
Bachra looked up, a massive, pain-laced grin spreading across his face. "I chipped fucking Fontaine, Captain. I don’t care if my leg is broken."
"Way to humiliate him," Luc laughed, offering a hand and pulling the teenager to his feet. "Now go stand outside the box. Let me finish what you started."
Luc walked to the penalty spot. He placed the ball down carefully, ensuring the valve was facing away from his boot. He took four deliberate steps backward.
Sixty thousand fans were screaming obscenities. A green laser pointer flickered across Luc’s cheek, trying to blind him. The noise was equal to a physical weight, pressing against his eardrums, demanding that he miss. Demanding that he fold under the pressure of the Parisian empire.
[System Notification]
[Balance: 0 General Points | 0 Skill Points]
[Consumables: Tactical Mute Available.]
[Warning: You are completely empty of anything that will help in this situation. No safety nets. No auras. Just you and the ball.]
Luc ignored the laser. He ignored the screaming and instead just looked at the Paris Royal goalkeeper. The keeper was jumping up and down, waving his arms, trying to make himself look gigantic. He was trying to get into Luc’s head, trying to guess which way the American was going to go.
Luc didn’t engage in mind games with the keeper or look at the corners. He just stared dead center, his breathing slowing down to a rhythmic, focused cadence. For any other player, the heartbeat would fasten...not Luc.
The referee backed the encroaching players out of the penalty box. He raised his whistle to his lips.
Piii.
Luc began his run-up.
He didn’t try to freeze the keeper or force an early movement with a stutter.
He approached the ball with terrifying, mechanical efficiency. He planted his right foot firmly into the turf, opened his hips, and drove his left instep through the ball with every single ounce of strength he had left in his exhausted body.
The strike was near absolute perfection for a penalty.
The goalkeeper guessed right, diving at full stretch. But it didn’t matter. The ball was like a blur of black and white, rocketing into the top left corner with such ferocious power that the net snapped backward violently, the cords straining against the steel frame.
Goal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
4-2.
Hat-trick for Captain Luc Beaumont.