Chapter 168: [168] "Caster 2"
Minute forty-one.
Cillian pushed the ball forward, looking for an opening. Max checked his run, deliberately pulling away from the Belleville center-back, dropping ten yards deep into the midfield space.
The rookie defender hesitated. He remembered abandoning his line earlier and conceding the opening goal. He chose to hold his position, refusing to track the teenager.
Cillian then zipped a firm, grounded pass directly into Max’s feet.
The sixteen-year-old received the ball on the half-turn. His first touch was immaculate, killing the pace of the pass instantly and keeping the ball glued to his laces. He picked his head up.
Because the center-back had refused to step out, Max had five yards of open grass in front of him.
He didn’t pass out wide to Gabriel. He didn’t look for Hugo.
Max put his head down and drove straight at the heart of the Belleville defense.
His acceleration wasn’t explosive like Gabriel’s, but his ball manipulation was terrifyingly precise. He closed the distance in three strides, arriving at the edge of the penalty arc.
A Belleville defensive midfielder, recovering late, lunged across his path, attempting a desperate sweeping tackle.
Max didn’t even break his stride. With a flick of his right ankle, he dragged the ball an inch backward, letting the midfielder slide harmlessly past, then pushed it forward again in one fluid, continuous motion.
One man beaten.
The rookie center-back realized the imminent danger. He stepped up, squaring his hips, determined not to be humiliated twice in one half. He planted his feet, preparing to muscle the teenager off the ball.
Max approached him at speed. He dropped his left shoulder heavily, initiating a standard step-over. The defender shifted his weight marginally to the right to cover the angle.
It was a fatal error.
Max executed an elastic, rapid croqueta, shifting the ball from his right boot to his left with blinding speed. He slipped through the nonexistent gap between the defender’s legs, emerging inside the penalty area with the ball still flawlessly under his control.
Two men beaten.
The home crowd was rising to its feet, the collective intake of breath audible over the stadium speakers. Luc leaned forward on the dugout partition, completely forgetting the throbbing pain in his knee. The kid was carving them open.
The final obstacle was the Belleville left-back, who had tucked inside desperately to cover the shattered central position. The full-back didn’t commit to a tackle. He simply threw his body sideways, trying to block the inevitable shot.
Max utilized his elite close control once again, chopping the ball sharply with the inside of his heel, pulling it away from the diving defender’s trajectory.
Three men beaten.
Max found himself eight yards from the goal line, slightly angled to the right. The goalkeeper stayed on his line, arms spread wide, trying to make himself as massive as physically possible.
The teenager didn’t look for a pass, he planted his left foot firmly into the turf, opened his hips, and snapped a low strike with his right instep. He didn’t try to place it delicately. He put every ounce of power his slight frame could generate through the center of the ball.
The ball bypassed the goalkeeper’s frantic dive entirely. It was a guaranteed, spectacular solo goal.
...Until the sickening, metallic ping echoed across the stadium.
The ball smashed against the base of the goalpost. The impact was so severe it visibly shook the frame of the net. The ball rebounded back into play, spinning wildly toward the edge of the box, where a panicked Belleville defender hacked it deep into the stands.
The entire stadium let out a massive groan of disbelief.
Max Caster stood near the penalty spot, his hands instantly flying to his head, staring at the white paint of the post in horror. He had executed one of the most brilliant solo dribbling sequences seen in Stade Valois all season, entirely dismantling professionals, only to be denied by two inches of aluminum.
Luc let out a sharp breath, slapping the top of the dugout with his palm. "Unlucky," he muttered, shaking his head. It was a phenomenal effort. The kid had proven exactly why he belonged on the pitch.
The referee glanced at his watch and raised his whistle to his lips.
Piii. Piii.
The halftime whistle blew.
The Belleville players ran toward the tunnel, looking like survivors of a natural disaster. They were down a goal, down a man, and had just been subjected to a psychological torture session by a sixteen-year-old.
Max walked slowly toward the touchline, his shoulders slumped in dejection.
Luc stepped out of the technical area, limping slightly as he met the teenager near the edge of the grass. He didn’t offer sympathy for the missed shot.
"You broke through professionals," Luc said, his voice hard and commanding, forcing Max to look up. "The post? just bad luck. The movement was elite. You keep doing that in the second half, they will even consider forfeiting the match."
Max blinked, the frustration in his eyes warring with the validation from his captain. He offered a determined nod.
Luc turned and limped toward a staff member near the tunnel. The first half was over.
---
Leaned heavily on the shoulder of a junior technical staff member, Luc’s right leg dragged marginally with every step. The adrenaline that had flooded his system and temporarily masked the contact received on the pitch was receding rapidly. In its place, immense pain shot outward from the bone just below his kneecap, pulsing in rhythm with his elevated heart rate.
He was helped to the locker room door.
He expected to walk into a tense analytical environment. Henri usually demanded near silence during the first three minutes of halftime to let the physical exertion settle before he began delivering tactical adjustments.
Instead, the room was buzzing with energy. Cillian Doyle was standing near the center of the locker room, holding a half-empty bottle of water and reenacting the final moments of the first half.