Chapter 87: [87] "Repaired"
The halftime whistle blew through the rain which was still pouring down. Not as heavy now as it was in the beginning.
FC Vannes supporters jeered and threw a handful of crushed, immediately soggy paper cups toward the tunnel as SC Valois walked off the pitch. Luc ignored the debris. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his muddy boots making his legs feel like they were encased in cement or something.
In the away dressing room, the heating unit in the corner rattled violently but produced almost no warmth.
The squad filed in and collapsed onto the narrow wooden benches. Cillian scraped a thick layer of black mud off his shin guards with a taped-up thumb.
Hugo sat quietly, rubbing his hands together while Idriss was staring at the floor, looking at the rain drops escaping from his hair to the floor as they dropped drop by drop.
Klaus Becker walked in last.
The usual Klaus would have thrown his boots or atleast cursed in German. But he just walked to the far corner of the room, sat down, and reached for a water bottle. He had just survived a very public, very deliberate snubbing.
Henri stood, shivering slightly in his soaked suit jacket.
"One-nil," Henri said, his voice a bit shaky. "But it’s a fragile one-nil. They are going to come out in the second half and turn this pitch into a trench war. The surface is deteriorating. Continue with the instruction, short passes, triangles, do not hold the ball for too long."
Henri looked at Klaus. The manager opened his mouth to give a specific instruction, but the words didnt leave his throat. He looked at Luc instead. Henri knew the squad had frozen the German out. The coach didn’t have the power to fix a fractured locker room of this magnitude. It was entirely up to the players, afterall, the coach isn’t the one passing the ball on the pitch.
Luc stood up. He walked to the center of the cramped room.
"The freeze-out is over. We go back to regular play," Luc said.
Cillian looked up, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure, Cap? Because the last few minutes without him were the best we’ve looked all game--"
"It’s over," Luc interrupted, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate. He looked at Hugo, then at Idriss. "We use the whole pitch. We use every man on it."
He turned his gaze to Klaus. The massive German midfielder met his eyes. There was no warmth there, only cold resentment. But beneath the resentment was something far more useful... professional pride.
Klaus had been embarrassed. He was a Champions League winner who had been reduced to a spectator by a twenty-year-old American and a squad of amateurs and teenagers.
He wasn’t going to let it happen twice.
"You anchor," Luc said directly to Klaus. "You protect the space Hugo might vacate. You feed the forwards if opportunity arises. You do your job, and we get out of this mud pit with a clean sheet."
Klaus unscrewed the cap of his water bottle. "Just make the runs you-- American," he muttered, his heavy accent scraping through.
"I always make the runs," Luc replied.
He sat back down. Henri clapped his hands twice, looking immensely relieved that he didn’t have to manage the ego collision himself. "Alright. Five minutes. Change your boots and scrape your studs if you need to. Forty-five minutes to go, let’s finish this."
---
Piii.
The second half began.
The pitch was no longer just muddy, it was nearly swamp-like. The ball stopped dead in puddles, turning every ground pass into a gamble.
FC Vannes attacked straight from the kickoff. Their striker, a huge target man who had spent the first half throwing elbows at Ekberg, charged down the center.
The ball popped loose due to his pressure in pressing near the center circle.
Klaus and a Vannes midfielder sprinted for it.
The Vannes player lowered his shoulder, preparing to body the German off the ball.
Klaus didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to be elegant. He planted his foot in the mud, lowered his center of gravity, and met the Vannes player shoulder-to-shoulder with the immovable force of a freight train. The Vannes midfielder bounced off him and crashed into the mud.
Klaus recovered the ball but the falling Vannes midfielder knocked the ball out.
Cillian was ten yards away where he met the loose ball. He was qble to get the ball under control, he looked for a pass. The best option being to pass the ball back to Klaus who had just won it for the team.
Cillian hesitated for a fraction of a second before passing, the memory of the first-half freeze-out still lingering in his foot.
Luc shouted from the front line. "Play him!"
Cillian played the pass under his captain’s instruction.
The ball rolled sluggishly through the mucky mud, towards Klaus. Two Vannes players immediately converged on him even before the ball had reached him, expecting him to try and dribble out of trouble the way he had wanted to do in the first half. They expected hero-ball.
Klaus didn’t take a touch to control it.
He opened his hips and played a perfect, sweeping first-time pass with the inside of his right boot. The ball bypassed the pressing Vannes midfielders entirely, slicing through the rain and landing perfectly into the pocket of space where Hugo had just arrived.
It was flawless. It was the pass made by a man... A professional, elite veteran player who saw the entirety of the pitch three steps ahead of anyone else.
Hugo took it in stride and continued driving forward.
Klaus didn’t jog up the field as he usually did. Instead, he immediately dropped back, slotting himself into the exact space Hugo had vacated and cutting off any potential counter-attack lane.
[System Notification]
[Locker Room Cohesion: 70% (Restored)]
[Team Fracture Repaired.]
[All Penalties Lifted. Welcome back.]
Luc gasped, stumbling for half a step as the invisible rubber band around his skull snapped.
The relief was instantaneous and profound.