Chapter 196: [196] "The Dying Minutes 2"

On the pitch, Pinto was bouncing on his toes inside his penalty area. The backup goalkeeper had grown significantly in confidence. He was shouting instructions at Amadou Fall, commanding his area, determined to finish his unexpected shift with zero goals conceded.

The ball circulated back to the Valois midfield.

Cillian Doyle trapped a heavy pass from Zack Florez. The Irishman looked up, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from his eyes. He saw Union Aquitaine’s midfield line entirely disjointed. They weren’t pressing together, they were just standing in isolated pockets, waiting for the whistle.

Cillian didn’t play the safe, backward pass to the center-backs, why would he. The Irishman’s aggressive nature couldn’t resist the opportunity to twist the knife one last time.

He drove a low pass straight through the center of the pitch, aiming for Max Caster.

Max received the ball near the center circle. The sixteen-year-old false nine was absolutely covered in mud, his socks sagging around his ankles, but his footwork remained sharp. He took a brilliant first touch with the outside of his right boot, spinning away from a lazy, half-hearted tackle from an Aquitaine holding midfielder.

Max lifted his head. The center of the pitch was clogged, but the right flank was open.

Bachra Goza was holding his width, standing on the touchline with his arm raised in the air.

Max clipped in a beautiful, lofted pass over the heads of the retreating Aquitaine midfield, dropping the ball perfectly into Bachra’s path.

The young Spaniard brought the ball down with a velvety touch, immediately accelerating toward the Aquitaine penalty area. The exhausted left wing-back, terrified of picking up a second yellow card, backpedaled frantically, giving Bachra too much respect and far too much space.

Bachra reached the edge of the final third. Instead of driving directly at the defender to force a one-on-one, the teenager slowed his pace slightly, keeping his head up.

He was waiting for support.

Max Caster, operating on the reserves of teenage stamina, had continued his run. The American prodigy drifted diagonally toward the right space, arriving just outside the penalty area to offer Bachra a passing option.

What followed was a sequence of pure footballing quality.

Bachra chopped the ball inside with his right foot, committing the wing-back, and instantly slipped a short five-yard pass to Max.

Max used the pace of Bachra’s pass to play a perfectly weighted, first-time flick around the corner, returning the ball back into Bachra’s path as the Spaniard sprinted behind the confused wing-back.

One-two pass!

The Aquitaine left center-back rushed over to cover the exposed flank, leaving his central position vacant. He slid into the mud, attempting to collect the ball from feet.

Bachra m dragged the ball backward with his sole, letting the center-back slide helplessly past him, and immediately poked the ball square, back into the center of the penalty area.

Max had continued his run still, drifting into the massive void left by the sliding center-back.

Another one-two. The synergy between the two youngsters was breathtaking. They were passing through exhausted, veteran defenders using nothing but rapid, one-touch passing and flawless spatial awareness. They were treating the Aquitaine penalty area like a training ground rondo.

Max collected Bachra’s pass on the penalty spot.

He was completely alone. The remaining Aquitaine center-back was too far away to intervene. Vasseur, the goalkeeper, was stranded on his goal line, his shoulders slumped, fully anticipating the net to bulge for a fourth time.

It was the perfect setup. A beautiful, fluid move that deserved to be capped off with a goal.

Luc sat up on the sofa, his eyes wide, a massive smile breaking across his face. "Finish it, kid! Bury them!"

Max Caster set his feet. He had time. He had space. He opened his hips, perfectly mirroring the technique Luc had taught him in training, preparing to slot a finesse shot cleanly into the bottom corner of the net.

He swung his boot.

The technique was flawless. The intent was lethal.

But the pitch at the Union Aquitaine stadium was not the quality he was used to.

At the exact millisecond Max’s standing foot planted into the turf to anchor his shot, the mud gave way. A massive chunk of brown earth shifted beneath his cleats, destroying his balance and altering the angle of his hips.

Instead of wrapping the inside of his boot cleanly around the leather, Max’s foot dropped, his laces catching the very bottom edge of the ball.

It was a total fluff.

The ball didn’t rocket toward the bottom corner...or any corner in fact. It popped up awkwardly, spinning lazily through the rain in a completely unintended direction. It trickled slowly past the left goalpost, missing the frame by a full two yards, and rolled harmlessly into the side netting on the outside of the goal.

The stadium remained silent.

Max Caster’s momentum carried him forward. Unable to stop his slide on the ruined turf, the sixteen-year-old crashed heavily onto his knees in the mud. He threw both hands onto his head as he stared at the ball resting peacefully outside the goal frame.

He had just executed a beautiful sequence of one-twos, dismantled the defense, and then completely scuffed the easiest finish of his short professional career.

Bachra Goza stood near the edge of the six-yard box, his mouth hanging open in shock. He looked at the ball, then looked at Max kneeling in the mud. The Spaniard couldn’t hold it in. He burst out laughing, bending over and resting his hands on his knees as his shoulders shook with exhaustion and amusement.

In his apartment, Luc let out a loud bark of laughter, tossing his head back against the sofa cushions.

"Oh, Max," Luc chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn it."

On the pitch, Vasseur, the Aquitaine goalkeeper, didn’t even bother to retrieve the ball for a goal kick. The heavily tattooed captain just stared at the referee, his expression silently begging for the match to be over.

The referee obliged.

The official raised the whistle to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew three long, piercing blasts that echoed across the rain-soaked stadium.

Piii. Piii. Piiii.

The final whistle.

The match was over. SC Valois had officially secured their ticket to the semi-finals of the Cup de France.

The Valois players on the pitch didn’t celebrate wildly. No sliding into the mud or dogpiles near the corner flag. The toll had drained them completely.

Klaus Becker walked over to Cillian Doyle, wrapping a massive, muddy arm around the Irishman’s shoulders, pulling him in for a brief, exhausted embrace. Bense Baini was sitting on the wet grass by the bench, untying his boots with a look of profound relief on his face. Pinto, the hero of the first half, was being patted on the back by Amadou Fall and Hadj, the center-backs acknowledging the clean sheet the backup keeper had secured.

Near the Aquitaine penalty spot, Hugo Blanc walked over to where Max Caster was still kneeling in the mud, staring at the side netting.

The seventeen-year-old maestro didn’t offer any words advice.

Hugo only extended a hand down to the younger American. Max looked up, his face flushed with embarrassment under the layers of grime, and took Hugo’s hand.

Hugo hauled the false nine to his feet, giving the kid a firm, reassuring pat on the shoulder. Bachra jogged over, throwing an arm around Max’s neck and aggressively ruffling his muddy hair, clearly teasing him about the fluffed finish.

The three youngsters walked toward the tunnel together, a unified front of talent that had just orchestrated the downfall of a hostile squad.

The broadcast camera cut to the touchline one final time.

Coach Henri was standing in the pouring rain, his clothes completely soaked through. The manager was smiling now, the rigid tension that usually defined his jawline and eyebags had softened significantly. He offered brief nods and handshakes to his staff, acknowledging the successful execution of one of the most audacious tactical shifts he had ever implemented.

He had taken a massive gamble, playing a strikerless system, and it had paid out in full.

Luc reached out, picking up the television remote from the coffee table. He pressed the power button, plunging the living room into immediate silence as the screen went black.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The tension of the match left behind a certain satisfying exhaustion.

They had won.

They had dominated. The semi-finals awaited them, and the possibility of a league title race loomed on the horizon.

He just needed to heal, get off the couch, and "rejoin this fucking amazing squad."