Chapter 256: [256] "SUB MADE AN ERROR"

The massive C?te d’Azur left-back charged down the touchline, initiating a thundering run.

Aubert was caught in the impossible trap. If he stepped up to engage the winger, the pass would slip down the line. If he tracked the overlap, the winger would cut inside.

The C?te d’Azur winger drove directly at Aubert, utilizing a rapid step-over before nudging the ball perfectly into the path of the overlapping fullback.

The left-back received the ball in stride, breaching the edge of the final third. He planted his foot, opening his hips, drawing his leg back to launch another devastating cross into the heart of the Valois penalty area.

Inside the box, Amadou Fall and Leo Hernandez scrambled desperately to locate the two massive strikers.

And on the goal line, Pinto froze yet again, staring at the incoming delivery.

"Damn it! I can’t let my team down again."

Pinto muttered the words under his breath, his voice swallowed by the roars of the FC C?te d’Azur supporters. The home crowd was on its feet, recognizing the breakdown on the right flank. Bachra Goza’s reckless gamble had dismantled the defensive structure SC Valois had relied upon for the entire match.

Kévin Aubert was caught in no man’s land.

The Valois right-back could do nothing but watch as the overlapping C?te d’Azur left-back collected the perfectly weighted pass, planted his foot down, and swung his other leg through the ball with unrestrained power.

The cross was launched.

It did not possess the high, looping trajectory that allowed defenders to easily track the drop. It was obvious the manager hated such crosses.

It was a driven, vicious delivery, laced with heavy topspin and a sharp inward curve. The ball ripped through the humid early evening air, angling directly toward the space between the penalty spot and the six-yard box.

Inside the eighteen-yard area, absolute chaos ensued.

Amadou Fall and Leo Hernandez recognized the lethal pace of the delivery. The two center-backs abandoned their zonal spacing and scrambled backward, their cleats tearing long gashes into the grass. They were desperate to establish physical leverage against the two massive C?te d’Azur strikers charging into the box.

The primary striker, carrying significant momentum, aimed his run straight down the center. He lowered his shoulder, initiating brutal contact with Amadou. The Senegalese defender absorbed the hit, widening his stance and grappling with the forward. Shirts were pulled tightly, the fabric stretching to its absolute limit as both men fought for the microscopic advantage required to win the aerial duel.

Leo Hernandez was engaged in a similar match near the back post, attempting to pin the secondary striker away from the anticipated flight path of the ball.

Pinto stood on the goal line.

His boots felt as though they were cast in solid lead, anchored to the white chalk by a career built on self-preservation and shot-stopping reflexes. His natural instinct, the deeply ingrained habit that had defined his entire tenure as a backup goalkeeper, commanded him to stay put.

It told him to drop his center of gravity, raise his gloves, and rely on his amazing reaction time to block whatever header emerged from the tangled mass of bodies in front of him.

He had trusted that exact instinct just minutes prior.

He had stayed on his line, trusted his center-backs to clear the airspace, and watched helplessly as a deflected header looped over his reach and crashed against the underside of the crossbar, resulting in strike for the 2-1 concession.

He remembered Klaus Becker pulling the ball out of the net and Amadou Fall turning his back in frustration.

They had covered for him all afternoon.

They had run themselves into a state of total exhaustion just to prevent this exact scenario from unfolding. Gabriel Assis had sacrificed his offensive identity entirely, securing a yellow card and empty lungs just to shield the penalty area.

Pinto looked at the ball hurtling toward the penalty spot. He looked at Amadou, struggling against the massive weight of the opposing striker.

If Pinto stayed on his line again, the striker was going to win the header. The math of the physical engagement heavily favored the attacking momentum.

"Damn it."

Pinto shifted his weight.

He ripped his cleats away from the white chalk.

He did not shuffle cautiously. He exploded forward.

The backup goalkeeper abandoned the safety of his goalmouth, charging into the crowded penalty area. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the spinning panels of the incoming football, ignoring the massive frames of the defenders and attackers standing in his path.

Yards away and lingering near the center circle, Luc Beaumont watched the sequence develop.

The Valois captain had remained high up the pitch during the defensive breakdown, positioned between the two C?te d’Azur center-backs. His job was to operate as the outlet alongside Dario for the counter-attack, trusting his defensive unit to survive the wide assault.

When Bachra missed the interception and the cross was launched, Luc felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He analyzed the trajectory of the ball and the positioning of his center-backs. He knew the delivery was too fast for Amadou to clear cleanly. He expected to hear the roar of the stadium confirming the equalizer.

But as Luc’s eyes tracked the flight of the cross, he caught a flash of green in his vision.

Pinto had moved.

Luc’s brain processed the that with ruthless speed. The backup goalkeeper had stepped off his line. He was closing the distance to the penalty spot.

If Pinto misjudged the flight, the net was completely empty. It would be an automatic goal. But if Pinto actually managed to claim the ball, the landscape of the pitch was about to invert on its head.

FC C?te d’Azur had committed massive numbers forward to capitalize on Bachra’s error. Their left-back had overlapped deep into the final third. Their left-winger was hovering near the edge of the box. Both of their central midfielders had pushed up to collect any potential clearances, operating thirty yards away from their own defensive half.