Chapter 180: [180] "Confines of his living room"
"Klaus and Baini will operate as a double pivot, sitting deeper to shield the center-backs and absorb the initial counter-attacks. I will operate as a pure number ten, but positioned much higher, almost as a second striker. My job is to occupy the space between their midfield line and their defensive line."
"You’re going to draw the central center-back out," Luc realized, seeing the brilliance of the adjustment.
"Exactly," Hugo confirmed. "If I hover in the ten space, their central defender has to step out to engage me, or their midfield has to drop deep to cover. If the defender steps out, it leaves Idriss isolated one-on-one with a wide center-back. If their midfield drops deep, it gives Klaus and Baini the time they need to pick the passes out to which ever wing."
It was a dangerous, high-wire act of tactical manipulation. It relied entirely on Hugo’s ability to operate under intense physical pressure without losing possession, and it required Idriss to win his individual battles against aggressive defenders.
"And Max?" Luc asked. "Surely Henri is using him somehow."
"Max is the contingency," Cillian grinned, a fierce light returning to his eyes. "If the four-two-three-one fails to break them, Henri is planning on pulling a midfielder, dropping Hugo deeper, and throwing Max on as a shadow striker. Absolute chaos."
Luc looked at the three players in his living room. They weren’t panicking. Despite drawing one of the most hostile teams in the league, despite losing their captain and top scorer, there was no fear in their posture. They were dissecting the problem. They were prepared for war.
He felt a profound surge of pride.
Months ago, he had dragged them through the mud, forced them to fight, and led by example through brutal fixtures.
"You don’t need me for this," Luc said quietly, the realization settling heavily but comfortably in his chest.
"We always need our captain," Cillian corrected firmly, his tone lacking any trace of humor. "Your goals got us here. The physical toll you paid got us here. But we aren’t going to let the campaign die because some Belleville butcher caught you late. We go to Aquitaine, we break their defensive line, and we bring the semi-final ticket back to you."
"You better," Luc threatened, pointing a finger at the Irishman. "Because if you lose to that team while I’m stuck on this couch, I’m going to make all of you run wind sprints until you vomit when I get back."
"Understood," Bachra laughed, the tension leaving his shoulders. He pushed off the marble counter. "Now, since the briefing is over, tell me where you keep the actual coffee. Because if I don’t get caffeine in my system soon, I’m going to fall asleep."
"Second cabinet on the left," Luc directed, pointing toward the kitchen. "And if you break anything--"
"I don’t think you have the authority to do anything," Bachra muttered, opening the cabinet and retrieving a dark bag of roasted beans.
"We’ll see," Luc shot back.
For the next hour, the apartment was filled with the noise of his teammates. Bachra eventually managed to brew three marginally acceptable cups of espresso, complaining about the complexity of the machine the entire time.
Cillian raided the refrigerator, constructing a massive sandwich from ingredients Juliette had meticulously prepped the night before. Hugo sat quietly, nursing his coffee, his eyes still occasionally darting back to Luc, running infinite permutations of the upcoming match in his head.
Luc stayed on the sofa, his leg elevated, the ice pack doing its slow work.
He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t look at the Golden Boot standings. He simply existed in the moment, surrounded by the brotherhood that had been forged in the crucible of Ligue Alpha.
Eventually, the clock on the wall crept toward one in the afternoon.
Cillian checked his watch, wiping a crumb from his chin. "We need to go. The bus leaves the complex for the train station at two-thirty. Henri wants everyone packed and loaded early."
Bachra groaned, tossing his empty espresso cup into the sink. "I hate away travel. The train seats always wreck my lower back."
Luc scoffed. "Get out of my apartment."
Hugo stood up and walked over to the sofa, looking down at Luc.
"Keep the leg elevated," Hugo instructed, perfectly mimicking Juliette’s tone. "Do not attempt to walk without the crutches. We will call you from the locker room after the match."
"Just win," Luc said, holding out a hand.
Hugo gripped it firmly. "We will."
The three players filed out of the apartment, their voices echoing down the hallway until the front door shut, sealing the lock.
The silence rushed back in.
Luc was alone again. The rain continued to beat steadily against the windows, blurring the skyline into a gray, washed-out painting. He looked down at his swollen leg, the dark purple bruising spreading like a stain beneath the compression sleeve.
He was a spectator now. For the next forty-eight hours, his fate, the fate of the club’s cup run, rested entirely in the hands of the men who had just walked out his door.
He reached over the side of the sofa, his fingers blindly searching the seat of the armchair until they brushed against the casing of his smartphone. He pulled it toward him, unlocking the screen.
He ignored the notifications from sports apps. He ignored the unread email from Valérie Laurent.
He opened his messaging app and selected the pinned contact at the top of the list.
"They just left," Luc typed, his thumb moving quickly across the keyboard. "They’re switching to a 4-2-3-1 to exploit the space behind the wing-backs. Hugo is playing the ten. They’re ready."
He hit send.
The response from Juliette arrived less than thirty seconds later.
"Told you, Luc. Let them run it. Did Bachra break the espresso maker?"
Luc smiled, dropping the phone onto his chest. He closed his eyes, the scent of mint and rain filling his lungs, and prepared himself for the longest ninety minutes of his life from the confines of his living room.