Chapter 278: [278] "NEJI PART 4"

Neji recognized the lack of pressure. He took a touch forward, advancing into the Valois half. He took another.

The Phocéen playmaker was walking the ball toward the penalty area, unbothered, mapping the runs of Fresko and the wingers. The crowd noise swelled, sensing the impending final pass.

Cillian’s discipline cracked.

The sight of Neji operating with total freedom twenty-five yards from goal triggered Cillian’s innate, aggressive instincts. The Irishman abandoned his zone, lowered his head, and initiated a sprint.

He intended to execute a clean slide tackle. He wanted to strip the ball, leave Neji on the grass, and spark a counter-attack.

Cillian launched his body across the turf.

Neji watched the tackle coming. A fraction of a second before Cillian’s cleats reached the ball, Neji used his toe to pull the ball backward, moving it six inches out of the collision path.

Cillian’s sliding leg swept through empty air.

But his trailing knee slammed into Neji’s planted shin.

The contact was not malicious, but it was late, and undeniable. Neji went down, tumbling across the grass.

The referee blew the whistle, pointing emphatically at the spot of the foul. Twenty-eight yards from the goal line. Dead center.

The stadium demanded for a card. Cillian pushed himself up from the turf, raising his hands in a gesture of apology, but the damage was done. The referee pulled a yellow card from his pocket, displaying it to the Valois midfielder.

"I told you to hold the zone," Hugo stated, standing ten yards away.

Cillian spat onto the grass, walking away without a word.

Pinto stood on the goal line, organizing the wall.

"Four men! I need four!" Pinto shouted, clapping his gloves together. "Amadou, Hadj, Klaus, Cillian. Lock the center. Do not jump early!"

The tall Valois players formed a rigid line, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, covering their groins and faces. Pinto positioned himself slightly to the left, trusting the wall to cover the right side of the net.

Neji stood over the ball.

The Phocéen playmaker did not look rushed. He picked the ball up, wiping a blade of loose grass from the exterior. He placed it back down on the turf, specifically aligning the inflation valve to face him.

Luc stood near the edge of the penalty box, watching the setup. He recognized the valve alignment. It was the same technique Hugo utilized. It was designed to eliminate spin.

Neji took four steps backward. He stood still for a moment, looking at the goal frame.

Piii. The referee blew the whistle.

Neji began his run-up. He approached the ball with a straight, direct stride. He planted his non-kicking foot and struck the ball with the instep of his right boot, driving his foot through the exact center of the valve.

The impact produced a dull thud.

The ball launched into the air, clearing the top of the four-man wall.

It did not spin.

Without spin to stabilize its flight, the air resistance caught the seams of the leather exterior. The ball vibrated in the air, shifting laterally by several inches as it crossed the penalty spot.

Pinto tracked the initial trajectory. The goalkeeper saw the ball clear the wall and head toward the center of the goal. Pinto set his feet, preparing to execute a standard catching.

A split second before it reached the six-yard box, the drag caught the ball again.

It knuckled violently. The trajectory snapped two feet to the right, dipping abruptly.

Pinto scrambled, throwing his weight desperately to his left, extending his arm in a frantic bid to parry the shifting object.

His glove swiped at nothing.

The ball slammed into the side netting, rattling the frame of the goal.

Goal.

1-1.

Stade Phocéen detonated. Twenty-nine thousand fans unleashed a concussive roar that nearly shook the foundations of the arena. Blue scarves spun in the air. The Phocéen bench emptied, the substitutes charging down the touchline to celebrate.

Neji turned around, offering a brief, understated nod to Fresko, before jogging back toward the center circle to restart the match.

The board was reset. The goal margin and the margin for error was erased. The war had only just begun.

The Phocéen substitutes retreated to their dugout, their celebratory sprint concluding as the referee waved them off the grass. The noise inside Stade Phocéen remained at a deafening pitch. The supporters were fully reinvigorated by the equalizer, their collective voices sounding loudly.

Luc stood after the ball had been collected from the back of the net quickly, his right cleat resting on the top of the match ball. He stared down the length of the pitch at the Phocéen goalkeeper. Yes, the Golden Boot gap had widened in his favour, but the scoreline that actually mattered was back to a stalemate.

1-1

Before the referee could blow the whistle for the restart, Klaus Becker walked up the pitch. The German midfielder did not look at Luc or Hugo. He walked up to Cillian Doyle, grabbing the Irishman by the shoulder of his black and gold jersey.

"You are off him," Klaus stated, his voice an uncompromising rumble.

Cillian whipped his head around, his face flushed with sweat and residual anger from the yellow card he had just received. "I can handle him, Klaus. He caught me leaning once. It won’t happen again."

"It has already happened," Klaus countered, his grip on Cillian’s jersey remaining firm. "You are carrying a booking. Neji knows it. The entire Phocéen eleven knows it. If you step into his zone again, he will not try to pass around you. He will drive the ball at you, force you to initiate contact, and force the referee to pull a second card. You are a liability in that matchup now."

Cillian opened his mouth to argue, his pride warring with his understanding. He looked at Klaus, then looked over at Neji, who was already jogging into his deep central midfield starting position, looking unbothered by the hostility he had just manufactured.

"Fine," Cillian spat, ripping his shoulder out of Klaus’s grip.