Open Play: Ladies, Goals, The Everything System in-between

Minute sixty-four.

Bachra Goza received the ball on the right wing. True to his instructions, the teenager kept his heels practically painted to the touchline chalk. The Bretagne left-back, weary from chasing Gabriel in the first half, was forced to step out of the defensive unit to engage him.

Bachra stood still, the ball dead at his feet. He waited until the defender was exactly one yard away, then initiated a blinding sequence of step-overs. The defender shifted his weight nervously, terrified of being humiliated.

Bachra chopped the ball onto his left foot, faking an inside cut, then immediately snapped it back to his right, bursting down the outside line. The fullback lunged in desperation, clipping Bachra’s trailing leg.

The referee blew the whistle. Free kick for Valois just outside the penalty area.

"Smart," Luc muttered, jogging into the box as the team set up for the set piece. He took up his position near the penalty spot, immediately feeling the physical pressure of the two Bretagne center-backs sandwiching him.

The free kick was whipped in, but it was easily cleared by the dense wall of defenders. The match settled into a brutal, grinding rhythm. Valois dominated possession, but the final, lethal touch remained elusive.

Luc was growing increasingly agitated. He was fighting on every single possession. His Physical Anchor passive was working overtime, allowing him to hold his ground against the continuous shoving, but Morel was doing a masterful job of screening the passing lanes. Every time Luc made a run, the holding midfielder was there to cut off the supply.

Minute seventy-two.

Klaus Becker intercepted a rare, aimless clearance near the center circle. The German general didn’t hesitate, driving a hard forward pass straight into the feet of Max Caster.

Max received the ball at the top of the penalty arc. He was immediately surrounded. A Bretagne midfielder closed in from the left, a center-back stepped up from the front, and Morel was tracking back hard to cut off his escape route. It was a three-on-one.

Max utilized the elite close control yet again...the very one that had earned him his promotion.

He dragged the ball with his right sole, faking a pass to Dário out wide, which caused the left-sided midfielder to bite and shift his weight. Max then executed a brilliant, lightning-fast Cruyff turn, spinning around the approaching center-back.

He emerged inside the penalty area, twelve yards from the goal line, with a clear sight of the target.

The Bretagne goalkeeper rushed off his line, spreading his arms wide. Morel was sliding in from behind, desperate to block the shot.

Luc, heavily marked on the left side of the box, watched the teenager. He expected Max to shoot. He expected the soft, hesitant placement attempt that had plagued the kid during training.

But Max had learned. He recognized the situation inside the chaotic box. He saw the keeper committing to rushing out and Morel committing to the block.

Instead of pulling the trigger, Max slammed his foot down next to the ball, faking the shot with total conviction. The goalkeeper dropped to the turf. Morel slid helplessly past him.

With the entire defense compromised, Max calmly slipped a pass across the face of the six-yard box...when the post was open for a slightest tap towards goal.

Bachra Goza, who had abandoned the right touchline the moment Max breached the penalty area, arrived at the back post. The La Masia graduate didn’t take a touch. He tapped the ball into the gaping, empty net.

Goal!!!

3-1.

The stadium erupted in a wave of black and gold jubilation. Bachra sprinted toward the corner flag, pointing directly at Max. The sixteen-year-old American let out a shout of pure adrenaline, running to embrace the winger.

Luc jogged over, grabbing both teenagers by the scruff of their necks and pulling them into a tight huddle. "That is exactly how you play football!" Luc shouted over the roar of the crowd. "Perfect composure, Max! Beautiful finish, Bachra!"

The kids had delivered. They had cracked the cynical low block and given Valois a comfortable two-goal cushion.

But as they jogged back to the center circle for the restart, Luc...on his individual side quest, had fifteen minutes left.

The three points were all but secured, but his personal objective was slipping away. He was still tied with Fresko.

Bretagne kicked off, thoroughly demoralized. The 3-1 deficit was an insurmountable mountain for a team that had no structural design for attacking football. They essentially gave up, dropping their heads and lazily circulating the ball in their own half.

When Valois inevitably won possession back, the Bretagne defense simply packed the box again, intent on keeping the scoreline from becoming an absolute humiliation.

Luc drifted through the attacking third, constantly scanning for angles. Morel was relentless. The veteran holding midfielder wasn’t playing to win the match anymore, he was playing for his own pride, determined not to let the league’s most talked-about striker add to his tally untop of his head.

"Shift right! Close the gap!" Morel shouted constantly, manually organizing his center-backs to block Luc’s runs. "Watch the American! Do not let him turn! Do not let him shoot!"

It was a masterclass in defensive communication. Morel was the glue holding the fractured backline together. As long as he was talking, the center-backs knew exactly where to position themselves to deny Luc the ball.

Minute eighty-six.

Time was nearing the 90.

Luc stood near the penalty spot, his breath visible in the freezing air. He looked at Morel, who was actively pointing and shouting instructions to his left-back.

If communication was their only remaining defense, Luc knew exactly how to dismantle it.

"TES," Luc thought, his eyes narrowing on the veteran midfielder. "Tactical Mute."

[System Notification]

[Consumable: Tactical Mute — Activated.]

[0 uses remaining.]

[Effect: For the next ten minutes, the opposition’s defensive communication drops to zero.]

The effect was instantaneous, though invisible to the crowd.

Bense Baini collected the ball in the midfield and pushed forward. As the play developed, Morel turned his head, spotting Luc making a darting run toward the blind side of the right center-back.

"Mark his run! Step up!" Morel yelled at the top of his lungs, pointing at Luc.