Chapter 164: [164] "Lockers apart"
The teenager’s eyes widened, but he managed a firm nod. "Yes, Coach."
"Belleville is not going to know what hit them," Henri concluded, looking around the circle. "The depth in this squad is terrifying. Go inside. Ice your legs. Eat your carbohydrates. Tomorrow, we go again."
The huddle broke apart, players limping toward the complex doors.
Luc managed to walk beside Hugo Blanc. The teenager was walking slowly, his mind clearly dissecting the forty-five minutes of chaos they had just endured. "The aborted pass to Bachra on the second goal?" Luc asked casually, hoping there was nothing more to it.
"Mallorca committed," Hugo replied without missing a beat. "If I had played the long ball, he would have intercepted it. The reverse pass to Dário had a higher probability of success."
"Oh, you were right," Luc said. "Tomorrow, Khalil is going to try to intercept every ball. You have to release it a half-second faster because you don’t know if aborting a pass may lead to a turnover."
Hugo looked at his captain. "I know. I have already thought about that."
"Good."
They reached the doors of the complex, the warmth of the building washing over them. Luc looked back out at the empty training pitch. The grass was torn up, scarred by slide tackles, collisions and runs.
The Yellow team had won the battle today. But the relentless competition for minutes, had sharpened the edge of the entire squad. They were cohesive and ruthlessly competitive.
Luc pushed through the doors.
---
Sunday. Belleville game.
The steam from the shower clung to his back as Luc Beaumont pushed through the doors of the locker room, a towel draped over his neck and his hair still dripping wet. He expected the usual pre-match murmurs of the dressing room, the sounds of studs, or the sharp zipping of kit bags.
Instead, he walked into an almost silent room, broken only by the frantic pitch of a television commentator.
Almost the entire squad was crowded around the large flat-screen monitor mounted above the tactical whiteboard, they had almost never used it, which was the strangest thing to Luc. Even Klaus Becker had paused his stretching routine, standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes locked onto the broadcast.
Luc stopped at his locker, pulling a fresh training shirt over his head. Although he had an idea of what they’d be watching, "what minute is it?"
"Ninety-plus-four," Cillian Doyle muttered without looking away from the screen. The Irishman was chewing on gum. "They were down two-one against Dijon Métropole. Just won a corner."
Luc didn’t need to ask who ’they’ were.
Phocéen.
He walked over to the edge of the group, slipping into the space between Leo Hernandez and Hugo Blanc. On the screen, the sea of light blue and white jerseys packed the penalty area. The camera zoomed in on Fresko. The Phocéen striker wasn’t pushing or shoving. He stood near the penalty spot, his posture radiating an arrogant calm.
The corner was whipped in by Neji. It was a vicious, inswinging delivery.
A Dijon defender went up to clear it, but the trajectory dipped violently. The ball glanced off the defender’s shoulder, creating a chaotic scramble inside the six-yard box.
Fresko, while three defenders lunged wildly at the loose ball, the striker took a half-step backward, creating a microscopic pocket of space. The ball popped out of the scramble. Fresko didn’t even bother to take a touch. He simply swiped his left boot through the air, catching the leather on the half-volley with some serious efficiency.
The ball slammed into the roof of the net.
The commentator on the broadcast lost his mind, screaming Fresko’s name as the striker wheeled away, ripping his shirt off and sliding on his knees toward the corner flag.
"Fucking hell," Jose Mallorca swore, turning away from the television in disgust. "He just stands there and it falls to him. Every single time."
"That is his second goal of the match," Hugo noted quietly, his eyes calculating that before anyone else in the room. "The game ends in a two-two draw."
Luc stared at the screen. The broadcast flashed a graphic across the bottom, updating the Ligue Alpha Golden Boot standings in real-time.
Beaumont - 29
Fresko - 27
The four-goal cushion he had built against Dijon and RC Alsace had been slashed in half. The Phocéen striker was relentless and not going to give up.
"They dropped points, though," Bense Baini pointed out, stepping back toward his locker and grabbing his shin guards. "A draw means they only take one point from the weekend."
Coach Henri walked into the room at that exact moment. He tapped the screen of his tablet, projecting the live league table onto the television.
"Baini is right," Henri said, his voice instantly demanding the room’s attention. The players scattered, taking their seats on the benches. "Phocéen drew. That means if we beat FC Belleville today, we extend our lead at the top of the league table to five clear points. Five points! It forces them to chase us while dealing with their own European fixtures."
"I guess we now use the tv, huh?" Cillian said.
"Well, the owner instructed me to begin using it." Henri turned off the broadcast, cutting off the image of Fresko celebrating.
"Let him have his individual numbers for an hour or so," the manager continued, looking at Luc. "Today is about suffocating their title hopes and continuing our chase of Paris at first. We break Belleville, we take the three points, and we make Phocéen bleed for every mistake after that."
The manager pivoted toward the whiteboard.
"Starting eleven," Henri announced. He didn’t waste time with suspense. The Saturday’s scrimmage had properly forced his hand.
"Blažek in goal. Aubert, Hadj, Fall, Florez across the back. Hernandez is suspended due to his red, so Hadj is in the lineup."
"Klaus, Cillian, Hugo in the middle."
"Dário on the left."
Henri paused, his gaze shifting to the right corner of the room. Gabriel Assis and Bachra Goza were sitting two lockers apart.