Chapter 254: [254] "MATCHDAY d’Azur 14"

Pinto stood in the center of the goalmouth.

The backup goalkeeper slowly lowered his arms. He turned his head, staring at the ball resting in the back of his net.

The crippling weight of self-doubt, which the squad had actively tried to eradicate during the halftime interval, crashed back down onto his shoulders. He had stayed on his line. He had done exactly what he knew he would do.

Watching the ball loop over his head and crash against the crossbar reinforced his deepest insecurity. Flashbacks of conceding that penalty might have still been etched in his mind...even though he ended up saving it then.

If Tomáš Blažek had been standing in that net, the veteran keeper would have stepped out and punched the initial cross away before it ever reached the penalty spot. Pinto knew it.

He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, his eyes fixed on the grass. He was blaming himself. The narrative in his head was already writing the post-match analysis.

"Get the ball out of the net!" Klaus Becker’s voice cut through the noise in his head.

Klaus jogged into the penalty area, ignoring the celebrating Côte d’Azur players. He walked straight past Pinto, reached into the back of the net, and scooped the ball up under his arm.

Klaus stopped beside his goalkeeper. He didn’t offer a gentle pat on the back or a soft word of encouragement. He slapped Pinto firmly on the shoulder.

"Head up, right now," Klaus commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate. "That wasn’t on you. That was a deflected shoulder strike off the crossbar, then it landed right for the other guy. Nobody saves that. Nobody. Just hold your line as you did. We reset."

Amadou walked over, pulling Leo up from the grass. "He’s right. The cross never should have come in. The overlap beat us. We tighten the wide channels. We still have the lead."

Not a single player in a black and gold jersey looked at Pinto with accusation. There were no thrown arms. There were no disgusted head shakes.

The halftime pact held firm under the pressure. They recognized the failure of the concession. The asymmetrical defensive shift had cracked under the weight of the fresh Côte d’Azur substitutes.

Beaumont stood near the center circle, watching his team reassemble.

He processed the sequence with cold detachment, cursing that he didn’t help. The game state had fundamentally shifted. A two-goal cushion allowed Valois to dictate the tempo through methodical possession.

A one-goal lead, however, armed the opposition with dangerous momentum.

Côte d’Azur would no longer sit back. They would press higher, tackle harder, and funnel every single possession into the wide channels to replicate the exact sequence that had just yielded a goal.

Luc glanced toward the touchline. Coach Henri was standing at the absolute edge of his technical area. The manager was not shouting. He was writing rapidly in his notebook, his eyes darting between Gabriel Assis and Zack Florez...he was probably planning something.

The referee blew his whistle, signaling the end of the celebration. The Côte d’Azur players jogged back to their half, their body language entirely transformed. They were energized, aggressive, and would go hunting for the equalizer.

Luc took his position on the white chalk dot. Hugo Blanc stood beside him, his expression still remaining neutral. He had no hand in the concession, everyone has their duty on the pitch.

"They will attempt to suffocate the midfield pivot," Hugo noted quietly, his eyes tracking the opposition’s advanced starting positions. "They want to force the ball wider now towards Gabriel instead. They know his legs are compromised."

"Then we don’t give it to Gabriel in a static position," Luc replied, staring at the opposing center-backs. "If they press high, we play through the lines. If they drop, we hold it."

The referee blew the whistle to restart the match.

Luc tapped the ball to Hugo. The teenager instantly recycled it to Cillian Doyle.

FC Côte d’Azur did not wait.

The entire opposing midfield line surged forward, executing a coordinated, high-intensity press. They abandoned their discipline, opting for relentless man-to-man pressure.

Cillian received the ball, immediately feeling the presence of a charging striker. The Irishman used his body to shield the ball, absorbing a heavy shoulder barge, and played a forced pass backward to Amadou Fall.

Amadou looked up. The passing lanes to Klaus and Hugo were completely severed by the aggressive pressin. The center-back opted for the safest route, pushing the ball wide toward the right flank.

Kévin Aubert trapped the pass near the touchline. The Valois right-back was instantly engaged by the fresh Côte d’Azur left-winger. Aubert did not attempt anything rash that could turnover possession. He simply drove a grounded pass up the line, aiming for the feet of Gabriel Assis, not knowing Luc and Hugo would have avoided that.

Gabriel received the ball just ahead of the halfway line.

The pressure of the previous sixty-five minutes crashed into the Brazilian winger the exact second he trapped the ball. His lungs were burning with a desperate need for oxygen. His calves felt like they were filled with wet concrete. He had spent the entire match operating against his natural instincts, executing grueling recovery sprints to form the defensive double-team Henri had demanded.

He was completely exhausted.

Gabriel tried to turn his hips to face the Côte d’Azur goal, intending to initiate a dribble. But his acceleration was gone. The explosive burst of pace that defined his entire offensive identity simply refused to materialize.

The Côte d’Azur left-back, a towering and physical defender introduced during the triple substitution, recognized the winger’s fatigue. He closed the distance aggressively, stepping tight against Gabriel’s back, eliminating any space to turn.

Simultaneously, a Côte d’Azur central midfielder drifted over, cutting off the inside pass to any midfielder.

Gabriel was trapped against the touchline.

He attempted a standard step-over, hoping to shift the fullback’s balance, but his footwork was sloppy. The heavy legs betrayed the technical execution.