Chapter 85: [85] "Welcome to the Mud"
"The youth kid who pocketed you at the beginning of the season."
Luc’s hands froze on the collar of his training jacket.
The name surfaced immediately from the archives of his bruised ego.
The center-back from Belleville who had read Luc’s run on goal like a large-print children’s book and unceremoniously dumped him onto the grass in front of thousands of people.
Luc dropped his hands, smoothing the front of his jacket. He looked at Valérie, his face giving absolutely nothing away. "Amadou fucking Fall."
"Exactly," Valérie said, her dark eyes flashing with satisfaction. "Paris Royal sent their intermediaries to his agent. They wanted him for their youth academy, promising a slow integration into their first team by next year. I sent my people a day later. I offered guaranteed first-team minutes and tripled their financial package. He signs the paperwork soon, expect his arrival anytime from now."
"He’s a center-back," Luc said, processing the wiseness of the signing. "We have Ekberg and Hadj."
"Hadj is twenty-nine and his knees take longer to recover after every match," Valérie countered, walking back to her desk and picking up her bourbon.
She continued, "Ekberg is solid, but he lacks elite recovery pace. Amadou is eighteen, he’s not exactly built like a tank, but he possesses a tactical reading of the game that you yourself have intimately experienced. I am trying to build something amazing here, Beaumont. Whatever you get yourself up to at the front, he will defend the back."
Luc didn’t argue. He couldn’t. It was a ruthlessly brilliant piece of business that he was just realising.
Snatching a generational defensive prospect right out from under Paris Royal’s nose was exactly the kind of boardroom warfare Valérie thrived on.
"Let’s hope he doesn’t get in my way like your first signing," Luc said flatly. "Or I’ll return the favor from August but this time I may put him in the hospital."
Valérie laughed, the sound cold and sharp in the quiet office. "See that you don’t break too many of my investments. Now get out of my office. You have a German’s ego to break on Sunday. I’ll allow that one."
---
Sunday. January 7th 2024.
The Cup de France Round of 64.
The draw had handed SC Valois an away fixture against FC Vannes, a gritty, semi-professional side operating in the brutal lower tiers of the French football pyramid.
Sure all the Ligue Beta sides were out. But somehow FC Vannes survived the rounds.
Their stadium held barely six thousand people. The stands were essentially aluminum scaffolding, and the pitch was a patchy, frozen disaster of mud and uneven grass.
It was the furthest thing from a Champions League’s field imaginable. You might say a school’s pitch was better.
Inside the cramped, freezing away dressing room, the air smelled.
Henri stood in front of a whiteboard that was missing a wheel on its stand, making it tilt awkwardly to the left. He was drawing the tactical setup.
"Vannes will play a low block, but they won’t be passive," Henri said, his breath visible in the freezing room.
"They are physical. They will leave a foot in late. They will try to drag you into a brawl because they know they cannot match us technically. We keep the ball moving. One, two touches maximum."
Klaus Becker sat on the narrow wooden bench, his massive legs stretched out. He was staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling with an expression of profound suffering. He had barely spoken to anyone since his arrival... anyone other than Luc.
"Klaus," Henri said, tapping the board. "You anchor. You dictate the tempo, but you do not hold onto the ball. The surface is too unpredictable for long carries."
Klaus didn’t even look at the manager. He just gave a slow, arrogant nod. "I know how to play in the mud, Coach. Don’t worry about me."
Luc stood up. He walked to the center of the small room, the captain’s armband secured tightly around his left bicep. The room went entirely quiet.
"This isn’t a training session," Luc said, his voice hard, sweeping over the squad. "They are going to come for our ankles. If you take a hit, you get back up. If they try to drag us into a scrap, you let the ball do the talking. We are SC Valois. We don’t drop our level for anyone."
He turned his gaze specifically to Klaus. "We hold our shape. Nobody plays hero."
Klaus smirked, lacing his boots. "Just make sure you make the runs, American. I’ll find you."
---
Piii.
The match began under a slate-gray sky, freezing rain that had began to pour down, turning the pitch into a treacherous slip-and-slide.
FC Vannes came out exactly as Henri had predicted... like hungry dogs.
Within the first four minutes, Cillian had been clattered twice, and Bastien had been shoved into the advertising boards by a Vannes fullback who looked like he worked on a fishing trawler during the week.
The referee, a local official intimidated by the aggressive home crowd, waved play on for both incidents.
---
Minute eight.
Klaus received the ball in the center circle. The German took a touch, killing the ball elegantly despite the terrible surface.
Hugo had peeled off into a pocket of space on the right, finding a clear passing lane. "Here!" Hugo shouted.
Klaus ignored him.
The veteran took another touch, surveying the field. He was literally playing like a man who believed he had all the time in the world. He waited for a Vannes midfielder to approach, intending to casually roll the ball past him and demonstrate his gulf in class.
The Vannes midfielder didn’t bother with him at all. He launched himself into a sliding tackle with his studs raised, taking man, ball, and a massive chunk of muddy turf.
Klaus went flying, crashing hard into the mud with a shout of shock and pain.
The referee blew the whistle for a foul but didn’t reach for a card.
Klaus scrambled to his feet, his away kit covered in black mud, his face squeezed in fury.