Chapter 210: [210] "You are on as well"
Max opened his mouth to argue, leaning closer to keep his voice from being heard by the others across the silent room. "They are dying out there, Bachra. Klaus and Baini can’t keep making those runs. If I drop into the false nine, I can link the play with Hugo and stop the lateral sprinting. I need to tell him."
Bachra released Max’s wrist, keeping his own voice equally low, barely a whisper over the little sounds of the stadium’s ventilation system. "You sit down and you keep your mouth shut, Max."
"But I know how to fix it," Max protested, the confidence of his recent cup performance fueling his impatience. "I did it in the last match."
"Keep your lid on bro. This isn’t an academy match," Bachra replied, his tone laced with the pragmatism that showcased professional football hierarchy. "You do not walk into that office. You do not go around telling the coach what to do. Henri is the head. If he wants you on the pitch, he will put you on the pitch. If you try to dictate tactics to him while we are losing one-nil at home to a relegation side, he will take it as an insult to his authority. He will nail you to the bench for the rest of the season just to prove a point."
Max stared at the older winger, processing the warning. The American was brilliant with a football at his feet, possessing a processing speed that rivaled veterans, but he was still navigating the complex, highly volatile politics of a top-tier locker room.
Bachra leaned back against the lockers, crossing his arms. "Look at Gabriel. He tried to play his own game and Henri yanked him off the starting lineup. You think Henri is going to listen to a sixteen-year-old tell him how to fix his midfield? Be quiet. Wait for your chance."
Max let out a slow breath, the adrenaline fading slightly as the logic of Bachra’s advice settled in. He leaned back, resting his head against the lockers as well, and nodded his concession. He wouldn’t push it.
The dressing room remained suspended in that heavy silence for another full minute.
Kévin Aubert drank an entire bottle of water without pausing. Dário Ferrão stared at a scuff mark on his left boot. Gabriel Assis paced back and forth, his clenched jaw shiwing veins.
The Brazilian had spent majority of the forty-five minutes isolated on the right flank, trying desperately to prove his worth after being benched, only to be starved of possession as the midfield struggled to transition the ball efficiently.
Then, the handle of the office door clicked.
The sound was sharp, snapping the attention of every single player in the room.
Coach Henri stepped out.
The manager did not look angry. He did not look like he was about to start throwing water bottles or kicking things around...which he’d have every right to do. He held a black dry-erase marker in his right hand. He walked to the center of the room, stopping in front of the whiteboard.
No preamble. He didn’t ask them how they felt about the first half. He didn’t ask for explanations regarding the counter-attack that led to the goal.
He un-capped the marker.
"We are broken in the center of the pitch," Henri began, his voice carrying perfectly across the quiet room. "The gap between the defensive line and the forward line is currently yards wide. Nantaise is not pressing us because they do not have to. They are simply letting us run ourselves into the ground trying to bridge that gap."
Henri turned to the whiteboard. He took a cloth eraser and wiped away the entire midfield and forward line of the 4-3-3 formation he had drawn before the match.
"I am not going to ask Klaus and Baini to run another five miles in the second half just to sustain sterile possession," Henri continued, his eyes scanning the room, lingering on the exhausted double pivot. "And I am not going to ask Idriss to stand in the middle of a low block and wait for crosses that are never going to arrive."
Henri turned back to the squad.
"I am making four changes right now."
The statement landed firm.
Making a single substitution at halftime was common. Making two was an aggressive statement. Making four simultaneous changes at the break was a complete dismantling of the starting game plan. It was an admission that the initial strategy had failed catastrophically, and a massive gamble that the bench could immediately alter the chemistry of the match.
"Klaus," Henri said, looking at his captain. "You are off."
Klaus Becker’s head snapped up. The veteran’s pale eyes widened slightly. He had not been substituted at halftime for a long while now. But Klaus was a professional. He felt the heaviness burn in his thighs. He knew he was compromised. He offered a single, stiff nod, accepting the decision without a word of protest.
"Baini. You are off too," Henri continued.
The Moroccan midfielder simply closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, too tired to even process the disappointment.
"Aubert. Idriss. Both of you are off as well."
Idriss Konaté threw his towel onto the floor, a sharp spike of frustration escaping his usual stoicism. "Coach, I can hold them. Give me better service that’s all I ask."
"You cannot hold those center-backs when the midfield is too exhausted to push up and support you," Henri replied instantly, cutting off the argument before it could gain traction. "They are marking you out of the game because you are static. I need mobility. I need chaos. I am not leaving you out there to be idle for another forty-five minutes."
Henri turned to the substitutes, pointing the marker at the players sitting in their jackets.
"Cillian. Mallorca. Get your jackets off. You are both on."
Cillian Doyle and Jose Mallorca stood up immediately. The two midfielders were known throughout the club as the enforcers. They were rabid, aggressive, and possessed lungs that seemingly almost never required oxygen.
They didn’t play possession-based tiki-taka. They played classic transition football. They hunted the ball carrier, won the tackle, and instantly drove the play forward.
"I do not want basic lateral passes," Henri instructed the two incoming midfielders. "You two are going to operate as a high double pivot. You do not track back into our penalty area. You stay high. You win balls. You force Nantaise to play through you if they want to counter-attack again."
Cillian grinned, slapping Mallorca on the shoulder. "We lock them in. Understood."
Henri shifted his gaze down the bench. "Bachra. You are on."
The Spanish teenager stood up, stripping his jacket quickly. He had known his number would be called. He possessed the raw dribbling flair required to unlock a deep defensive block.
"You take the left wing," Henri told him. "Dário, you stay out there, but you shift a bit more central. You operate between the left and middle now. More of a left midfielder than a left winger."
Finally, Henri looked at the sixteen-year-old American.
"Max. You are on as well."
Max Caster stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs.