Chapter 107: [107] "A spectacle coming up"
After the session, the squad filed into the warmth of the complex.
Luc was untaping his ankles at his locker when Idriss sat down on the bench beside him. The Ivorian was dripping with sweat from his extra sprints.
"You used my name to scold the Brazilian," Idriss noted quietly.
"Yes. It worked."
Idriss stared at the floor. "I’m not sitting on the bench for the rest of the season, Luc."
"I didn’t expect you to."
"Henri is sticking with the 4-3-3," Idriss continued, his voice tight. "That means one of us plays. I am not a winger. I am a nine. If I don’t get minutes, my agent is going to initiate transfer talks in the summer."
It was an honest, brutal admission. Idriss wasn’t being toxic, he was being a professional assessing his own career trajectory.
"The Cup match is coming up," Luc said, looking at him. "Round of 16. It’s Henri’s rotation game. You’re probably going to start."
"Maybe," Idriss said, finally looking up, a strange, dark excitement flickering in his eyes. "And you’re going to want to see who we drew."
Luc frowned. "The draw was this morning?"
"Thirty minutes ago. It’s on the television in Henri’s office." Idriss stood up, slinging his towel over his shoulder. "You better go in there. Valérie is already inside, and she did not look happy."
Luc grabbed his jacket and walked down the corridor toward the manager’s office. The heavy wooden door was slightly open. He didn’t knock. He pushed it open slowly.
Henri was sitting behind his desk, his hands buried in his thinning hair.
Valérie Laurent was pacing in front of the television monitor mounted on the wall, her business flip phone pressed to her ear. She snapped it shut as Luc walked in.
"Look at the screen," Valérie ordered, pointing a manicured finger.
Luc looked. The Cup de France Round of 16 bracket was displayed in bright graphics.
SC Valois vs. Paris Royal FC.
Luc’s blood turned to ice water.
Paris Royal. Away. Parc des Royals. Again.
"We drew the league leaders in the Round of 16," Henri muttered, sounding completely defeated. "We have AS Garonne in the league five days later. The fixture congestion is a nightmare."
"I don’t care about Garonne right now," Valérie snapped, turning to face Henri. "This is Paris Royal. This is the entire country watching. They just bought Bastien Leroux from us. Their board is actively trying to poach you away to Qatar. This will not be a rotation game. This is war."
"It’s a cup tie!" Henri argued, standing up. "I promised Idriss minutes. I promised a few of the bench players minutes."
"You will play the strongest eleven," Valérie commanded, her voice dropping into the terrifying register that brokered no debate. "And Gabriel Assis starts."
Henri blinked. "Gabriel? He was a liability on Saturday. He refuses to track back. Against Paris Royal’s wingers, he will be slaughtered."
"I paid forty million euros for a marquee winger," Valérie stepped closer to the desk, slamming her hand flat onto the wood. "Paris Royal’s executives will be in the director’s box laughing at me if my most expensive acquisition is sitting on the bench. He plays. He justifies his price tag. Or you can explain to me why you can’t manage elite talent."
It was a direct threat to Henri.
Henri looked like he had been struck. He sank back into his chair, the fight draining out of him entirely.
Luc stepped forward, placing himself between Valérie and the manager.
"Gabriel starts," Luc said calmly.
Both of them looked at him.
"Luc, you can’t be serious," Henri pleaded. "Against Paris Royal? Even their left-back will overlap him all night."
"He starts," Luc repeated, keeping his eyes locked on Valérie. "But if he starts, Idriss starts too."
Valérie raised an eyebrow. "In a 4-3-3? Where will you play?"
"No," Luc said. "We switch back to the 4-4-2 just for Wednesday. Klaus and Baini anchor the middle. Gabriel on the right, Sordell on the left. Idriss and me up top."
"You want to sacrifice Hugo?" Henri asked, horrified. "Hugo is our creative engine."
"Hugo rests," Luc said. "He played ninety minutes. We need him for Garonne. Against Paris Royal, we don’t need a creative engine. We need to hit them on the counter. We absorb their possession, and we run Gabriel and Idriss into the space behind their fullbacks. Any sloppy pass will do once we have the runners."
Valérie stared at him. She was calculating the PR optics, the risk, and the sheer audacity of her twenty-year-old captain dictating the lineup to the manager.
"You are taking responsibility for the forty-million-euro man," Valérie said softly.
"I’ll make him run," Luc promised. "Or I’ll drag him off the pitch myself."
Valérie’s lips curled into a sharp, satisfied smile. "Wednesday night. Parc des Royals. Do not embarrass me, Beaumont."
She walked out of the office, the click of her heels fading down the corridor.
Henri looked up at Luc, rubbing his eyes. "A 4-4-2 against Paris Royal. With Gabriel Assis refusing to defend. We are going to get butchered...just like last time."
"We aren’t getting butchered, Coach," Luc said, turning toward the door.
He walked out, the tactical gears grinding in his head.
Luc didn’t walk far down the corridor before he stopped. He stood in the quiet hallway for five seconds, listening to the frustrated sigh of his manager, before he turned around and walked right back in.
Henri looked up, startled, his hands still buried in his thinning hair. "Did you forget something, Beaumont?"
"I forgot to tell you the actual plan," Luc said, closing the door behind him until it clicked shut. He walked over to the tactical whiteboard mounted on the wall adjacent to the television screen, grabbing a black marker.
"You just told Valérie Laurent, the woman who pays our salaries, that we are dropping our best creative player to play a flat 4-4-2," Henri said, his voice laced with absolute panic. "If we do not play a 4-4-2, and we lose, she will fire me before I even make it to the post-match press conference."
"We aren’t going to lose, be confident," Luc said, drawing eleven circles on the board. "And we are going to play a formation that looks exactly like a 4-4-2 when we are defending, which is all Valérie will notice from the director’s box. But in possession, it’s a 4-2-3-1."
Luc tapped the marker against the board, drawing the lines rapidly.
"We don’t drop Hugo. If we drop Hugo, we don’t have much creative brain, and Klaus and Baini will just be chasing shadows against Paris Royal’s midfield. We play Klaus and Baini as a double pivot. Hugo plays as the ten, directly in front of them."
Henri stood up, walking over to the board, his tactical mind overriding his corporate fear. "And the wings? Valérie demanded Gabriel starts."
"Gabriel starts on the right," Luc confirmed, writing the Brazilian’s initials on the flank. "But we don’t start Sordell on the left. We start Idriss."
Henri frowned. "Idriss is a central striker. He doesn’t have the crossing ability or the defensive work rate of a natural winger."
"He doesn’t need to cross," Luc explained, drawing an aggressive diagonal arrow from Idriss’s position on the left wing straight into the penalty box. "He plays as an inside forward. When we have the ball, he crashes the box. It gives us two strikers up top. When we lose the ball, he drops back into the left midfield slot. It forms the 4-4-2 defensive block Valérie wants to see. Hugo pushes up slightly beside me to press their center-backs."
Henri stared at the board. The prospect of it was demanding. It required a level of tactical fluidity they hadn’t fully tested yet. "It requires Idriss to swallow his pride and play out of position, and it requires Gabriel to actually defend his flank."
"I’ll handle Idriss," Luc said, tossing the marker onto the tray. "And I’ll handle Gabriel."
Henri looked at his twenty-year-old captain. The bags under the manager’s eyes seemed to lighten just a fraction. "You are playing a very dangerous game with Valérie, Luc."
"I’m playing to win the Cup," Luc said flatly. "I’ll see you at training."
---
Tuesday morning.
The air at the training complex was thick with the suffocating tension of the impending Cup tie. Paris Royal wasn’t just another team, they were the apex predators of French football. Every player in the Valois squad knew that Wednesday night was the ultimate litmus test of their January spending spree.
Luc found Idriss in the gym before the session started. The Ivorian was doing weighted lunges, his face a mask of total concentration.
"You’re starting tomorrow," Luc said, leaning against the rack.
Idriss paused, the heavy dumbbells hanging by his sides. He looked at Luc, his chest heaving slightly. "Henri is shifting to the 4-4-2?"
"Henri is shifting to a 4-2-3-1," Luc corrected. "You’re playing left inside forward. You’ll defend the wide channel, but in possession, you crash the box right next to me."