Chapter 101: [101] "The New XI"
"If you want Zack and Yannick to stop fighting, you have to remove their fear of failing," Zara instructed, stepping closer. "They might need a shared enemy that isn’t themselves...or, you know, an ally in their captain. In training today, maybe don’t let them defend alone if they meet their match."
"Try telling someone to drop and assist them. Show them that the captain protects them when they fail or before they fail. If they know you have their backs, they might stop swinging at each other and start swinging at the opposition."
Luc thought it was brilliant, and it was something he should have already done, whether he was in a yellow bib or the blue. It was exactly the kind of man-management Mateo used to deploy, the kind of leadership that couldn’t be bought with General Points or Skill Points.
"I’ll make sure I do that."
"Good." Zara checked her phone. "I have to get back to the Paris Royal. Rose is likely wondering where I am right now."
She turned to leave, but Luc called out.
"Zara."
She paused, looking over her shoulder.
"Thanks for the coffee," Luc said. "And the advice. Bachra is lucky to have you looking over his shoulder."
Zara offered a tight smile.
"He’s an idiot," she said fondly. "But he’s my idiot. Make sure he succeeds, Captain, or I will hold you personally responsible."
With that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the fog.
Luc stood alone in the park, the hot coffee warming his hands.
He took a final sip of the black coffee and headed back to the Porsche.
---
Friday morning...training.
The training pitch thumped loudly under twenty-three pairs of elite...and not yet so elite football boots.
Henri stood in the center circle, he looked around. There was no room for banter or light jogging. The arrival of the new signings had turned the training ground into something else. Every pass, every touch, every sprint became an audition.
"Listen up! Tomorrow we host SC Corse. They are a physical team. They will sit deep and hope it’s enough. We are deploying the 4-3-3. Today’s scrimmage will dictate who wears the starting kit tomorrow. Yellow bibs, you are the presumed A-team. Blue bibs, you are the B-team. I want to see how the new pieces fit."
Henri started calling out the names for the yellow bibs.
"Blažek. Aubert. Hernandez. Amadou. Owusu."
The backline. Leo Hernandez, the new signing from Phocéen, pulled a yellow bib over his massive shoulders. Amadou Fall took his silently, his expression unreadable.
"Midfield," Henri continued. "Klaus. Baini. Hugo."
Bense Baini slipped his yellow bib on, offering a brief, professional nod to Klaus. The German and the Algerian looked like a midfield pairing that could comfortably dictate terms in a war. Hugo took his spot ahead of them.
"Wingers. Gabriel on the right. Sordell on the left."
Alex Sordell, the Italian signing from Intermilani, smirked as he pulled his bib on. Dário Ferrão, standing in the blue bib group, clenched his fists so hard the vein under his skin almost leaped out. Gabriel adjusted his yellow bib and started jogging.
"Striker," Henri said, his eyes flicking between Luc and Idriss.
The squad paused whatever they were doing to hear this.
"Beaumont. Yellow."
Luc stepped forward and took the bib. He didn’t look at Idriss. He didn’t need to. Idriss pulled a blue bib over his head.
"Alright," Henri shouted, stepping back. "Full pitch. Match intensity. Let’s see if you slackers can still play football. No more dinners anytime soon."
He blew his whistle.
The scrimmage was chaotic for the first five minutes. The 4-3-3 was a completely different puzzle than the two-striker system they had utilized somewhat effectively. In the old system, Luc and Idriss right behind him shared the burden of occupying the center-backs. If one dropped deep, the other ran in behind.
Now, Luc was an island. He was all on his own in the top central position.
He was flanked by Hadj and Ekberg, who were disappointed to be dropped into the blue bib team. The two center-backs, who had been his wall for 99% of his matches so far this season, were marking the yellow team’s attackers with such terrifying intensity that the pitch felt compressed.
Klaus received the ball deep. The German looked up, scanning the field. Sordell was wide on the left, demanding the ball with a wave of his hand. Klaus ignored the Italian and zipped a pass centrally to Baini.
Baini didn’t hold it. With a clean first touch, the Algerian veteran redirected the ball instantly to Hugo, completely bypassing the blue team’s pressing midfield that consisted of Cillian, Mallorca and the young center back Yannick Cabral, who was pushed up into defensive midfielder to make up.
"Gabriel!" Hugo shouted.
The ball went into the right channel. Gabriel hit top speed leaving Zack Florez...who was playing left-back for the blue team, chasing a yellow blur.
Luc sprinted toward the box.
"Cross it!" Luc demanded.
But Gabriel didn’t cross. The Brazilian cut inside, trying to beat a second defender, and lost the ball to a crunching tackle from Ekberg.
"Gabriel!" Luc shouted, his voice echoing across the empty complex. "If you beat your man, put the ball in the dangerous area! You don’t need to beat the whole backline, Goddamnit!"
Gabriel raised a hand in acknowledgment, though he didn’t look particularly apologetic. Only he knows why he abandoned his usual sprint and cross to try beating a defender on the inside.
Maybe the dribbling talent of Bachra made him feel a bit lacking.
Barely two minutes later, the ball found its way to Alex Sordell on the left wing. The Italian was highly technical, his feet moving in rapid, mesmerizing patterns as he isolated Edouard, the right back in the blue bib. Sordell looked up, saw Luc making a near-post run, but decided the angle wasn’t to his liking. He cut back onto his right foot, slowing the tempo down.
Luc’s saw space, but the blue defense was resetting. The window was closing.
"Rilasciarlo!" (Release it!) Luc roared in perfect, sharp Italian, pointing to the gap between the center-backs. "Nello spazio, ora!" (Into the space, now!).
Sordell’s head snapped up, visibly shocked to hear his native tongue barked with such commanding authority by an American. The sheer surprise broke his hesitation. Muscle memory took over. Sordell whipped in a fast pass directly into the corridor Luc had pointed to.
Luc shot the ball first time, it tore past Pinto in the blue goal and nearly ripped the netting off the frame.
Goal.
Luc turned around. Sordell was staring at him, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across the Italian’s face.
"Bel movimento, Capitano," (Good movement, Captain) Sordell called out, pointing a finger at him.
"Mettila lì ogni volta," (Put it there every time) Luc replied.
[System Notification]
[Locker Room Cohesion: 58% (Better, but not the best)]
[Linguistic integration successful. The Italian respects that you know his language well.]
On the sideline, Henri was furiously scribbling notes.
The rest of the session was a showcase of sheer firepower. With Baini acting as the connective tissue, Klaus was free to dominate the physical battles. Hugo, relieved of his heavier defensive burdens, danced between the lines, feeding Gabriel and Sordell.
And Luc was the focal point. He didn’t just score, he held up the ball, bullying the smaller of the two center-backs...the one he more likely thought he could, laying off one-touch passes to the wingers, proving exactly why a lone number nine had to be a complete forward, not just a poacher.
Idriss watched from the blue team, he wasn’t pressing as Henri instructed, his frustration mounting with every clinical touch Luc made. The Ivorian was brilliant, but he was a runner, a finisher. He didn’t have the sheer physical presence to anchor a three-man frontline by himself against elite center-backs. The realization was setting in, how cold and bitter it was.
Luc, once upon a time wasn’t the best physically. "Thank you, TES." He said to himself.
When Henri finally blew the whistle to end the session, the yellow team had dismantled the blues 4-0.
They retreated to the locker room after the session. Henri walked in.
He wrote eleven names on the board.
Blažek.
Aubert. Hernandez. Amadou. Owusu.
Klaus. Baini. Hugo.
Gabriel. Luc. Sordell.
Henri capped the marker. "This is the starting eleven for SC Corse tomorrow. If your name is not on the board, you are on the bench. I expect the bench to be ready to change the game at a moment’s notice. The 4-3-3 drains the wingers. So subs, you will be used, I assure you."
He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the men who had been left out. Dário. Hadj. Ekberg. Idriss. Cillian...the older squad members.
"Rest up. Tomorrow, we continue to show the league what we are made of."
Henri walked out.
The players stood to leave. Luc was packing his boots into his bag. He felt someone approaching him.