Chapter 163: [163] "Intense training 3"
But Hugo didn’t play the ball. At the very last second, he snapped his ankle, disguising the pass, and slipped in a reverse ball at the other flank, straight through the left center of the pitch.
Dário Ferrão, who had abandoned the left touchline to cut inside, collected the ball perfectly in stride. The Portuguese winger drove straight at Ekberg, forcing the center-back to commit, before sliding a delicate pass into the penalty area.
Luc didn’t take a touch first time. He let the ball run across his body, giving him time to calculate the exact moment needed. Hadj lunged in for a desperate block, but Luc simply opened his right foot and guided the ball smoothly into the far corner, completely wrong-footing Pinto.
Goal.
Blue Team 2, Yellow Team 2.
Luc jogged into Pinto’s net without celebration, scooped the ball up, and carried it back to the center circle. He tossed it to Idriss.
"We have twenty minutes left," Luc said, his voice flat and commanding. "Let’s see who scores next."
The final phase of the scrimmage devolved into a war that allowed minor knocks. Henri still refused to blow his whistle for minor fouls. The tackles grew later, the shoulder charges grew heavier, and the verbal exchanges became increasingly hostile.
Gabriel Assis was playing like a man possessed. He demanded the ball on every possession, isolating Owusu and battering the left-back with relentless, explosive sprints. On the other side, Bachra was trying desperately to break Zack Florez’s defensive lock, resulting in a series of highly physical, grinding collisions near the corner flag.
In the center of the park, Max Caster was receiving a brutal education in Ligue Alpha midfield dynamics. Klaus and Baini had stopped treating him like a sixteen-year-old academy prospect. They were closing him down with maximum prejudice, forcing the teenager to process information faster than he ever had before.
Minute thirty-eight.
Caster received a bouncing pass from Marchand. Baini arrived instantly, attempting to sweep the ball from his legs. Caster stumbled, nearly losing his balance, but his miraculous close control saved him. He scooped the ball over Baini’s trailing leg, regaining his footing.
He looked up. Gabriel was making a brilliant diagonal run, calling for the lofted through ball.
Caster pulled his leg back, preparing to launch the pass.
Leo Hernandez stepped out of the defensive line, abandoning Idriss to intercept the trajectory of the intended pass.
Caster saw the movement. He hesitated.
In that fraction of a second, the memory of Luc’s advice from the previous training sessions flashed through the teenager’s mind. Don’t ask the ball to go in. Tell it to go in.
Don’t overthink the precision when the speed of the game demands absolute conviction.
Caster aborted the long pass. He didn’t take an extra touch to reset his feet. He simply chopped the ball downward, slicing a fast spinning pass straight down the central channel.
Hernandez, having committed to the interception of the long ball, was caught completely flat-footed.
Idriss Konaté, suddenly unmarked because Hernandez had stepped up, collected the ball at the edge of the penalty area. The Ivorian striker didn’t hesitate. He took one heavy touch into the box and unleashed an absolute cannon of a shot.
The ball tore past Blažek’s gloves with terrifying velocity, nearly ripping through the netting at the back of the goal.
Goal.
Yellow Team 3, Blue Team 2.
Idriss turned around and pointed at Max Caster. The sixteen-year-old stood near the center circle, his chest heaving, a look of profound shock slowly giving way to a massive smile.
"That’s it!" Idriss shouted, jogging over to high-five the young striker-playmaker. "Decisive! Don’t let them read you!"
Luc stood, watching the celebration. He looked at Hernandez, who was shaking his head in frustration at his own defensive error. Luc didn’t yell at his center-back. He looked at Max Caster. The kid had evolved slightly. He had taken the pressure from Klaus and Baini for nearly forty minutes, and instead of folding, he had processed and delivered the executioner’s blow.
The referee--Coach Henri, checked his watch.
Piii. Piii. Piiii.
The final whistle blew to end the 45 minutes.
The scrimmage was over.
Players from both sides immediately collapsed onto the grass. The physical output had been staggering. The Yellow team had just defeated the undisputed starting eleven of the second-best team in the country.
Cillian Doyle lay flat on his back, staring at the sky. Mallorca sat next to him, pouring a bottle of water over his own head.
Gabriel Assis walked over to the touchline, grabbing a towel. He didn’t look at Bachra, but the message had been delivered loud and clear. The Brazilian was demanding his spot back.
Luc walked toward the center circle, his breathing heavy but controlled. He stopped in front of Klaus Becker, who was currently hauling Bense Baini up from the turf.
"They beat us," Klaus noted, his voice carrying a mixture of disgust and what sounded a bit like respect. "The boy in the middle finally learned some decision making."
"They earned it," Luc agreed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Henri walked onto the pitch. He didn’t look angry. He looked incredibly satisfied.
"Gather around!" Henri barked.
The twenty-two players slowly congregated in the center of the pitch, muscles aching, bodies steaming in the air.
"That," Henri said, pointing at the grass beneath their feet, "is exactly what I wanted to see. I do not care that the starting eleven lost. I care that twenty-two men just played forty-five minutes of football as if their lives depended on it."
Henri looked at Gabriel. "Gabriel...and Bachra. I’ll review and decide who starts tomorrow."
The Brazilian winger nodded, his expression fiercely determined. Bachra Goza looked down at the grass, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t say anything. He had lost his individual battles against Zack, and he knew it.
Henri turned his gaze to Max Caster. "Max. You are in the matchday squad for tomorrow. You will be on the bench. If I need someone like you in the final twenty minutes or so, I am calling your number up."