Chapter 104: [104] "Brazilian subbed out"
The Brazilian winger attempted to split two defenders with an audacious...completely unnecessary piece of flair. But the pitch caught the ball, slowing it down just enough for the Corse left-back to step in and execute a crunching, perfectly timed tackle.
The ball popped loose.
Gabriel stumbled, throwing his hands high into the air, screaming at the referee for a foul.
The referee waved play on.
Instead of turning and sprinting back with his Olympic-level pace to cover the massive hole he had just created, Gabriel stood still. He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head at the referee, effectively taking himself out of the match.
"Gabriel! Track back!" Luc screamed as he was tracking back himself, his voice cracking with sudden fury.
It was too late.
Corse launched a devastating, fast counter-attack down the vacated Valois right wing. Aubert, the Valois right-back, was instantly caught in a two-on-one. The Corse winger beat him...somewhat easily, then drove the ball deep into the corner before whipping in a desperate low ball into the box.
Leo Hernandez slid to intercept it, his studs scraping across the turf, but he was a fraction of a second late. The ball passed him and fell perfectly into the path of the arriving Corse attacking midfielder.
The midfielder didn’t hesitate, smashing a first-time shot past Blažek’s desperate attempt at a save.
3-2.
The referee immediately blew his whistle to signal the end of the half.
Piii. Piii.
The stadium was stunned, murmuring in silence. A comfortable and dominant 3-1 lead had been slashed to a 3-2 in the dying seconds of the half, all because of a single player’s refusal to do his defensive duty.
Luc didn’t look at the crowd or at the closest to him, Klaus, who was cursing violently in German.
He walked toward Gabriel Assis.
The Brazilian was jogging toward the tunnel, pulling his jersey up to wipe sweat from his face, looking entirely unbothered by the catastrophic error he had just committed.
Luc grabbed him by the back of his shirt, yanking him backward with enough force to make Gabriel stumble.
"What the fuck was that? Huh" Luc snarled, his face inches from the winger’s.
Gabriel batted Luc’s hand away, his own eyes flashing with sudden anger. "Don’t touch me! The referee missed a clear foul. The defender took my ankles out in that tackle!"
This was a different side to someone Luc had thought was humble.
"He took the ball because you were busy doing something you fucking don’t know how to!" Luc roared. "And then you walked! You fucking walked while they scored!"
"Back off," Gabriel snapped, his poor English heavily laced with pride. "I am an attacker. I create. Aubert should have covered that for me."
"You arrogant little piece of shit," Luc hissed.
Obviously Luc knew better than to hit a teammate...but boy did he want to.
Before he thought the confrontation would escalate into a physical brawl right there, Bense Baini stepped between them, placing a firm hand on Luc’s chest and another on Gabriel’s shoulder.
"Save it for the dressing room," Baini said calmly, his eyes darting toward the television cameras tracking their every move. "Do not give the media anything to report. Be better than this guys."
Luc glared at Gabriel for one second longer, then turned and stormed down the tunnel.
The pressure cooker had less pressure than the Valois Locker room. The players came in, taking their seats in silence. Klaus Becker threw his shin guards violently against the lockers.
Gabriel sat, taking a sip from a water bottle, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
Coach Henri walked in through the locker room door. He didn’t have his notes, what he needed to do was probably already edged in his mind. His face was calm, which was unexpected.
Henri walked to the center of the room and pointed directly at Gabriel Assis.
"Shower," Henri said. The single word had power to it.
Gabriel blinked, lowering his water bottle. "Coach, it was a foul. The referee--"
"I said shower!" Henri repeated, raising his voice to show the anger he was trying to hide. "You cost us a goal because you think tracking back is beneath you. I don’t care if Valérie Laurent paid forty million euros for you. If you don’t run for this team, you do not wear this shirt. Get your gear off. You’re done for the night."
Gabriel’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The sheer humiliation of being hooked at halftime paralyzed him. He looked around the room for support, but nobody met his eyes. Even the other new signings looked away.
Henri turned his back on the Brazilian, sweeping his gaze across the rest of the squad. He looked at Baini, who had played a solid half, but Henri was in a mood to send a message to the entire room.
"Baini, you’re out too. Good shift, but I need a workhorse to put this game to bed."
Baini didn’t argue. He simply nodded, a veteran who understood the brutality of halftime changes.
Henri turned to the bench players, who were sitting, silent.
"Bachra!" Henri barked.
The nineteen-year-old La Masia graduate jumped in his seat, his eyes widened.
"You’re on for Gabriel on the right. If you lose the ball, you sprint back until your lungs bleed. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Coach. I’m not as unreliable," Bachra said, stripping off his training jacket instantly.
"Cillian," Henri commanded, pointing at the Irishman. "You’re on for Baini. Go out there and run, I want SC Corse suffocated. I don’t want them crossing the halfway line for the next forty-five minutes."
"Understood, boss," Cillian said, a fierce grin spreading across his face.
Henri looked at Luc, then at the rest of the squad.
"You have forty-five minutes," Henri said. "Go win me this football match."
---
The air inside the tunnel felt suffocatingly thick. The smell of damp grass plus the adrenaline in the Valois squad hung heavy as they filed out for the second half.
Luc stood at the front, the captain’s armband wrapped tight around his arm. His mind was racing, not from the shifting dynamics of the locker room, but the reality of the scoreboard.
3-2.
Quite frankly, the team’s cohesion wasn’t much of a headache now that TES wasn’t awarding penalties about all willy nilly.
A comfortable lead had been butchered in seconds by a single player’s arrogant refusal to work for the team.
Gabriel Assis was currently sitting in the dressing room, stripped of his match kit, nursing a bruised ego and an insulted reputation.
In his place stood Bachra Goza.
The nineteen-year-old La Masia graduate was hopping from foot to foot, trying to keep his muscles warm. Beneath the flashy exterior, the designer shirts, and the gold chains, Luc could see the faint tremor of anxiety in the teenager’s face.
Zara’s words from their morning park talk still played in Luc’s head.
La Masia teaches its products that doubt is a fatal weakness. They program these boys to project absolute arrogance. But... he’s terrified of failing.
Luc stepped to where Bachra was standing.
The teenager’s posture stiffened slightly, expecting a lecture. Instead, Luc reached out and gripped the back of Bachra’s neck.
"Listen to me," Luc said, his voice low enough that the nearby Corse players couldn’t hear. "They are going to try and bully you. They think you’re just a kid with fancy footwork who won’t like getting hit...and they’re probably right. I don’t care if you lose the ball trying to beat your man. If you lose it, I will be there. Aubert will be there. We have your back."
Bachra swallowed hard, the arrogant mask slipping just a fraction to reveal the nineteen-year-old underneath. "I won’t lose it."
"Good," Luc said, his eyes locking onto the boy’s own. "Dance on them, Bachra. But when we don’t have the ball, you run. You run until your lungs give out. Show them the difference between you and the guy who just got benched."
"I will, Captain," Bachra said, his voice steadying.
"Let’s go," Luc commanded, turning back to the front.
---
Piii.
The second half began. SC Corse kicked off, full of the venom and belief that their late first-half goal had injected into their veins. They immediately tried to assert dominance, launching a long, looping ball toward the Valois midfield, hoping to win the second ball and crash through the center.
They had forgotten who Henri had subbed on.
Bense Baini had played with precision, hardly putting a foot wrong. But the man who had subbed him out, Cillian Doyle, played like someone whose family honor had been personally insulted by the opposition.
Before the ball even touched the grass, Cillian was there. The Irishman launched himself into the air, winning the header cleanly against a Corse midfielder who was two inches taller than he was. The ball dropped to the ground, and another Corse player rushed in to claim it. Cillian hit the ground, stabilized himself in a fraction of a second, and threw himself into a crunching, perfect slide tackle that sent the ball rocketing out to the left flank.