Chapter 142: [142] "Adoration"
Luc simply stared through him. He didn’t offer a smirk or a threat. He looked at the man as if he were an inanimate obstacle that was about to be violently removed. The Alsace captain blinked, shifting his weight uncomfortably, and broke eye contact.
The referee blew the whistle, and they marched out onto the pitch.
Piii.
No Stade de la Meinau home advantage for Alsace. With their tweaked formation, no Reinhard as the second striker either.
Valois kicked off, and within the first sixty seconds, RC Alsace executed exactly what Henri had predicted. Their midfield pushed up in a highly aggressive, physical mid-block similar to their last match against Valois, snapping into tackles with reckless abandon.
Their defensive midfielder launched himself into a heavy, studs-up challenge on Bense Baini, earning a sharp whistle, card, and a warning from the referee but successfully setting up a violent tone.
But SC Valois was no longer the fragile, technical team they had been in September.
---
Minute four.
Alsace intercepted a stray pass in the midfield and immediately launched a long, looping ball over the top, aiming for their blistering fast right-winger stepping up from a dropped role in midfield. It was the exact counter-attacking trap they had relied upon all season.
Zack Florez was isolated on the left flank. The eighteen-year-old backpedaled, his eyes locked onto the waist and knees of the approaching attacker.
The Alsace winger brought the ball down perfectly, hitting top speed instantly, attempting to simply knock the ball past Zack and blow by him. But Zack didn’t panic.
He didn’t call for Leo Hernandez to cover. He dropped his hips, matched the winger’s explosive acceleration stride for stride, and at the exact millisecond the winger took a slightly heavy touch, Zack lunged.
It was a flawless, textbook sliding tackle. Zack’s cleats swept the ball cleanly out of bounds, sending the Alsace winger tumbling over his legs and crashing into the advertising boards.
The Stade Valois crowd roared in approval. Zack popped back up to his feet, slapping his chest, his confidence instantly skyrocketing. The kid was a 1v1 defensive monster, and he had just established his territory.
With the counter-attacking threat neutralized, SC Valois took absolute control of the match. And the conductor of the orchestra was Hugo Blanc.
Minute eleven.
Hugo, about to receive the ball in the central space, was surrounded by three Alsace midfielders who immediately converged to crush him. In the reverse fixture, this was the exact scenario where Hugo had panicked, taken a heavy touch, and suffered a hit ankle.
Tonight, Hugo was operating on a different dimensional plane.
He didn’t take a touch to settle the ball. With a delicate, almost disrespectful flick of the outside of his left boot, Hugo redirected the incoming pass perfectly into the path of the overlapping Klaus Becker, entirely bypassing the three-man press. Klaus drove forward, forcing the Alsace defensive line to collapse inward, before sliding the ball right back to Hugo, who had ghosted into the space they had just vacated.
Hugo picked his head up. He had the ball at his feet, thirty yards from goal, with zero pressure.
Luc made his run.
He was sandwiched between the two massive Alsace center-backs, both of whom immediately grabbed fistfuls of his jersey, attempting to drag him down physically.
The referee had a whistle to his lips, ready to blow but was playing advantage.
Luc dropped his center of gravity, his core locking into a state of some % increased rigidity. The defenders might as well have been trying to pull down a concrete pillar. Luc easily held his ground, peeling off the shoulder of the right center-back just as Hugo swung his leg.
Hugo’s pass was a masterpiece. It wasn’t a standard through ball. It was a low, violently paced, curving delivery that sliced right between the center-back and the left-back, bending perfectly into Luc’s stride inside the penalty area.
Luc didn’t need to break his sprint. He had perception of the chaotic penalty box, noting the frantic lunge of the goalkeeper. He planted his right foot, opened his hips, and snapped his left boot through the center of the leather.
The ball rocketed into the bottom left corner, hitting the side netting with a satisfying hiss.
Goal!
1-0.
Luc jogged toward the corner flag, pointing back at Hugo. The teenager trotted over, completely unfazed, as if he had simply completed a passing drill in training.
"Perfect weight," Luc told him, wrapping an arm around the kid’s shoulders.
"They’re too slow, Captain," Hugo replied quietly. "Their midfield is entirely disconnected from their backline. Keep making the runs. I’ll keep finding you."
The scoreboard ticked over. Luc had twenty-five goals. He was officially tied with Fresko again.
But the night had only just begun.
---
RC Alsace, realizing their physical intimidation tactics had failed drastically, attempted to pack the box and revert to a desperate low block. But the presence of Bachra Goza completely destroyed that ideea.
Minute twenty-four.
Bachra received the ball hugging the right touchline. The Alsace left-back stepped out to engage, terrified of allowing the flashy teenager space to dribble. Bachra immediately executed a blinding double step-over, forcing the defender to shift his weight, before dragging the ball backward with the sole of his boot and laying it off to Hugo in the center.
Because the Alsace fullback had been dragged so far wide, a massive seam opened in the half-space.
Hugo didn’t hesitate. Without even looking up to confirm the run, the teenage prodigy scooped his foot under the ball, executing a perfectly weighted, lofted chip over the heads of the panicked Alsace center-backs.
Bachra had already abandoned the touchline, darting diagonally into the penalty area. He arrived onto Hugo’s chipped pass without breaking stride. He let the ball bounce once on the turf, then unleashed a ferocious volley with his right foot that tore past the goalkeeper and nearly took the roof off the net.
Goal!!
2-0.
Bachra sprinted toward the stands, sliding on his knees and blowing kisses to the crowd, soaking in the adoration of Stade Valois.
Hugo had two assists in twenty-four minutes. The kid was dismantling a professional defensive line with the casual ease of a grandmaster playing chess against amateurs.
Alsace was almost completely broken. Their manager was screaming on the touchline, his face purple with rage, but his players were physically and mentally exhausted...already. Chasing the ball against Valois’ 4-3-3 was like trying to catch smoke. Klaus and Baini were completely dominating the midfield battle, suffocating any attempt Alsace made to transition the ball.