Chapter 173: [173] "Subs combine"
Valois strung together thirty, forty, fifty consecutive passes. They were making Belleville run side-to-side, draining the last remaining reserves of oxygen from their lungs.
Luc’s right knee was throbbing heavily now, the adrenaline from his own goal long gone. The ice pack wrapped around his joint was beginning to melt, sending cold droplets down his calf.
He watched Max Caster operating in the false nine role. The sixteen-year-old was putting in a massive shift, dropping deep to link play, constantly offering himself as an outlet for Klaus and Hugo. But Max was starting to look heavy-legged. He had been subjected to the physical reality of Ligue Alpha for nearly forty minutes.
Henri noticed it too.
The manager looked at his watch. Minute seventy-five.
Henri turned to the bench again. "Idriss. Get your shirt on."
Idriss Konaté leaped off the bench. The Ivorian striker had been pacing the technical area for the last twenty minutes, desperate for a taste of the action. He stripped his training jacket off, his powerful frame already loose and ready.
Henri pulled Idriss and Max Caster, who had jogged over to the touchline for a quick water break, together.
"Hugo is coming off," Henri instructed rapidly. "He took that nasty challenge earlier, and I am not risking him for the final fifteen minutes against a team that might just start tackling us out of spite."
Max blinked, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Who is replacing him in the middle, Coach?"
"You are," Henri said, pointing a firm finger at the teenager’s chest. "You are moving out of the false nine. You drop into Hugo’s exact position. Idriss is going up top as a traditional striker. Max, you do not dribble into traffic from the ten role. You receive, you turn, and you feed Idriss. He is going to occupy their defense. Exploit the space he creates."
Idriss nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "Just put it in the box, kid. I’ll handle the rest."
The next time the ball went out of play, the board went up.
Red for the maestro. Green for the second striker.
Hugo Blanc began his jog toward the touchline. The moment the fans realized who was coming off, Stade Valois rose in a unified, thunderous standing ovation. Thirty thousand people applauding the seventeen-year-old who had shattered their minds with a perfectly executed knuckleball.
Hugo didn’t wave to the crowd. He kept his head down, maintaining his stoic demeanor, but he clapped his hands together once, acknowledging the noise. He slapped hands with Idriss as they crossed paths on the chalk.
Idriss sprinted onto the pitch, immediately pointing to where he wanted Max to position himself. The tactical reshuffle completely altered the geometry of the Valois attack.
For the past thirty minutes, Belleville had dealt with Max dropping away from them, forcing them to push up if they wanted to engage. Now, they had Idriss Konaté, a pure target man standing on the toes of their defense.
Max Caster slotted into the space just behind Idriss. The transition from false nine to traditional playmaker was not seamless.
In the eightieth minute, Klaus drilled a pass into Max’s feet. Max was facing the away goal, but a Belleville midfielder was tracking him tightly from behind. Max attempted to take a heavy touch to spin the defender, reverting to his dribbling instincts.
The midfielder anticipated it, stepping to him and poking the ball away, initiating a rare Belleville counter-attack that was immediately crushed by a ruthless sliding tackle from Amadou Fall.
"Release it!" Klaus bellowed from ten yards away, pointing at Max. "You are not a forward anymore! Two touches! Then pass! C’mon kid."
Max gritted his teeth, nodding. He was a quick learner. The environment demanded rapid adaptation, or it would spit him out.
Minute eighty-four.
Belleville was hanging on by a thread. Their shape was a mess, their legs were gone, and they were simply trying to avoid conceding a third goal.
Cillian Doyle intercepted a weak clearance and immediately funneled the ball wide to Dário Ferrão on the left. Dário took one touch down the line, drawing the right-back out, before cutting a sharp, backward pass toward the center.
Max Caster found the pocket of space.
This time, the sixteen-year-old didn’t try to turn his man. He let the ball run across his body, taking a single touch with the inside of his left boot to set himself.
He kept his head up.
Idriss Konaté was wrestling with the Belleville center-back just inside the penalty area. The defender was using both hands to grab Idriss’s jersey, desperate to prevent the striker from gaining leverage.
Max remembered Henri’s instructions. With a swift, forward motion of his right foot, Max threaded a low, perfectly weighted pass between the legs of the Belleville holding midfielder. The ball skidded across th grass, slicing straight into the penalty area.
Idriss felt the center-back shift his weight to intercept.
The Ivorian striker didn’t fight the leverage. He used it. Idriss rolled his massive shoulders, spinning off the defender, leaving the center-back clutching thin air.
The pass from Max arrived perfectly into Idriss’s path, exactly twelve yards from the goal line.
Idriss had been starved of minutes for weeks. He simply pulled his right leg back and unleashed absolute hell.
The strike was pure, carrying unadulterated power.
The ball rocketed off his laces with a sound like a gunshot. It didn’t curve. It didn’t dip. It tore through the air in a straight line, passing through the goalkeeper before he could even twitch his gloves.
The ball smashed into the roof of the net.
Goal.
3-0.
Idriss sprinted away, letting out a primal roar. He ran straight toward the corner flag, grabbing it with both hands and shaking it aggressively before turning back.
Max let out a massive sigh of relief, jogging over to join the ensuing pile-up of black and gold jerseys. The kid had successfully navigated two completely different tactical roles in a few minutes of professional football, securing an assist to cap off his performance.
Luc smiled from the shadows of the tunnel. The Idriss goal gave him a bit of comfort despite his pain.
Three goals. Zero conceded. Second in the table. Five points between them and Phocéen at third.
The final minutes of the match were entirely ceremonial. Valois passed the ball around the backline, letting the clock bleed out while Belleville stood in their rigid, defeated shape, refusing to press.
When the referee finally blew three sharp blasts on his whistle to signal the end of the match, the stadium erupted in a final wave of triumph.
Piii. Piii. Piiii.
SC Valois 3, FC Belleville 0.
The players on the pitch didn’t collapse in exhaustion like they had against some other physical teams. They walked toward the center circle, exchanging high-fives and brief hugs. They had executed Henri’s blueprint perfectly, suffocating the opposition and ruthlessly exploiting the numerical advantage.
Luc adjusted his grip on the aluminum crutches. He watched his teammates walk toward the home fans to applaud their support. He saw Hugo, standing near the touchline with his training jacket zipped to his chin, staring at the readouts on the stadium screens. He saw Max Caster being patted on the back by Klaus Becker. He saw Idriss Konaté pointing up at the sky, securing his place as a lethal option off the bench.
They had survived without him today. They would have to survive without him for the Cup Quarter-Final in a few days.