Chapter 113: [113] "Paris Royal Part 9"
Jose Mallorca arrived like a guided missile. The London Blue signing didn’t just tackle Bastien, he almost devoured him.
It was a crunching, perfectly timed, intensely physical English League-style challenge that sent Bastien crashing to the turf and sent the ball rocketing out to the right flank.
"Get up, mate," Mallorca muttered in English, instantly back on his feet and scanning the field, his chest barely heaving.
Klaus Becker watched the tackle and let out a sharp bark of approval. "Good work!"
With Mallorca sweeping the defensive third like a rabid guard dog, Klaus was free to push slightly higher, linking up with Hugo to maintain possession. The dynamic of the midfield had changed. Paris Royal could no longer just pass through them, they had to fight through Mallorca, and the Englishman wasn’t giving them an inch.
On the left wing, Dário Ferrão was a menace. He was fresh, hungry, and desperate to prove he was still a starting-caliber winger. Every time Valois recovered the ball, Dário was making blistering runs down the touchline, forcing the Paris Royal defense to stretch and track him, alleviating the pressure on the Valois backline.
And then there was Bachra Goza.
The nineteen-year-old had a reputation for flair, arrogance, and a severe lack of defensive responsibility. But as he took up his position on the right wing, he remembered the conversation with his Captain.
When the Paris Royal left-back, the same internationally capped defender who had battled Gabriel all night, tried to push forward, Bachra didn’t stand still. The teenager put his head down and sprinted back, tracking his man step for step.
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Minute seventy-eight.
The Paris Royal left-back tried to muscle Bachra off the ball near the corner flag. It was a harsh, physical shoulder charge meant to intimidate the kid. Bachra went down hard, tumbling across the wet grass.
The Paris crowd cheered the physical dominance, expecting the flashy teenager to complain to the referee or stay on the ground rubbing his ankle.
Bachra didn’t. He popped right back up to his feet, and instantly threw himself back into the defensive shape. No complaints. No diving. Just pure, gritty football.
Luc, watching from his position on the pitch, nodded in approval. The kid was learning.
Minute eighty-two.
The desperation inside Parc des Royals was palpable. The 4-2-4 formation was leaving massive gaps in the midfield, but Paris Royal didn’t care. They were throwing numbers forward, lobbing crosses into the box, trying to force a mistake from Amadou or Hernandez. Blažek was forced into a spectacular, diving fingertip save to deny a long-range effort from a Paris Royal midfielder.
Olivier Fontaine was growing visibly infuriated.
He was starved of service intended for him. Hernandez and Amadou were practically draped over his shoulders, and whenever Bastien tried to find him, Mallorca was there to intercept or disrupt the play. Fontaine, a player who thrived on cold, calculated efficiency, was starting to let the emotional weight of the match drag him out of position.
He began dropping deeper and deeper into the midfield, trying to collect the ball himself to force an equalizer.
"Hold!" Luc barked, pointing at his center-backs. "Do not follow him! Let him drop!"
Minute eighty-four.
Paris Royal launched another desperate attack. The ball was whipped into the Valois penalty area, but Amadou Fall rose majestically, beating Fontaine to the ball and heading it powerfully out towards the right flank.
The clearance was long and high, sailing toward the right midfield touchline.
Bachra Goza, standing near the halfway line, tracked the flight of the ball. He was completely isolated on the right side. There were no immediate passing options, and the Paris Royal defense was rapidly transitioning to close him down.
Olivier Fontaine, having dropped deep out of sheer frustration, was the closest Parisian player to the ball.
He saw the La Masia teenager waiting for the clearance to drop. Fontaine’s eyes narrowed. He was tired of the disrespect from the few away fans. He was tired of Valois defending him like beasts in his own stadium. He pinned his ears back and charged at Bachra like a train, intending to smash through the teenager, win the ball, and spark a counter-attack himself.
It was a terrifying sight. The league’s most lethal, intimidating player sprinting at full speed toward a nineteen-year-old kid.
"Bachra, clear it!" Henri screamed from the touchline, terrified the kid was going to lose the ball in a critical area.
Bachra didn’t clear it.
He didn’t panic. He didn’t brace for impact either. He stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto the dropping ball, completely ignoring the towering figure of Fontaine bearing down on him.
The stadium held its breath. Fontaine closed the distance, extending his leg to launch a bruising tackle the exact second the ball reached the teenager.
It was minute eighty-five as the ball fell to knee height. Bachra moved towards it.
He chose to trap it instead of even passing it out to a teammate first time. In a display of sheer, childish but technical arrogance, Bachra pinned the dropping ball under his heels in a flawless motion.
The ball came to a brilliant stop under him. The crowd, both home and away knew it was smooth.
Fontaine committed to the tackle.
With a flick of his ankles that almost certainly defied gravity, Bachra rolled the ball up the back of his own calf and vaulted it high into the freezing air.
A rainbow flick!
The ball looped beautifully, soaring straight over Olivier Fontaine’s head. The King’s momentum carried him forward, his tackle grasping at empty air as he stumbled past the teenager. Fontaine whipped his head around, his eyes wide with unfiltered shock as he watched the ball sail over him.
Bachra simply spun around the bewildered striker, catching the ball seamlessly on his chest on the other side. He didn’t even look back at Fontaine. He just dropped the ball to his feet and accelerated down the open wing, leaving the Emperor of French football in the midfield, completely and utterly humiliated.