Chapter 186: [186] "Consequences of Flair"

But the Aquitaine wing-back refused to accept the humiliation.

The defender scrambled up from the mud, his face contorted in unhinged rage. He realized instantly that he could not catch the teenager through pace alone. Bachra was too fast, and the gap was widening with every step.

The wing-back didn’t care about the ball. He didn’t care about the tactical shape. He only cared about retribution.

He lunged forward from behind, extending his right arm to its maximum length. He grabbed a massive fistful of the fabric on the back of Bachra’s away jersey.

The winger was moving at top speed. The sudden, violent anchoring force snapped Bachra backward. The fabric stretched to its breaking point before the defender used his momentum to violently haul the teenager down.

Bachra’s feet flew out from under him. He crashed heavily onto his back, sliding across the wet grass, tumbling shoulder-over-shoulder before finally coming to a halt near the chalk of the touchline.

The referee’s whistle shrieked through the stadium speakers. It was a long, aggressive blast, completely different from the short trills that had accompanied the earlier rotational fouls.

The official sprinted across the pitch, waving his arms to separate the players as Klaus Becker immediately converged on the scene, shoving the Aquitaine defender.

The broadcast camera zoomed in tightly on the referee.

The official reached into the breast pocket of his black shirt. He didn’t offer a verbal warning. He didn’t gesture for calm.

He pulled out a yellow card and thrust it high into the rainy sky, pointing directly at the Aquitaine left wing-back.

The digital clock in the corner of the television screen ticked over.

15:00.

Luc let out a heavy breath, sinking back into the cushions of his sofa in the quiet apartment. The compression machine on his knee let out another mechanical whir, tightening the freezing sleeve against his skin.

He stared at the yellow card on the screen.

Bachra had invited the foul. Thankfully he was fully okay. Just a shirt tug.

But as Luc watched the Aquitaine defender back away, his chest heaving and his eyes wide with the realization that he was now carrying a booking for the remaining seventy-five minutes of a knockout fixture, the resting captain couldn’t help but acknowledge the situation.

The kid had completely shattered the left flank. The wing-back could no longer dive into tackles. He could no longer rely on tactical fouls to stop the transition. He was compromised.

Henri was standing perfectly still on the touchline, his face completely unreadable as he watched Bachra get up without any issue. The manager had expected a safe, one-touch pass. Instead, he had been given a moment of reckless genius that had permanently altered the landscape of the match.

Luc reached out, grabbing his ceramic mug from the coffee table. The coffee inside had gone completely cold, but he took a sip anyway.

The first fifteen minutes had been exactly as predicted. But the deadlock of intimidation had just been broken by a nineteen-year-old deciding to play street football.

The real match was only just beginning.

The camera cut from the referee’s raised yellow card directly to the spot of the foul.

Bachra Goza stood over the match ball, wiping a smear of mud from his cheek with the back of his wrist. The teenager’s chest heaved, but the arrogant, unshakeable confidence that had just allowed him to humiliate the opposing defender was radiating through the television screen.

Hugo jogged over, placing his hands on his hips. As the designated set-piece taker for angles outside the immediate shooting range, the french kid looked down at the ball, then up at Bachra. The broadcast microphones were positioned too far away to pick up the exact words exchanged, but Luc could read the interaction flawlessly from his sofa. Hugo was offering to take it.

Bachra was shaking his head, pointing firmly at the turf beneath his own cleats. Bachra wanted the delivery. He had won the foul through individual brilliance, and he intended to finish the sequence.

Hugo didn’t argue. He patted Bachra on the shoulder and trotted toward the edge of the Union Aquitaine penalty area, joining the mass of jerseys forming a line against the Aquitaine defenders.

Luc leaned forward in his dim living room. The angle of the freekick was positioned wide on the right flank, about twenty-eight yards from the goal line. It was too sharp to shoot directly, making it a pure crossing opportunity.

Aquitaine’s goalkeeper, Vasseur, was screaming at his defensive line. The heavily tattooed captain pointed aggressively, physically shoving one of his center-backs into a designated marking zone. He wanted a high line, forcing Valois to start their runs early and risk the offside trap.

"He’s putting a two-man wall," Luc noted quietly, analyzing the screen. "That’s a big mistake."

The two-man wall was positioned purely to block a low, driven cross to the near post. It did absolutely nothing to obscure the flight path to the back post.

Inside the penalty box, the physical wrestling match escalated. Amadou Fall and Hadj, the two Valois center-backs, had pushed all the way up from their defensive half. They were towering figures, and Aquitaine’s defenders were currently gripping their jerseys, wrapping arms around waists in a desperate bid to anchor them to the muddy grass.

The referee blew a short, sharp blast on his whistle, pointing directly at an Aquitaine defender grappling with Amadou. The official issued a final verbal warning, signaling that any further holding would result in a foul.

The threat forced the defenders to release their grips, creating a crucial second of separation.

The referee backed away and blew the whistle to restart play.

Bachra Goza took three measured steps backward. He didn’t rush. He kept his eyes locked on the chaotic shifting of bodies inside the eighteen-yard box. He initiated his run-up, planting his left foot deep into the saturated turf. He struck the ball with the instep of his right boot, applying a heavy, whipping spin.