Chapter 132: [132] "The Wall of Green and White 3"
The ball deflected sharply upward, spinning wildly into the air toward the far post.
Luc stumbled forward, off-balance from the strike, watching in disbelief as the keeper parried his twenty-fourth goal away.
Dário Ferrão, who had maintained his width on the left flank, sprinted inward as if smelling blood. The Portuguese winger arrived at the back post completely unchallenged. He didn’t let the ball hit the ground, launching himself into the air and executing a clean, textbook diving header.
The ball slammed into the empty net.
Goal.
2-1.
Dário scrambled to his feet, screaming in triumph. The stadium erupted with him once again, the tension breaking in a massive wave of noise.
Luc stood in the center of the penalty area, his hands resting heavily on his hips. He exhaled a long, heavy breath, staring at the spot where the goalkeeper had pulled off the impossible save. He was glad they had the lead. He was glad the team was winning.
...but the hunger gnawing at his ribs remained quiteunsatisfied.
The referee checked his watch and blew the whistle twice.
Piii. Piii.
Halftime.
Luc walked toward the tunnel as his teammates patted Dário on the back. Valois had reclaimed the advantage, heading into the dressing room up 2-1. They had successfully broken the lock twice.
Yet, as he pulled the captain’s armband higher up his bicep and marched into the shadows of the tunnel, Luc couldn’t shake the bitter taste in his mouth. He was walking off the pitch at halftime without a goal to his name.
---
The atmosphere inside the home dressing room at halftime was a sharp contrast to the jubilation of the crowd outside. The scoreline read 2-1 in favor of SC Valois, but the mood among the players was thick with frustration. They had the lead, but Sporting Bretagne’s cynical, deeply entrenched 4-3-3 low block felt like they were chewing on gravel.
Coach Henri stood by the tactical whiteboard, rapidly erasing the markers from before the first forty-five minutes.
Hugo Blanc sat on the bench, an ice pack already strapped to his left ankle. The teenager had been the primary target of Bretagne’s physical midfield, taking a series of late tackles that had severely hampered his passing rhythm.
"They have their away goal," Henri said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Which means they are going to shut the door completely now. They will pack ten men behind the ball and dare us to break them down. If we try to force passes through the center, Morel will intercept them and they will counter us exactly like they did for their equalizer."
Henri turned away from the board, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the substitutes.
"Hugo, you are done for the day. You’ve taken enough kicks," Henri stated firmly. The teenager nodded, clearly relieved not to subject his previously injured ligaments to another half of abuse.
Henri’s gaze shifted. "Max. Get your boots laced."
Max Caster’s head snapped up. The sixteen-year-old American youth promotion stared at the manager in sheer disbelief. "Me, Coach?"
"Yes, you," Henri confirmed. "Hugo is a passer. He needs runners and open channels to operate. Bretagne is not giving us the open channels. I need someone who can operate in a tight space. You play right behind Luc. Use your close control to drag their center-backs out of position. Make them foul you if you have to."
Henri then turned to the Brazilian winger, who was currently pouring water over his neck. "Gabriel, you’re coming off."
Gabriel frowned, the competitive ego instantly flaring. "I got the assist for Baini’s goal. I’m playing fine."
"You are playing fine," Henri agreed smoothly. "But you rely on explosive sprints to beat your man. Their fullbacks are sitting too deep for you to run behind them. I need someone who can break ankles from a standing start." Henri pointed to the corner.
"Bachra. You’re on. Stay wide, do your thing, draw the defenders out, and put the ball in the box."
Bachra Goza grinned, tossing his warm-up jacket onto the floor. "Got it, boss."
Luc walked over to the two teenagers who were about to be thrust into a grueling, physical scrap.
"Listen to me," Luc said, his tone low, commanding their absolute attention. "Max, Morel is going to try to body you the second you receive the ball. Drop your center of gravity. Do not let him dictate your balance. If you get into the box, remember what we talked about in training. Don’t ask the ball to go in. Force it in."
Max swallowed hard, nodding. "I’ll blast it. Right."
Luc turned to Bachra. "Stay on the touchlines. Do not cut inside until you have cleanly beaten your man. If you crowd the middle, we lose our numerical advantage."
"I’ll keep them dancing on the edge of the pitch," Bachra promised, his La Masia confidence entirely unshaken by the conditions awaiting them outside.
---
The official called from the doorway.
Luc turned toward the tunnel. He had forty-five minutes to find his twenty-fourth goal.
The second half commenced with Sporting Bretagne doubling down on their defensive cynicism. They abandoned any pretense of attacking, transitioning into a flat 5-4-1 whenever Valois crossed the halfway line.
Morel operated as a sweeper right in front of the center-backs, barking instructions and manually shifting his teammates to plug any developing gaps.
Minute fifty-two.
Bense Baini pushed the ball forward, assessing the denseness of the green-and-white jerseys. He slotted a short pass to Max Caster, who had found a tiny pocket of space twenty-five yards from goal.
Instantly, Morel stepped up to crush the teenager. The veteran midfielder arrived with ruthless intent, throwing his shoulder hard into the kid’s back.
Max absorbed the hit...barely. Remembering Luc’s advice, the younger American dropped his hips, rolling his studs over the top of the ball, dragging it backward just enough to evade Morel’s sweeping leg. In the same motion, Max spun away from the contact, slipping effortlessly out of the tussle.
Morel stumbled as he come out off-balance.
"Good feet!" Luc roared, watching the sixteen-year-old navigate the pressure.
Max pushed forward, but the Bretagne center-backs instantly stepped up to close the corridor, forcing him to lay the ball off to the left flank where Dário Ferrão was waiting.
The attack ultimately fizzled out into a blocked cross, but the dynamic had shifted. Max’s ability to retain the ball in tight spaces meant Morel couldn’t just recklessly press the midfield anymore.