Chapter 209: [209] "No, sit down"
The tunnel beneath the stands of Stade Valois was typically a corridor filled with loud and aggressive energy during the halftime interval. It was a place where adrenaline peaked, where Kévin Aubert usually shouted encouragements, and where Klaus Becker barked positional corrections before they even reached the dressing room doors.
Today, the tunnel felt like a vacuum.
The only sound accompanying the squad as they made their way off the grass was the annoying scrape of studs against the hard floor. The black and gold home kits were plastered to their bodies, soaked with sweat and the damp chill of the evening air. Nobody spoke. The silence was thick with the unshakeable scoreline of the half they had just left behind.
Valois 0 - Nantaise 1
Olympique Nantaise, a team sitting in fourteenth place, a squad fighting desperately just to avoid relegation to Ligue Beta, had walked into their stadium and successfully executed a flawless smash-and-grab counter-attack.
Pinto walked near the back of the line. The backup goalkeeper kept his eyes firmly anchored to the floor. His gloves were still covered with the grass of the goal area. He had done exactly what he had been instructed to do before kickoff. He had stayed on his line. He had refused to abandon his six-yard box. He had trusted his center-backs to handle the transition. But when Amadou Fall’s slide tackle was chopped and skillfully aborted by the opposition striker, Pinto’s rigid adherence to his positioning had given the forward the entire width of the net to aim at.
Amadou Fall walked a few paces ahead of the keeper. The Senegalese defender usually carried himself with a quiet, towering dignity, but his shoulders were currently slumped. The mud stained the side of his shorts from his desperate, failed slide tackle. He replayed the sequence in his mind with every step.
He had the pace. He had closed the gap. He had simply been beaten by the experience of a striker who knew exactly how to manipulate a recovering defender’s momentum.
Klaus Becker pushed the double doors of the home dressing room open. This time he didn’t hold it for the rest of the team. He walked straight to his designated locker, unceremoniously dropped his captain’s armband onto the wooden bench, and sat down with an exhausted sigh.
Bense Baini followed him inside. The Moroccan midfielder didn’t even make it to his own locker. He collapsed onto the nearest empty seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his chest rising and falling violently.
The damage of the first forty-five minutes was glaringly obvious. The medical staff immediately dispersed into the room, handing out electrolyte drinks, fresh towels, and ice packs, but they didn’t offer any words. They knew better than to speak when the team was in this state.
Pinto in for Blažek.
That single tactical adjustment had forced Klaus and Baini to cover an ungodly amount of grass. Every time Nantaise cleared the ball, the double pivot had to sprint backward, then instantly pivot and sprint forward. They had spent forty-five minutes running against a team that refused to leave their own penalty area and only ran themselves during a counter.
Hugo Blanc took his seat quietly, he grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. His face remained neutral, betraying neither frustration nor exhaustion. He stared at the whiteboard positioned in the center of the room, his eyes tracking the red and blue that represented their current, broken formation.
𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦
He knew exactly why the system was failing. The passing lanes were too long. The transition time allowed Nantaise to reset their low block before Valois could exploit any gaps.
On the opposite side of the room, the substitutes sat together. They had spent the first half wearing training jackets, watching the frustrating stalemate unfold from the dugout, until it was a stalemate no longer.
Max Caster leaned forward on the bench. The sixteen-year-old American had a clear view of the exhausted starting eleven. He looked at Idriss Konaté, who was currently cursing under his breath while untying his boots. Idriss had spent the entire half receiving zero usable service.
Max understood the flaw inherently. Playing a traditional target man against a team defending with a deep, compressed block was inefficient. It gave the center-backs exactly what they wanted, a static physical reference point to mark and batter.
Max knew the solution. He had executed it flawlessly just a few days prior in the Cup Quarter-Final against Union Aquitaine. The strikerless system. Dropping a false nine into the midfield to drag the center-backs out of position and create numerical superiority in the center of the pitch.
The teenager felt a surge of restless ambition. He looked around the room, noting the absence of Coach Henri. The manager always delayed his entrance by three to four minutes, giving the players time to hydrate and process their own errors before he began his corrections.
Max made a decision. He began to stand up, his eyes shifting toward the closed office door at the back of the dressing room where Henri was likely reviewing his notes.
Before Max could fully lock his knees and take a step, a firm hand clamped down on his wrist.
Bachra Goza, sitting immediately to Max’s left, gripped the younger player’s arm with surprising strength. The nineteen-year-old Spanish winger didn’t say a word initially. He simply pulled downward, forcing Max back onto the bench.
Max frowned, turning his head to look at Bachra. He motioned slightly with his free hand toward the office door, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. He wanted to suggest the tactical shift. He wanted to tell the coach that he was warm and rearing to go, that he understood the assignment, and that he could break the Nantaise low block just like he had broken Aquitaine.
Bachra met Max’s gaze with a serious stare that had none of his usual arrogance. He shook his head once, a definitive movement that communicated his clear disapproval at that action.