Chapter 123: [123] "The Kids Are Alright 2"
Next rep. Sordell delivered the cross. Max found himself in a chaotic scramble, the ball bouncing between a training mannequin and the penalty spot. Again, his close control allowed him to pluck the ball out of the air instantly, effortlessly bringing it to the grass. But when he pulled the trigger, he leaned back too far.
The ball sailed three yards over the crossbar.
Luc stood by the edge of the drill, watching the teenager’s shoulders slump. Max possessed world-class ball manipulation, but the moment he was required to end the play, he overthought it. He tried to be too precise, too perfect. He lacked the absolute, cold-blooded killer instinct required to survive as a striker in Ligue Alpha. He was the least lethal forward on the roster.
Luc walked over to the kid, clapping him on the shoulder.
"You’re treating the ball like a pet, Max," Luc said quietly, ensuring the other players didn’t hear the critique. "You’re trying to guide it into the net nicely."
Max wiped sweat from his forehead, looking frustrated. "I’m trying to hit the corners, Luc. If I just blast it, I lose accuracy."
"You don’t need absolute precision if the ball is moving faster than the keeper’s reaction time," Luc corrected. "Your first touch is incredible. You buy yourself an extra second in the box because the ball sticks to you. Use that second to plant your standing foot harder, and drive through the center of the ball. Stop asking the ball to go in. Tell it to go in."
Max nodded slowly, absorbing the captain’s advice. "Tell it to go in. Right."
"Try it next time," Luc said, jogging back to the line.
Henri blew his whistle again, shifting the focus of the session entirely.
"Isolation!" Henri shouted, pointing to the wide channels of the pitch. "One-on-one defending. Wingers, your job is to beat the fullback and cross. Fullbacks, your job is to lock them down. No help defense. No double teams. Just you and your man."
The drill was designed to test the defensive integrity of the fullbacks. In the 4-3-3, if a winger failed to track back, the fullback was left on an island. Henri needed to know who could survive.
Kévin Aubert went first against Dário. Aubert was a veteran, holding his ground and forcing Dário out wide, successfully blocking the cross.
"Zack! You’re up!" Henri called out.
Zack Florez, the eighteen-year-old youth promotion, stepped onto the left side of the pitch. He looked nervous, his eyes darting toward Gabriel Assis, who was currently tying his boots. Zack was the kid who had nearly gotten into a fistfight with Yannick at the club dinner because Gabriel had humiliated him in a team scrimmage.
But this time, Sordell was his first opponent.
The Italian veteran received the ball and immediately launched into a series of rapid, mesmerizing step-overs, trying to hypnotize the teenager. Sordell dropped his shoulder, attempting to cut inside onto his favored right foot.
Zack didn’t bite.
Unlike the team scrimmage, where Zack was constantly checking his shoulder to see if Yannick was covering him, here, in absolute isolation, the teenager’s focus narrowed to a razor-sharp point. He didn’t look at Sordell’s dancing feet. He watched Sordell’s waist.
The moment Sordell pushed the ball inside, Zack stepped in hard, using his body perfectly to shield the Italian from the ball, executing a clean, textbook standing tackle.
"Good!" Henri shouted.
Zack jogged back to his starting position, looking slightly more confident.
Next was Gabriel Assis. The Brazilian received the ball and didn’t bother with tricks. He pushed the ball ten yards down the touchline and simply tried to detonate past Zack using his pure, Olympic-level sprinting speed.
It was exactly what had destroyed Zack in the 11-v-11 scrimmage.
But in an isolated 1-v-1, Zack didn’t have to worry about the offside trap or maintaining a defensive line with his center-backs. He simply turned and ran. He had excellent recovery pace, but more importantly, he understood angles. He ran shoulder-to-shoulder with Gabriel, legally checking the Brazilian just enough to disrupt his stride, forcing Gabriel so close to the touchline that the winger simply ran the ball out of bounds.
"Excellent, Florez," Klaus murmured approvingly from the center circle.
Finally, Bachra Goza stepped up. The La Masia teenager was feeling incredibly confident after his cup performance. He received the ball, jogging slowly toward Zack, waiting for the defender to commit.
Bachra attempted the exact same devastating croqueta he had used against SC Corse, shifting the ball from his right to his left in a blur of motion.
Zack planted his feet, refusing to lunge. He waited for the exact millisecond the ball was exposed between Bachra’s boots and simply poked his toe forward, dispossessing the flashy winger instantly.
Bachra stopped, staring at the ball rolling away, genuinely surprised.
Luc watched from the sideline, crossing his arms. The revelation was clear. In a chaotic, shifting defensive line, Zack Florez lacked communication skills and spatial awareness, causing him to panic and blame his teammates. But put him on an island, isolated against a single attacker with zero variables to process, and the kid was an absolute lockdown defender.
Henri scribbled furiously on his tablet, clearly making the exact same assessment.
The whistle blew to end the intense session.
The squad gathered in the center circle, their muscles burning from the high-intensity drills.
"Better," Henri said, looking around the circle. "We are sharper. We are aggressive. On Monday, AS Garonne is going to try to drag us into a physical brawl. They will try to bully the midfield and counter-attack the wings."
Henri paused, his eyes hardening.
"Do not let them. We are third in the league. We are in the quarter-finals of the Cup. We do not get bullied in our own stadium anymore."
The squad broke apart, heading toward the locker rooms.
Luc walked beside Klaus, the German’s massive frame moving with a relaxed, predatory grace.
"The kids are improving," Klaus noted, gesturing slightly toward Max and Zack, who were walking ahead of them. "The American boy has magnets in his boots. And the left-back has no fear when he doesn’t have to think about anyone else."
"They have potential," Luc agreed. "But potential doesn’t win on Monday."
"No," Klaus said, glancing sideways at his captain. "Goals win on Monday. And I read the papers, Beaumont. Twenty-three goals for the man in Phocéen, yes?"
Luc’s jaw tightened. "Twenty-one for me."
"Then you have a busy Monday ahead of you," Klaus smirked. "Do not worry. I will make sure the ball finds you."