Chapter 204: [204] "Nantaise low block 2"
A shirt tug on Baini. A late clip on Hugo. Nothing malicious enough to warrant a yellow card from the referee, but enough to fracture the rhythm of the match.
The stadium crowd grew restless. The initial roar of the opening minute had been replaced by a low and anxious murmur. Thirty thousand fans watched as their team dominated possession statistics but failed to register a second shot on target.
On the right flank, Gabriel Assis was pacing the touchline like a caged animal.
The Brazilian winger had barely touched the ball. The majority of the Valois attacks had been funneled down the left through Dário, or stalled in the congested center. Nantaise had set their defensive shape deliberately. Their left-back stayed narrow, their wide midfielder tracked every overlapping run, and their entire block drifted toward the Valois left side the moment the ball entered the central zone.
Gabriel’s body language screamed frustration. He threw his arms up in the air every time Klaus opted for a safe, lateral pass instead of forcing a risky diagonal ball out to the right. Gabriel had been benched in the Cup Quarter-Final. He had watched Bachra Goza come on, isolate a defender, and draw a card. He had watched Bachra orchestrate the final goal with Max Caster.
Gabriel’s ego was heavily bruised. He felt erased from the narrative of the squad’s recent success, and he was desperate to inject himself back into the starting eleven hierarchy.
Minute eighteen.
Kévin Aubert pushed up the right flank from the fullback position. He received a pass from Baini and immediately looked for Gabriel. The Nantaise left-back stepped up, applying pressure, forcing Aubert to play the ball backward to Amadou Fall.
Gabriel dropped his head, kicking at the grass in visible irritation.
"He’s losing his patience," Luc observed, his eyes locked on the Brazilian winger. "He wants to make a statement."
Valérie glanced at the monitor. "If he makes a statement that costs us possession, Henri will pull him off the pitch before halftime."
"He knows that," Luc replied. "That’s why he’s dangerous right now. He’s trying to balance his own ambition against the manager’s tactical discipline."
Minute nineteen.
Nantaise attempted a rare clearance that didn’t immediately go out of bounds. The ball dropped near the center circle. Klaus Becker read the flight perfectly, stepping in front of the lone Nantaise striker and chesting the ball down with authority.
The German midfielder didn’t delay. He recognized the slight shift in the Nantaise defensive block. They had leaned heavily toward the left flank to contain Dário Ferrão, leaving the opposite side of the pitch marginally exposed.
Klaus planted his left foot, opened his hips, and drove a blistering switch of play across the turf.
The ball sliced through the air, traveling forty yards before dropping perfectly into the right channel.
The stadium’s volume spiked instantly. The fans recognized the isolation.
Minute twenty.
Gabriel Assis tracked the ball, his cleats digging into the immaculate grass as he accelerated. He didn’t break his stride. He extended his right boot, killing the momentum of Klaus’s pass flawlessly, bringing the ball under his control on the right touchline.
The Nantaise left-back scrambled backward, his eyes wide. He knew exactly who he was facing. He knew Gabriel possessed explosive, terrifying pace.
Gabriel stopped.
He placed his sole on top of the ball, freezing the play just outside the far corner of the penalty area. He squared his shoulders, directly facing the isolated defender.
The rest of the pitch seemed to stop moving.
In the center, Idriss Konaté was fighting off a center-back, pointing toward the penalty spot, demanding a cross. Hugo Blanc was hovering at the edge of the eighteen-yard box, finding a rare pocket of space, offering a safe, backward passing option to retain possession.
Even Kévin Aubert had made an overlapping run, sprinting down the outside to offer a decoy.
Gabriel had three distinct, tactically sound options. He could cross the ball to the target man. He could lay it off to the playmaker. He could slip it down the line for the overlapping fullback.
But Gabriel didn’t look at Idriss. He didn’t look at Hugo. He ignored Aubert’s run entirely.
The Brazilian winger kept his eyes locked dead onto the waist of the Nantaise left-back.
Up in the executive suite, Luc gripped the armrests of his leather chair, his knuckles practically turning white. He knew exactly what Gabriel was calculating. He had seen it before, not just in Gabriel, but in himself. That specific, dangerous tunnel vision when the desire to prove something overrides every instruction, every tactical instruction drilled into muscle memory across months of training.
Down on the touchline, Coach Henri stood still. The manager had pulled Gabriel in the cup match for prioritizing personal glory over the system. The warning had been severe... hopefully he had learnt his lesson.
The Nantaise left-back shifted his weight onto his front foot, anticipating the drive. He had spent time studying footage before this match. He knew Gabriel’s preferred cut inside. He knew the step-over pattern. He had prepared specifically for this moment.
What he hadn’t prepared for was Gabriel knowing he had prepared...or was it the other way around.
Gabriel stood over the ball, the weight of the entire stadium pressing down on his shoulders. The Nantaise defender lowered his center of gravity, bracing for the inevitable explosion of pace.
The 20th minute ticked away on the digital scoreboard, the silence stretching into an agonizing void as every single person in Stade Valois waited to see if the Brazilian winger would surrender to the system and pass, or risk everything to dribble through, knowing his dribbling quality wasn’t the same as Bachra’s.
Gabriel Assis hovered his right boot over the ball, initiating the first rotation of a step-over. The execution was sloppy. The fluid, blinding speed that normally made the Brazilian winger a nightmare to defend was absent. His hips were stiff, his rhythm disjointed by the desperate need to prove a point rather than break a defensive line.