Chapter 199: [199] "Backup"

Pinto. The backup. The guy who had slid wildly into the mud and conceded a penalty minutes into his quarter-final cameo, only to miraculously save it seconds later. Pinto was a phenomenal shot-stopper on his line, but he lacked Blažek’s awareness. He didn’t operate as a sweeper-keeper. He stayed glued to his six-yard box.

That single limitation meant Henri would have to drop the entire defensive line five to ten yards deeper to compensate, altering the high-pressing system that Valois had relied upon all season.

"Pinto," Blažek continued, looking up at Luc with an intensity. "He panics when the ball is played over the top. Klaus and Amadou have to protect him. You have to make sure they don’t let attackers isolate him in space. If Paris Royal or Phocéen or any capable side at all realize he won’t step off his line, they will drop balls between the center-backs all day long."

"I’ll talk to Klaus," Luc promised, placing a hand gently on Blažek’s uninjured left shoulder. "We will lock it down. Get the surgery. Get healthy. We’ll make sure there’s a medal waiting for you when you get back."

Blažek offered an exhausted nod. "We’ll beat Nantaise tomorrow. Phocéen won’t be able to catch us."

"You know that’s right," Luc said.

He turned and hobbled out of the therapy room, the tap of his crutch echoing down the hallway.

The situation was immense. The squad was currently riding the emotional high of a 3-0 quarter-final victory, completely unaware that their defensive anchor had just been permanently removed from the chessboard.

Luc pushed open the glass doors leading out to training pitch one.

The air outside was biting, the sky threatening more rain. The squad was spread out across the immaculate green grass, finishing up a light session. They were jogging in circles, laughing, and kicking balls casually into the empty nets. The atmosphere was light, vibrant, and oblivious.

Coach Henri stood on the touchline, a silver whistle hanging around his neck. He saw Luc approach and immediately brought the whistle to his lips, blowing a long, sharp blast.

"Bring it in!" Henri roared, pointing to the chalk line at his feet. "Everyone! Touchline! Now!"

The laughter died down instantly as the players recognized the tone. This wasn’t a standard drill transition. They jogged over, forming a tight semi-circle around the manager. Klaus Becker stood at the front, his arms crossed over his chest, steam rising faintly from his shoulders in the cold air. Beside him stood Pinto, looking slightly nervous under the sudden intensity of the gathering.

Luc took his place at the edge of the circle, leaning his weight onto his crutch.

Henri looked at the twenty-two men out of his twenty-three man squad, who gathered around him.

"I am not going to sugarcoat this," Henri began, his voice carrying clearly over the wind. "The medical staff has just reviewed the scans. Tomáš suffered three fractured ribs when he collapsed. One of the fractures is displaced. He requires immediate surgery."

The silence that fell over the training pitch was one of the heaviest ever. The kind of suffocating silence that follows a detonation.

Amadou Fall closed his eyes, letting out a frustrated exhale. Bense Baini looked down at the grass, shaking his head.

"His recovery time is in three months," Henri continued, driving the final nail into the coffin. "Tomáš is out for the rest of the season. He will not play another minute in this campaign."

Pinto flinched. The backup goalkeeper swallowed hard, his eyes widening as the reality of Henri’s words slammed into him. He wasn’t just a bench player anymore. He wasn’t a rotational option for early cup fixtures. He was the starting goalkeeper for a team chasing a domestic title and a cup. The weight of the entire club had just been dropped onto his shoulders.

Henri turned his gaze onto Pinto.

"Pinto," the manager said, his voice dropping the aggressive edge, replacing it with a demanding authority. "You are our number one now. The net belongs to you now. There is no safety net for us outside you. There is no rotation. You are starting tomorrow against Olympique Nantaise, and you will start every match after that."

Pinto’s chest heaved. He nodded frantically. "Yes, Coach. I’m ready."

Klaus Becker didn’t wait for Henri to continue. The midfielder stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the young goalkeeper. Klaus grabbed Pinto by the back of the neck, pulling him forward until they were inches apart.

"You hear me," Klaus rumbled, his voice low and terrifyingly intense. "You do not panic. You do not slide wildly. You command your box. You scream at the defense if they are out of position. You are the dictator of the penalty area now. We will work to protect you, but you must protect the net."

"I will," Pinto swore, his voice trembling slightly but carrying resolve. "I won’t let them through."

Klaus released him, stepping back into the line.

Henri surveyed the squad, ensuring the emotional shock had been processed and replaced with focus.

"Olympique Nantaise is tomorrow," Henri announced again, pivoting instantly to the impending fixture. "They will sit deep. They will try to frustrate us. Luc is not medically cleared. He is out for tomorrow."

The squad absorbed the second piece of bad news without flinching. They had survived Aquitaine without him, they knew they could survive Nantaise.

"Idriss," Henri called out.

The Ivorian striker stepped forward.

"You start up top," Henri commanded. "I want you pinning their center-backs to the edge of the six-yard box. Do not let them push up. Gabriel, you start on the right. Dário on the left. Hugo, Klaus, Baini in the middle. We revert to the four-three-three."

Henri looked at the defensive line. "Amadou, Hernandez. Pinto does not sweep. He stays on his line. That means you two must drop five yards deeper than you are used to. Do not get beaten over the top. If Nantaise attempts a long ball, you must win the aerial duel."

The center-backs nodded in unison, absorbing the critical tactical adjustment, especially Hernandez who hasn’t played since his red card.

"We are a few points clear off Phocéen, but that can change in an instant," Henri concluded, his voice rising in volume, echoing across the training complex. "Phocéen is playing this weekend. Paris Royal is playing this weekend. They are praying we drop points because we lost our keeper and our captain. We do not give them hope. We step onto this pitch tomorrow, and we suffocate and dismantle Nantaise. Dismissed!"

The huddle broke apart. The casual atmosphere was gone. They had a title to chase down, and the margin for error had just been permanently erased.