Chapter 131: [131] "The Wall of Green and White 2"
A seam opened up in the right half-space.
Luc saw it and didn’t demand the ball. He made an explosive dummy run straight toward the near post.
The movement triggered panic in the Bretagne defense. The two center-backs and Morel all converged on Luc simultaneously, entirely convinced he was about to attack a low cross. They dragged their combined mass toward the six-yard box, leaving a massive, gaping hole at the top of the penalty arc.
Gabriel didn’t cross to Luc. He chopped the ball, evading the fullback, and squared a perfectly weighted pass to the edge of the box.
Bense Baini had trailed the play. The midfielder arrived exactly on time, completely unmarked. No attempt to take a touch or look for another pass. He opened his hips and struck a majestic, curling shot with the inside of his right boot.
The ball bypassed the crowded penalty area, curving beautifully around the sprawling goalkeeper, and nestled cleanly into the bottom left corner of the net.
Beautiful Goal!
1-0.
The stadium could finally cheer in relieved jubilation. Baini jogged toward the corner flag, pointing at Gabriel to acknowledge the assist.
Luc untangled himself from the three defenders who had wrestled him to the turf during his dummy run. He stood up, wiping dirt from his shorts. He hadn’t scored, but he had manipulated the defense flawlessly to manufacture the space for his teammate. He jogged over to celebrate with Baini, exchanging high-fives with the squad, but the nagging reality remained.
He was still tied on goals.
Conceding a goal usually forces a defensive team to open up and attack, but Sporting Bretagne possessed an infuriatingly stubborn tactical discipline. They reset the ball at the center circle and immediately reverted to their 4-3-3 low block. They weren’t going to abandon their game plan just because they went down a goal early. They were content to absorb pressure and wait for Valois to make a mistake.
And the mistake inevitably came.
---
Minute thirty-four.
Valois was dominating possession, hovering around seventy-two percent. The constant, uncontested recycling of the ball lured the defensive line into a false sense of security.
Zack Florez, starting at left-back ahead of Owusu, began creeping higher and higher up the pitch, eager to contribute to the attack and overlap Dário.
Zack was a phenomenal one-on-one defender when isolated, but his positional awareness in a possession-dominant system was still unrefined. He pushed ten yards too far into the attacking third, completely vacating his defensive flank.
Hugo Blanc attempted a risky, threaded pass through the center to Luc.
Morel read the play perfectly. The holding midfielder stepped across the passing lane, intercepting the ball cleanly. He didn’t panic under the immediate press from Klaus.
Morel took one touch, picked his head up, and launched a massive, raking sixty-yard diagonal pass over the top of the Valois midfield.
It was aimed into the massive pocket of space Zack Florez had abandoned on the left.
The Bretagne right-winger, who had spent the entire match acting as a glorified extra defender, suddenly exploded up the pitch. He brought the long ball down with an exquisite touch, hitting top speed instantly.
Leo Hernandez was forced to break the defensive line, sprinting across to cover the exposed flank. This left Amadou Fall isolated in the center against the Bretagne striker who had scored against them in the reverse fixture.
The winger didn’t try to beat Hernandez, that might have slowed theur counter. He looked up, saw the mismatch in the center, and whipped an early cross into the penalty area.
Amadou jumped, throwing his lean frame into the aerial duel, but the Bretagne striker was simply too big. He used his forearm to pin Amadou down just enough to gain leverage, rising into the air and powering a thunderous downward header past the helpless dive of Tomáš Blažek.
Goal.
1-1.
The away section, a tiny sliver of traveling fans tucked into the upper tier, exploded into cheers.
Zack Florez stood near the halfway line, his hands on his head, staring at the grass. He knew exactly what he had done. He had abandoned the shape, and it had cost them their hard-earned lead.
"Head up!" Luc bellowed from the attacking third, clapping his hands together loudly to snap the teenager out of his spiraling guilt. "Zack! Forget it! Get back into position!"
The equalizer was a disaster, not just for the scoreline, but for the tempo of the match. Bretagne had validated their cynical strategy. They had their goal. Now, they were going to drop even deeper, construct an even thicker wall, and waste every single second they possibly could.
The final ten minutes of the first half were an absolute slog. Valois threw everything they had against the green-and-white barricade, desperately trying to reclaim the lead before the halftime whistle offered their opponents a reprieve.
Luc demanded the ball at every opportunity. He was tired of dummy runs and tactical sacrifices. He wanted his twenty-fourth goal.
Minute forty-two.
Gabriel Assis drove down the right side. He executed a sharp step-over, buying half a yard of space from the exhausted Bretagne fullback, and whipped a dangerous, chest-height cross into the heart of the penalty area.
It was pure chaos inside the box. Four Bretagne defenders and Luc converged on the trajectory of the ball.
Luc’s Absolute Poacher taking over his nervous system. The frantic movements of the men around him seemed to slow for just a fraction. He read the flight of the ball flawlessly, calculating the exact point of impact amidst the forest of limbs and shoving shoulders.
Morel grabbed a fistful of Luc’s jersey, hauling him backward, while the center-back lunged forward to head the ball away.
Luc planted his feet, utilizing the Physical Anchor to completely ignore Morel’s illegal tug. He didn’t jump. He let the center-back miss the header by a fraction of an inch, the ball dropping directly into his path just six yards from the goal line.
He didn’t need to take a touch. His trigger speed was artificially enhanced, his muscles firing with instantaneous, lethal intent. He swung his left boot, striking the ball with terrifying power through the dense traffic.
It was a guaranteed goal...
...Until it wasn’t.
The Bretagne goalkeeper, utterly unsighted by the bodies in front of him, had dived purely on blind instinct. He threw his body to his left, thrusting his arm out in desperation.
The ball smashed violently against the keeper’s forearm, the force of the shot sending a sickening crack echoing through the penalty area. The save was an absolute miracle.