Chapter 185: [185] "Street football"

By rotating the fouls among different players, they prevented any single individual from accumulating enough infractions to warrant an early yellow card.

It was ugly, cynical, and highly effective.

The camera panned across the pitch, catching the heavy breathing of the players. The rain was unrelenting, soaking the jerseys and plastering hair to foreheads.

Minute eleven.

Union Aquitaine finally attempted to launch a counter-attack. Their left wing-back, a player notorious for his stamina, intercepted a heavy pass. The defender didn’t look for the central midfield. He instantly pushed the ball twenty yards down the touchline, initiating a footrace against Kévin Aubert after already bypassing Bachra, who was now tracking back.

The Valois right-back matched the sprint, but the Aquitaine player had the momentum. He reached the edge of the final third and whipped an early, curling cross into the penalty area.

Hadj and Amadou Fall were perfectly positioned. Hadj tracked the flight of the wet ball, rising into the air and powering a clearing header back out toward the center circle.

The ball fell to Klaus Becker.

The deep midfielder shielded the ball with his broad shoulders, holding off two aggressive challengers. He needed an outlet. He scanned the left flank, but Dário was pinned against the touchline by two defenders. He looked central, but Hugo was currently suffocated by the central center-back who had refused to leave his zone this time.

Klaus pivoted, his cleats digging deep into the mud, and looked to the right.

Bachra Goza was holding his position on the absolute edge of the chalk. The nineteen-year-old Spaniard had seen very little of the ball in the opening eleven minutes. The match had largely bypassed his flank, focused heavily on the physical battles in the center and the left side.

Klaus drove a low, flat pass across the pitch, cutting through the driving rain.

Luc shifted his posture on the sofa, ignoring the warning beep of the compression machine cycling through its cooling phase. He watched the television screen intently. He remembered the conversation in his apartment just a few hours ago. He remembered telling Bachra exactly how to handle this specific scenario.

One touch. Exploit the space. Make them turn and run. Do not take an extra touch to try and embarrass them.

The broadcast camera swung rapidly to track the flight of the ball.

Bachra stood still, his boots anchored on the sideline. The Aquitaine left wing-back, the same player who had just initiated the counter-attack and sprinted eighty yards, was currently jogging back into his defensive shape. The defender saw the pass traveling toward the teenager and instantly changed direction, accelerating aggressively to close the gap before Bachra could turn.

On the touchline, the broadcast caught a brief glimpse of Coach Henri. The manager was standing calmly, his expression suttle and expectant. Henri knew the instruction. He fully anticipated Bachra to receive the ball on the half-turn and immediately sweep it down the line into the vast expanse of empty space behind the charging wing-back, forcing the defender into a grueling, backwards sprint.

The ball arrived at Bachra’s feet.

The Spaniard didn’t open his hips. He didn’t prepare for a first-time pass.

Instead, Bachra trapped the ball firmly under the sole of his right boot, killing the momentum entirely. He stopped the play for a brief moment.

Luc let out a frustrated breath in the quiet of his living room. "What are you doing, kid?"

Bachra was deliberately inviting the pressure. He stood over the ball, his posture radiating that undeniable, deeply ingrained ’La Masia’. He wanted the isolation. He wanted the one-on-one battle. He had watched Gabriel Assis get benched for selfishness just days prior, but the nineteen-year-old’s ego fundamentally believed his own technical superiority could overcome the brutal conditions of the away fixture.

The Aquitaine left wing-back arrived like a freight train.

The defender’s arms were covered in white athletic tape, his jersey completely soaked and clinging to his torso. He didn’t slow down to jockey for position. He didn’t lower his center of gravity to contain the winger. He came in hot, fully intending to drive the Valois player off the ball.

Luc winced instinctively, his own injured knee giving a phantom throb.

The defender lunged, throwing his entire body weight forward.

Bachra didn’t flinch.

In a fraction of a second, operating on pure instinct and a terrifying level of technical confidence, the teenager executed a maneuver that belonged on a dry training pitch, not a flooded trench in the south of France.

Bachra clamped the wet ball tightly between both of his ankles. He rolled his weight forward, jumping slightly, and flicked both heels upward in a vicious, snapping motion.

Rainbow flick!

The waterlogged ball defied the conditions. It launched into the air, tracing a perfect, looping arc directly over the head of the charging wing-back.

The Aquitaine defender was completely committed to his sliding tackle. He went sliding past Bachra, his cleats carving a deep trench into the mud, grabbing absolutely nothing but empty air.

Bachra casually hopped over the sliding legs, his eyes tracking the ball as it dropped perfectly back onto the grass directly behind the humiliated defender. The teenager landed smoothly, instantly accelerating into the massive pocket of space he had just carved open.

The Valois away section, a tiny pocket of fans tucked high in the upper corner of the stadium, exploded into a roar of disbelief. The broadcast microphones picked up the collective, unified gasp of the home supporters.

It was an act of supreme and highly disrespectful audacity.

Luc stared at the television screen, his mouth slightly open. He was furious that Bachra had ignored the tactical blueprint, but he was simultaneously awestruck by the perfection of the execution. To pull off a rainbow flick over a charging professional defender on a pitch that resembled a swamp required a level of technical audacity that bordered on insanity.

Bachra hit his stride, driving toward the corner flag with the ball glued to his laces. He had a completely uncontested path to whip a cross into the penalty area where Idriss and Hugo were already making their runs.