Chapter 281: [281] "FRESKO PART 4"

The exact millisecond Cillian shifted his weight forward, abandoning the integrity of the midfield line, Neji snapped his foot down. He did not pass backward as everyone expected.

He drove his boot under the ball, executing a weighted, lofted pass over the top of the Valois midfield.

The ball sailed through the air. It carried a delicate backspin, designed to kill the forward momentum the moment it began its descent.

It was aimed into the pocket of space behind Cillian, dropping toward the edge of the penalty arc.

Fresko initiated his run.

The Phocéen striker did not sprint across the defensive line. He peeled backward, stepping away from the goal, creating a yard of separation between himself and Amadou Fall. He positioned his body underneath the flight of the dropping ball.

Amadou recognized the danger instantly.

The Senegalese defender stepped up, leaving his position in the defensive line to track the striker. He closed the distance rapidly, his eyes locked onto the ball dropping from the stadiums sky.

Amadou intended to win the header. He was well over six foot and he possessed the forward momentum necessary to overpower the retreating striker.

But the trajectory of Neji’s pass was awkward.

It was not a driven cross that could be met with a powerful clearing header, nor was it a low pass that could be intercepted with an outstretched leg. The ball was dropping vertically, stalling in the air just above head height, positioned slightly behind Fresko’s center of gravity.

Fresko realized the spatial limitation. He could not trap the ball on his chest with Amadou charging into his back. He could not head it forward because he couldn’t generate power.

The Phocéen striker made a split-second, instinctual decision.

He could not even attempt to control the ball.

He planted his foot into the turf, utilizing it as a stabilizing pivot. He threw his upper body backward, dropping his shoulders toward the grass, defying gravity as he launched his entire frame into the air.

He inverted his hips, bringing his right leg up in an arc.

An overhead kick!

Amadou arrived at the exact point of impact. The center-back planted, preparing to launch himself upward to drive his forehead through the dropping ball anyhow he could manage.

But as Amadou initiated his jump, his eyes registered the reality unfolding inches in front of his face.

Fresko’s boot, lined with metal studs, was rising rapidly through the air.

The striker’s leg was fully extended, swinging with maximum momentum toward the exact space Amadou was attempting to occupy with his skull.

The instinct of an elite center-back would be to sacrifice the body. To put the head where it hurts. To absorb the punishment required to preserve the clean sheet.

But the deeply ingrained, primal human instinct for self-preservation is impossible to override.

In the fraction of a second before contact, Amadou’s brain calculated the trajectory of the swinging boot. If he continued his forward momentum, if he thrust his forehead into that specific airspace, the studs would connect with him. It was the certainty of a fractured skull, a shattered jaw, or severe head trauma.

Amadou flinched.

It was not a conscious decision of cowardice. It was an involuntary retraction.

He pulled his head backward by a single inch, closing his eyes against the impending collision, allowing his shoulders to absorb the contact rather than leading with his face.

That single inch was all the clearance Fresko required.

The Phocéen striker’s boot swept cleanly through the air, connecting purely with the center of the dropping football.

The impact was deafening, a sharp crack echoed over the noise of the stadium.

The ball rocketed off Fresko’s laces. It carried zero spin, driven with concussive velocity. The trajectory was a line, tearing through the humid air of the penalty area, angling toward the top left corner of the Valois net.

Pinto stood on his goal line.

The backup goalkeeper had tracked the lofted pass from Neji. He had seen Fresko initiate the acrobatic jump. But the speed of the strike, combined with the incredibly short distance from the edge of the box, rendered human reaction time obsolete.

Pinto did not even have the opportunity to dive. His gloves twitched upward, a delayed response to a ball that had already gone passed him, even at his above average reaction speed.

The football slammed into the underside of the crossbar, the metallic ping ringing out clearly, before ricocheting downward. It struck the grass inches behind the white chalk of the goal line and bounced upward into the roof of the netting.

Goal.

2-1.

The eruption inside Stade Phocéen was absolute. Those twenty-nine thousand supporters unleashed a roar of unfiltered euphoria.

Fresko landed on his back, the momentum of the overhead kick carrying him through the motion. He did not stay on the turf. The Phocéen striker scrambled to his feet instantly, his face in an expression of primal dominance.

He wheeled away from the penalty area, taking his blue jersey off, sprinting toward the corner flag. He slid on his knees, his muscles tensed, screaming into the chaos of the home supporters as his teammates swarmed him, burying him beneath a pile of bodies.

Inside the SC Valois penalty area, a profound silence existed among the defenders.

Amadou Fall stood rooted to the spot where he had flinched. The center-back stared at the ball resting in the back of the net. He slowly lowered his head, staring at the grass. He knew he had pulled back. He knew he had surrendered the airspace.

Hadj walked past him. The defensive partner did not offer a word of reprimand. He did not shout, and he did not point fingers.

Pinto walked out of his goalmouth, retrieving the ball from the net. The goalkeeper walked past Amadou, offering a firm pat on the center-back’s shoulder.

They all understood.

There was no blame to be assigned for that concession. Every single player wearing a black and gold jersey knew the decision Amadou had made in that fraction of a second. You do not risk permanent brain damage or a shattered face for a block in the forty-first minute of a league fixture.

It was a spectacular execution by the opposing striker, and the resulting goal was the consequence of raw human instinct.

Luc stood near the halfway line, his hands resting on his hips.

He watched Fresko rise from the pile of celebrating teammates, the Phocéen striker basking in the adulation of the stadium.

Thirty-one goals Fresko now had.

The gap in the Golden Boot race had compacted once again, closing back down to a two-goal margin.

Luc turned away from the celebration, his eyes locking onto the ball Pinto was carrying back toward the center circle. The scoreline had shifted, the momentum was lost, and the physical toll of the defensive grind was compounding.