Chapter 165: [165] "Thirty"
The tension between the Brazilian and the Spanich teenager was almost its own physical entity in the room.
"Gabriel," Coach Henri said. "You start on the right."
Gabriel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t smile, but a dark, vindicated fire ignited in his eyes. He gave a nod to the coach. Bachra exhaled a slow breath, staring down at his boots, masking his disappointment behind a forced look of indifference.
"Bachra, you are on the bench," Henri added, softening the blow marginally. "If Gabriel fails to break their line, you are coming on to terrorize their tired legs. Stay warm."
The teenager nodded. "Yes, Coach."
"And up top, Luc." Henri tapped the whiteboard where FC Belleville’s defensive pairing was drawn in red ink. "Khalil and the rookie. Khalil has fifty yellow cards in his career because he tackles first and asks questions later. He remembers the first half of the season. He is going to come at you early to set a physical tone."
Luc strapped the captain’s armband around his bicep, pulling the velcro tight. "I’m ready coach."
"The rookie, Tariq’s replacement," Henri pointed to the second red circle, "he was dominant in Ligue Beta, but he is eager to prove he belongs in the top flight. Eagerness may be a weakness or a strength. He is known for stepping out of the line to intercept passes before they arrive. Hugo, Luc. You know what to do."
"We pull him into the deep water and drown him," Hugo replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Exactly. Out onto the pitch. Make the three points ours."
---
Black and gold flags waved furiously beyond the exit, visible through the narrow opening. The tunnel of Stade Valois vibrated with the chants of the home ultras.
Luc stood at the front of the line as the matchday wind whipped through the corridor, but he didn’t feel it. The mental reset helped a lot. There was no suffocating stress, only a mechanical drive to execute the blueprint the coach had mapped out.
Belleville lined up to his right. They wore their away crimson kits. Khalil, the massive Belleville center-back, was staring at him. He sneered, stepping half an inch out of his line.
"Twenty-nine goals," Khalil murmured, his voice low. " How many goals did you have when we first met? How time flies. You won’t get thirty today. I’m going to mark you senseless."
Luc didn’t blink. He didn’t offer a witty comeback or engage in the posturing. He looked down at Khalil’s boots, then back up to his face, his expression radiating chilling boredom.
"Sure," Luc said softly.
He turned his head back toward the pitch, completely dismissing the veteran defender’s existence. Khalil’s jaw clamped shut, his face flushing with rage.
The referee picked up the match ball and blew the whistle.
The teams marched out.
The roar of Stade Valois was chaos. The fans knew the math. A win meant a five-point gap at the top. The title was no longer a distant dream the way Paris had been playing recently, it was a tangible reality with a closer touch sitting ninety minutes away.
Luc took his position, waiting for the whistle. He looked back at Hugo. The seventeen-year-old gave a nod.
Piii.
Belleville kicked off, and the physicality of the match was established in precisely twelve seconds.
A Belleville midfielder attempted to carry the ball through the center. Cillian stepped up, initiating a hard, shoulder-to-shoulder challenge. The ball spilled loose toward the Valois attacking half.
Luc dropped deep to collect it, turning his back to the opposition goal. Khalil arrived behind him.
The veteran center-back didn’t attempt to play the ball. He launched his entire body weight into Luc, leading with a strong knee that dug into the back of Luc’s thigh. The impact was designed to intimidate, to send a message that the penalty area was uncharted territory.
Luc was anchored.
His physical resistance flared to life. His core muscles locked with terrifying rigidity, absorbing the blunt force trauma without yielding an inch of ground. Khalil bounced off him, stumbling backward slightly as Luc casually laid the ball off to Klaus Becker with a first-time pass.
The referee blew his whistle, seeing the intent and pointing at Khalil for the foul, but keeping his cards in his pocket. Early game leniency.
Luc turned around, looking down at the center-back who was recovering his balance. "Was that supposed to hurt?" Luc asked.
Khalil spat on the grass, his eyes burning with fury. The bait was taken. Khalil wasn’t just aggressive now, he was emotional.
For the next fifteen minutes, Belleville tried to drag SC Valois into one thing or the other. The midfield became filled with chaotic transitions. Gabriel Assis, fueled by the threat of Bachra stealing his spot, was a menace on the right flank. He drove at the Belleville left-back relentlessly, utilizing explosive bursts of speed that forced the defense to continuously shift their shape to contain him.
But Belleville held firm. The new center-back, a tall, athletic kid named, was playing the game of his life. He was fast, aggressive, and seemingly everywhere. Every time Hugo attempted to thread a pass toward Dário or Gabriel, he would abandon his position, stepping up rapidly to intercept the ball before it could reach its target.
---
In the nineteenth minute, Hugo received the ball on the half-turn, looking to slip a pass to Luc.
The Belleville cb didn’t wait. The Ligue Alpha rookie sprinted out of the defensive line, sliding aggressively to poke the ball away from Hugo’s foot, earning a roar of approval from the away bench.
"He’s fast," Cillian muttered, jogging past Hugo to reset the defensive shape.
"But now he’s also predictable," Hugo corrected quietly, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
The teenager looked up the pitch, making eye contact with Luc. Hugo tapped two fingers against the side of his thigh.
The signal. It was time to spring the trap they had planned.
Minute twenty-four.
Hadj towered and intercepted a poor clearance from the Belleville goalkeeper, immediately zipping a low pass into the feet of Klaus Becker. The German maestro took one touch, pulling two midfielders toward him, before sliding the ball horizontally to Hugo.
The moment the ball left Klaus’s boot, Luc went into motion.
He was positioned between Khalil and the other cb. According to the blueprint, he needed the younger guy to commit. Luc dropped his shoulder and made a sharp, explosive dart inward, angling his run toward the top of the penalty arc, screaming for the ball. The exact type of run that a striker makes when they want to receive the ball to feet and fire a quick shot.
The cb saw the movement. The rookie’s eagerness, his desperate desire to prove he could handle the league’s top scorer, overrode his discipline. He abandoned his zone, sprinting forward to intercept the pass he assumed Hugo was about to play to Luc’s feet.
But Hugo didn’t play the ball to Luc’s feet.
The teenager didn’t even look at Luc again. With a flawless movement of his left foot, Hugo drove a perfectly weighted, lofted pass into the massive, gaping void of space that the Belleville youngster had just permanently vacated.
Luc’s inward run had been a complete fabrication.
The exact second the cb committed forward, Luc planted his cleats into the turf, slammed on the brakes, and pivoted sharply. He spun around Khalil, who was caught flat-footed by the sudden change of direction, and accelerated into the empty channel behind the defensive line.
It was a masterpiece of spatial manipulation as both defenders nearly collided.
The ball dropped out of the sky, landing softly on the grass perfectly in Luc’s stride. He didn’t need to break his sprint. He was one-on-one with the Belleville goalkeeper, with absolutely no defenders within five yards of him.
The keeper rushed off his line, spreading his arms wide to close the angle.
Luc’s saw the keeper’s weight shift slightly to the left.
Luc didn’t blast it. He didn’t rely on raw power. He opened his hips and elegantly positioned himself to pass the ball into the bottom right corner, right? Wrong.
He went with the left where the keeper was initially leaning to but redirected towards the right, Luc played the ball inches away from the keeper’s trailing leg.
The ball kissed the inside of the post and rattled the netting.
Goal.
1-0.
Stade Valois erupted, the stands shaking under the sheer volume of the noise.
Luc veered away from the goal, sprinting toward the corner flag. He leaped into the air, twisting his body, and landed with a commanding stance, his arms spread wide.
Thirty fucking goals.
The gap was extended to three.
Hugo jogged over, his face maintaining its usual robotic calm, though a flicker of satisfaction danced in his eyes. Gabriel and Dário arrived a second later, piling onto their captain.
"Hook, line, and sinker!" Gabriel shouted over the roar of the crowd, smacking Luc’s back.
Luc pulled himself out of the celebration, turning to walk away. He looked at the Belleville defense. The youngster was standing near the penalty spot, his hands on his head, staring in utter disbelief at the space he had abandoned. Khalil was screaming at the rookie, his face red with fury, oblivious to the fact that his own aggression had blinded him to the run.
The play they tought up had been executed flawlessly.
Luc looked up at the scoreboard glowing against the dark sky. Currently five points clear at the top of the league. Thirty league goals to his name.