Chapter 250: [250] "PRAISE GOES A LONG WAY"

The referee brought the whistle to his lips and blew two short blasts, followed by a long one.

Halftime.

The immediate reaction from the FC Côte d’Azur players was a collective slump of the shoulders. The home side had spent forty-five minutes chasing shadows, swinging reckless tackles, and ultimately watching a seventeen-year-old bury a free kick into the corner of their net. They walked toward the tunnel with their heads bowed, ignoring the scattered boos raining down from their own supporters.

SC Valois moved with a different energy.

Klaus Becker directed traffic, pointing toward the exit. Cillian Doyle jogged off the pitch, his chest heaving, a massive grin still plastered across his face from the tactical foul Luc had bought. Gabriel Assis walked beside Kévin Aubert, the Brazilian winger wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his black and gold jersey.

Luc walked toward the tunnel alongside Hugo Blanc. The captain felt no ache from the challenge. He had absorbed the heavy collision with the veteran center-back, the subsequent fall to the turf, and the continuous shifting required to pin the defensive line.

"They are going to alter their shape," Hugo stated, his breathing perfectly steady as they crossed the white chalk of the touchline. "Their current 4-4-2 block is trash if I’m being honest. The manager will likely introduce fresh changes to counter our defensive shifts."

"You should know by now, that I don’t fucking care what they do," Luc replied, adjusting his captain’s armband. "If they throw more bodies forward to chase the game, they leave the somewhere open. We just keep doing what we’re doing."

They entered the tunnel. The temperature dropped significantly, the cool air of the stadium interior providing immediate relief from the work done on the pitch. The clatter of studs echoed off th block walls.

The Valois away locker room had a lot of activity. The kit managers handed out fresh towels and water bottles the moment the players crossed the door. Detone and his medical staff immediately circulated through the room, checking for knocks, applying ice packs to bruised calves, and monitoring hydration levels.

Luc took his seat on the bench. He unlaced his boots just enough to relieve the pressure on his ankles, taking a long drink of electrolyte fluid.

Gabriel Assis collapsed onto the bench opposite him. The winger leaned his head back against the lockers, closing his eyes. The asymmetrical defensive system Henri had implemented had made him spend the entire half sprinting up and down the flank, tracking the overlapping runs of the Côte d’Azur left-back, and then immediately exploding forward on the counter-attack.

"My lungs will explode soon," Gabriel muttered, dropping a towel over his face. "If I have to make that slide tackle one more time, I might actually die."

"You saved our clean sheet with that tackle," Amadou Fall pointed out, walking past and tapping the Brazilian on the knee. "Keep it up. Forty-five more minutes."

Zack Florez sat quietly in the corner. The eighteen-year-old left-back did not look exhausted. He was staring at the floor probably replaying the two-versus-one overloads he had solo-defended throughout the half. He had neutralized the Côte d’Azur right flank entirely through intelligent jockeying, allowing Dário Ferrão to cheat high and terrorize the defense on the transition.

The door at the front of the room swung open.

Coach Henri stepped inside.

The manager did not carry a whiteboard marker this time or pull out his notebook to highlight failures. He walked to the center of the room, buttoning his suit jacket, and looked around the locker room.

The ambient noise died instantly ad it did whenever he appeared for team talk. Cillian lowered his water bottle. Gabriel pulled the towel off his face. Klaus sat up straight.

"You executed the gameplan nicely," Henri began, his voice carrying a rare and undeniable tone of approval.

The manager paced a tight circle in the center of the room, making eye contact with the defensive unit.

"I demanded discipline in the wide channels. I told you that if we failed to double-team their wingers, we would concede. You did not fail. You suffocated them, you pressed well. You forced them to abandon their primary offensive strategy and resort to desperate passes. You broke their rhythm entirely."

Henri stopped pacing and pointed at the Brazilian winger.

"Gabriel. That recovery run. That slide tackle. That is the standard."

Gabriel blinked, genuinely surprised by the direct praise. Henri rarely offered validation to him, preferring to highlight areas requiring improvement. To be singled out for a defensive action in front of the entire squad was a massive shift in the manager’s usual dynamic towards him.

"I tracked the runner as you said, Coach," Gabriel said, sitting up slightly taller.

Henri shifted his gaze to the corner of the room. "Zack. Flawless. You held the overload perfectly. You gave Dário the freedom to stay high, and it stretched their backline to the breaking point. Keep your senses sharp in the second half. Do not let them bait you into a lunging tackle."

Zack offered a stoic nod. "Understood."

"We hold a two-goal advantage," Henri continued, addressing the entire room. "But Côte d’Azur is not going to roll over. They are at home. Their supporters are demanding a reaction. They will come out in the second half with increased aggression. They will try to increase the tempo. Do not get drawn in. Dictate the pace. Keep the ball. If they press high, find a way through them and find Luc."

Henri checked his watch. "Rest. Hydrate. We finish the job."

The manager stepped back, leaning against the wall near the door, allowing the players to manage the remaining minutes of the interval.

The tension in the room loosened, replaced by a quiet confidence. They had survived the opening onslaught, neutralized the opponent’s primary weapon, and secured a comfortable lead.

From the back of the room, Pinto stood up.

The backup goalkeeper had spent the entire first half standing on his goal line.