Chapter 191: [191] "The Keeper??"

The official didn’t hesitate for a single second. He sprinted toward the incident, his arm pointing with certainty at the penalty spot.

Valois’ temporary stability shattered.

The stadium erupted in a roar of vindication. The home fans sensed blood.

Klaus Becker and Amadou Fall instantly swarmed the referee, their faces in furious protest. Klaus pointed at the mud, arguing that the conditions caused the slide, that there was no malicious intent, that the striker had initiated the contact.

The referee backed away, shaking his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow card, thrusting it into Pinto’s face.

The backup goalkeeper sat in the mud, his hands on his head, staring blankly at the torn grass between his knees. He had been on the pitch for barely twelve minutes, and he had just handed the opposition a lifeline back into the quarter-final.

In his dim living room, Luc slammed his fist against the armrest of the sofa.

"Damn it, Pinto," Luc hissed, running a hand through his hair. "You gave him the excuse to go down."

The television broadcast showed endless slow-motion replays of the collision. From the reverse angle, it was undeniably a penalty. Pinto was rash. He had panicked, misread the friction of the pitch, and wiped out the attacker.

The commentators were merciless.

"A catastrophic error of judgment from the substitute keeper," the anchor declared. "He had no need to rush out. He has just thrown Union Aquitaine a massive lifeline on the stroke of halftime. If they convert this, the momentum of the entire tie flips."

On the touchline, Coach Henri remained motionless. He didn’t kick a water bottle like someone in his situation had every right to. He didn’t yell at his assistants either. He simply stared at the penalty spot, his face emotionless.

The referee finally cleared the arguing Valois players out of the penalty area. Klaus grabbed Pinto by the jersey, pulling the goalkeeper to his feet. The German captain leaned in, pressing his forehead against Pinto’s, shouting something intense and motivating before shoving the keeper back toward the goal line.

The Aquitaine striker who had won the foul picked up the ball. He wiped it carefully on his soaked jersey, clearing the worst of the mud, before placing it deliberately on the white chalk of the penalty spot.

The striker took four measured steps backward. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring down the Valois goalkeeper.

The tension radiating from the television screen was suffocating.

Luc leaned forward, ignoring the compression machine. He analyzed the striker’s posture. The Aquitaine player’s hips were open, his run-up angled slightly to favor a right-footed strike.

"He’s going to open his body," Luc muttered to himself, reading the mechanics as if he were the one standing on the goal line. "He wants the bottom right corner. The mud is too thick to risk lifting it."

Pinto stood on the line. He bounced nervously on his toes, his arms extended wide. He looked small between the massive white posts.

The referee backed away toward the edge of the eighteen-yard box. He brought the whistle to his lips and blew a sharp trill.

Piii.

The stadium fell deathly silent.

The Aquitaine striker began his run-up. He didn’t stutter-step. He ran with a smooth, accelerating rhythm. He planted his left foot deeply into the turf beside the ball, opening his hips exactly as Luc had predicted.

He struck the ball with the inside of his right boot, aiming a firm, low, placed shot toward the bottom right corner.

It was a safe penalty. It prioritized accuracy over raw power, designed to exploit a nervous goalkeeper who might dive early or misread the direction.

Pinto didn’t dive early.

The backup keeper held his ground for a critical fraction of a second, waiting for the striker’s foot to make contact with the ball. The moment the ball left the boot, Pinto launched himself to his left...the striker’s right.

He extended his body fully, parallel to the muddy grass. The ball skimmed across the wet turf, picking up speed.

Pinto’s lower hand shot out. His thick goalkeeper glove met the wet ball just inches before it could cross the white line.

The impact wasn’t clean enough to hold the ball. The sheer force of the penalty bent Pinto’s wrist backward, but the contact was solid. The ball deflected sharply outward, spinning wildly away from the goalmouth and toward the corner flag.

Zack Florez, reacting faster than any Aquitaine attacker, sprinted into the box and hammered the loose ball deep into the stands.

He saved it!!!

The Valois away end exploded in absolute delirium.

Pinto hit the mud, scrambled instantly to his knees, and let out a primal, throat-tearing scream, violently pumping both fists into the rainy sky.

Klaus Becker arrived, the massive man didn’t just hug the keeper, he tackled Pinto back into the mud, roaring his approval. Amadou Fall and Hadj piled on seconds later, burying the backup goalkeeper under a mass of wet, muddy jerseys.

In his apartment, Luc Beaumont threw both arms into the air, a massive shout of relief echoing off his living room walls.

"Yes! Read him perfectly!" Luc yelled, a massive grin breaking across his face.

The broadcast camera showed the Aquitaine striker standing near the penalty spot, his hands covering his face in utter disbelief. He had placed the shot well, but he had been denied by a keeper who had refused to guess and dived with certainty.

Before the home side could even set up for the resulting corner kick, the referee checked his watch and blew the whistle three times.

Piii. Piii. Piiii.

Halftime.

The Valois players dragged themselves off the pitch. They were covered in mud and completely exhausted, but the psychological victory was absolute. They had survived the loss of their starting goalkeeper, weathered a fifteen-minute siege, and denied a penalty on the stroke of halftime.

They were walking down the tunnel with a 2-0 lead intact.

Luc leaned back against his sofa cushions, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. He picked up his cold coffee mug, taking a long, deeply satisfied sip.

The backup keeper had made a catastrophic error, and then immediately redeemed himself with a moment of heroism. The chaotic unpredictability of Cup football was on full display.

Luc glanced to his knee. The pain was still there, holding him to the couch, but the anxiety of being absent was gone.

His team was surviving without him. They just had to endure forty-five more minutes to secure their ticket to the semi-final.