Chapter 195: [195] "The Dying Minutes"

It was just a minor stint of pain. Nothing had popped. Nothing had torn. He hadn’t ruined the ligaments or set his timeline back by weeks. He let out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he carefully lifted the injured leg back onto the elevated throw pillow.

"Okay," Luc muttered to the empty room, adjusting the tubing of the compression machine so the ice water could flow unimpeded. "No more jumping."

He turned his attention back to the television.

The broadcast was in disarray. The cameras were shaking slightly as the camera operators scrambled to capture the chaotic scenes unfolding in the rain-soaked stadium in the southwest of France.

SC Valois was up three-nil in the Cup de France Quarter-Final away from home, and the third goal had just broken whatever was left of the spirit of Union Aquitaine.

The television feed cut to a slow-motion replay of the goal, utilizing the overhead camera. Luc leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen, watching the sequence unfold without the speed of live action. He watched Zack Florez’s blistering run down the left flank, the eighteen-year-old shattered the Aquitaine right wing-back. He saw the cross ripped through the rain, too high for a volley, too fast for a clean trap.

And then, he watched Max Caster.

In slow motion, the sixteen-year-old was even more terrifying to watch compared to playing with. Max was rather calm as the ball flew toward him. He arched his spine backward, and cushioned the ball off the center of his chest, creating a perfect, delicate set up that killed the momentum of the cross.

"Perfect," Luc whispered in genuine awe. "He told the ball exactly where to go."

The replay seamlessly transitioned to Hugo Blanc. The seventeen-year-old maestro arrived in the frame like a ghost. No hesitation. No wasted touches. He planted his left leg into the soggy turf and drove his right boot through the center of the ball. The rotation stopped as it launched off his laces. A devastating knuckleball that dipped violently and slammed into the underside of the crossbar.

The broadcast cut back to live action.

The Valois players were jogging back to their own half. Hugo Blanc’s face was plastered across the screen. The teenager’s away kit was entirely ruined, coated in layers of mud from his earlier defensive slide tackle, but his posture was very professional. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked calm, adjusting the sleeve of his jersey, his eyes already tracking the Aquitaine players who were slowly, miserably dragging themselves back to the center circle for the restart.

The lead broadcast commentator was still struggling to find his professional composure over the audio feed.

"I have been covering Ligue Alpha for fifteen years," the anchor announced, his voice echoing through Luc’s living room, "and I am not sure I have ever witnessed a dismantling quite like this. Union Aquitaine came into this match intending to win. They watered the pitch down. They rotated their tactical fouls. They tried to bully the second-placed team in the league out of the tournament. And how does Coach Henri respond? He removes his target man, plays a sixteen-year-old as a false nine, and lets two teenagers pass the home side into complete and utter submission."

The co-commentator, the tactical analyst, chimed in. "It’s a masterclass in spatial manipulation. Without a recognized striker on the pitch, Aquitaine’s three center-backs have been rendered useless. They are marking empty grass. And the moment they step up to engage the midfield, Caster and Blanc are slicing through them with one-touch football. It is humiliating."

On the pitch, the clock ticked over to the eighty-second minute.

Union Aquitaine restarted the match. The striker tapped the ball backward to the midfield, but there was no aggressive surge forward. There was no desperate, rallying cry from their captain, Vasseur. The goalkeeper was standing inside his own penalty area with his hands resting on his hips, staring at the muddy turf between his boots.

The home side was broken.

The 3-0 deficit had completely severed the connection between their tactical instructions and their will to work. They were no longer playing to win, nor were they playing to mount a miraculous comeback. They were simply playing to hear the final whistle and escape the torrential rain.

Klaus Becker and Cillian Doyle immediately recognized the shift in the opposition’s mentality. The Valois double pivot didn’t press with high intensity. They didn’t need to. They stepped up, forming a wide, impenetrable wall thirty yards from their own goal, and simply waited for Aquitaine to inevitably hand the ball over.

Minute eighty-four.

An Aquitaine midfielder attempted a lazy, sweeping diagonal pass out to the left flank. The ball lacked pace, skimming across the surface of the puddles.

Kévin Aubert intercepted it effortlessly. The Valois right-back took a touch, looked up, and played a simple, grounded pass to Bachra Goza.

Bachra was practically skipping on the touchline. The nineteen-year-old Spaniard was the freshest player on the pitch, having been substituted in during the second half, and he was reveling in the exhaustion of the defenders tasked with marking him. He trapped the ball under his sole and looked at the Aquitaine left wing-back, the same defender who was currently sitting on a yellow card for hauling Bachra down earlier in the match.

The kept a distance of at least five yards, terrified of committing a second bookable offense.

Bachra grinned, the broadcast camera catching the flash of his teeth. He didn’t try a rainbow flick this time. He just tapped the ball backward to Klaus, demoralizing the defender who had braced for a sprint that never came.

"Keep the ball," Luc commanded from his sofa. "Make them chase it. Drain the clock."

For the next four minutes, SC Valois put on an exhibition of possession retention.

Klaus passed to Cillian. Cillian zipped it to Hugo. Hugo flicked it to Max Caster, who turned and played it back to Hadj in the center of the defense. Over and over again. The away kits moved in perfect synchronization.

The home supporters began to filter out of the stadium.

The broadcast camera panned across the stands, showing thousands of Union Aquitaine ultras turning their backs on the pitch and trudging up the stairs, their red flares extinguished by the relentless downpour. They had come to watch their team brutalize the technical prodigies of Valois, and instead, they were being subjected to a grueling session of keep-away.

This was what it meant to build a culture.

They had lost their starting goalkeeper to a rib injury. They were playing without their captain and top scorer. They were playing on a pitch deliberately designed to neutralize their strengths.

And they were winning 3-0.

Luc looked down at his phone, resting on the armchair across the room. He knew the owner would be ecstatic. A dominant win in the Cup Quarter-Final not only secured their progression in the tournament, but it sent a terrifying message to Stade Phocéen and Paris Royal. Valois was not a one-man team. They were a hydra, cut off the head, and two more would take its place.

Minute eighty-nine.

The fourth official on the touchline raised the electronic board. The neon red digits cut through the gloom of the stadium.

Two minutes of stoppage time.

The referee was showing mercy. Given the injuries and the substitutions, there should have been at least four or five minutes added to the clock. But the official recognized that the match was more than over. Union Aquitaine had surrendered, and dragging the players through the freezing rain for any longer than necessary was simply cruel.

"Two minutes," Luc murmured, resting his head back against the cushions. "Just hold the clean sheet."