Chapter 169: [169] "Grade-two contusion"
"I am telling you, he didn’t even look at the ball," Cillian was saying loudly, pointing toward the corner where the younger players sat. "He dropped his left shoulder, the center-back completely bought the fake, and then the kid just vanished! I swear to God, the defender is still out there checking his pockets to see where he went."
Max Caster sat at his locker, a white towel draped over his head, desperately trying to hide a massive, embarrassed grin. The sixteen-year-old was staring at his boots, his chest still heaving from the physical output of his abbreviated first-half cameo.
Klaus Becker walked, grabbing a fresh towel. The massive German veteran didn’t smile often, but as he passed Max’s locker, he reached out and slapped the back of the teenager’s neck with heavy, affectionate approval.
"Good feet," Klaus rumbled, his deep voice cutting easily through Cillian’s commentary. "Next time, break the netting. Not the post."
Luc unhooked his arm from the staff member and hopped the last two steps to his own locker, leaning his weight against the locker frame. The conversations in the room paused for a second as the squad noticed their injured captain.
Luc immediately pointed a finger across the room at the teenager.
"You keep carving up defenses like that," Luc said, his voice flat but carrying a distinct edge of respect, "and I’m going to be out of a starting spot by next month."
A collective laugh broke the remaining tension in the room. Max pulled the towel off his head, his face flushed red, and offered a quick, deferential nod to Luc. The kid had earned his place today. He hadn’t just survived the pressure of replacing the league’s top scorer, he had actively terrorized the opposition.
The dressing room doors swung open again, hitting the wall with a loud thud.
Coach Henri marched into the room. The manager’s face screamed ’rigid concentration’. He didn’t look pleased about the lead. He looked like he knew exactly how dangerous a wounded animal could be.
"Sit down," Henri commanded.
The squad instantly obeyed, the celebratory atmosphere evaporating as they shifted back into a strictly professional mindset.
"We are up one-nil," Henri stated, pacing slowly across the center of the room. "They are down to ten men. Do not, for one second, believe that the second half will be easy. They are going to park a bus inside their penalty area. They will put nine men behind the ball and challenge us to find a gap. If we get frustrated, if we start forcing long passes into crowded spaces, they will counter us."
Henri turned and pointed his marker at the whiteboard, tapping the space just outside the penalty box.
"Max," Henri said. "You continue exactly as you did. Drop deep. Force their center-back to make a decision. If he holds his line, you turn and drive at him. Do not hesitate. Gabriel, Dário, you maintain width. Make the pitch as massive as possible. Stretch their full-backs."
Before Henri could continue his breakdown of the midfield rotation, a hand clamped down firmly on Luc’s left shoulder.
"We need to go," a voice murmured near his ear.
Luc turned his head. The interim head physiotherapist, was standing beside him, holding a medical kit. The man’s expression was strictly clinical, disconnected from the tactical discussion happening in the room.
Luc sighed, a heavy breath of frustration escaping his lungs. He wanted to stay for the rest of the tactical briefing. He wanted to feel involved in the match he had started. But the throbbing in his knee had escalated from a dull heat to a spike every time he shifted his weight on the bench.
"Right," Luc muttered. He pushed himself up using the locker for leverage, avoiding putting any pressure on his right foot.
He hobbled out of the dressing room, following the interim down the quiet hallway that led to the stadium’s primary medical bay.
The air in the medical room was significantly colder than the rest of the stadium, maintained at a specific temperature to aid in rapid recovery and reduce inflammation. Stainless steel examination tables lined the walls, bathed in harsh, fluorescent white light.
"Sit," he instructed, gesturing toward the nearest table.
Luc hopped up onto the padded surface, letting his legs dangle over the edge.
Detone, the interim, immediately grabbed a pair of heavy medical shears from his kit and knelt in front of Luc. Without asking for permission, the physio slid the blades under the thick layer of athletic tape securing Luc’s right sock and shin guard, cutting straight through the material.
He pulled the sock down, exposing the knee.
Luc looked down at his own leg. The visual confirmation of the pain was jarring. A massive contusion was already blooming just below. The skin was raised and swollen, colored in harsh shades of purple and deep black, marking the exact point of impact where Khalil’s cleats had driven into the bone.
"It looks worse than it feels," Luc lied, gripping the edges of the examination table.
"I highly doubt that," Detone replied dryly.
The physio placed his hands firmly on either side of the knee joint. "I need to run the usual tests. This is going to hurt, Captain. Do not tense your muscles. Let me feel the laxity in the joint."
Luc closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow down, deliberately relaxing his quadriceps and hamstrings.
Detone performed the Lachman test first, stabilizing the femur and pulling the tibia forward to check the integrity of the anterior cruciate ligament. A sharp spike of pain flared through the bruising, but the joint itself didn’t shift. It held firm.
Detone then shifted his grip, rotating the knee slightly while applying pressure to check the meniscus and the collateral ligaments.
"No unnatural shifting," he reported, stepping back and reaching for a massive plastic wrap of crushed ice. "The ACL, solid. The MCL is intact. You absorbed the blunt force directly into the bone and the surrounding deep tissue. It is a grade-two contusion."
Luc let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.