Chapter 284: [284] "LIKE A LITTLE KID"

Hugo slowed his sprint, coming to a halt near the penalty spot. He turned around, his expression remaining neutral, and looked at Luc.

Luc walked toward him, a satisfied smile breaking across his face.

The captain closed the distance, wrapping his arm around Hugo’s and pulling the teenager into a firm embrace. "That is how you follow an instruction," Luc praised, his voice low enough for only Hugo to hear over the distant, isolated cheers of the Valois away fans.

"A magnificent bastard, is what you are! This goal was all you, cap," Hugo replied, adjusting his jersey as Klaus and Cillian arrived to join the brief huddle.

"Brilliant finish, bro!" Cillian shouted, slapping Hugo hard on the back. "Right through the keeper’s hands!"

The Valois players did not linger near the penalty area. The objective of the half had been achieved. They broke the huddle and jogged back toward their own half, their posture radiating a renewed sense of confidence.

Near the edge of the middle third, the consequence of the sequence was still unfolding.

The referee blew his whistle, pointing toward the center dot to confirm the goal, but the official immediately jogged over to the spot where Luc had executed the feint.

Neji was still on the grass.

The Phocéen playmaker was sitting up, his face pale, his hands gripping his right ankle tightly. He was not protesting for a foul. He knew there had been no contact from Luc. The damage had been self-inflicted, a failure of his own joints attempting to process the sudden change of direction.

The Phocéen medical staff sprinted onto the pitch, carrying their medical bags. They knelt beside Neji, speaking to him, examining the swollen joint.

Fresko stood a few yards away, his hands resting on his hips. The striker stared at his fallen playmaker, he obviously wasn’t happy. The psychological blow of conceding the equalizer was heavy, but the sight of the team’s engine unable to stand was something more devastating.

The referee checked his watch. The allotted two minutes of stoppage time had expired during the goal and the subsequent medical attention.

The official gestured for the Phocéen players to restart the match.

The home side lined up at the center circle. Another midfielder tapped the ball backward.

The exact second the ball moved, the referee brought the whistle to his lips and blew two short blasts followed by a long trill.

Halftime.

The SC Valois players stopped their movement, the tension bleeding out of their shoulders. The first forty-five minutes had been a battle, but they had dragged themselves back from the brink to level the scoreline.

Luc stood near the halfway line, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He did not immediately head for the tunnel. He stood still, watching the scene unfolding in the Phocéen half.

The medical staff had finished their preliminary assessment. Two Phocéen players, the right-back and a central midfielder, bent down and hauled Neji to his feet. The playmaker could not place any weight on his right leg. He draped his arms over the shoulders of his teammates, his face showing w reasonable amount of agony, as they began to carry him slowly off the pitch and toward the tunnel.

The home crowd offered a nervous round of applause for their injured star, the anxiety rippling clearly through the stands.

Klaus Becker walked up beside Luc, unstrapping the tape from his wrists. The German midfielder watched the procession heading for the exit.

"That fuckers ankle is gone," Klaus noted, his voice had no sympathy. "He is finished for the night."

"We focus on ourselves," Luc replied, turning away from the pitch. "Let’s get inside."

The Valois squad marched down the tunnel. The temperature dropped, the cool air providing immediate relief.

The players moved to their respective lockers, collapsing onto the benches. The kit managers handed out water bottles and fresh towels. Detone and the medical staff circulated, applying ice packs and checking hydration levels.

The door at the front of the room swung open.

Coach Henri stepped inside.

The manager did not pull out his notebook to highlight the positional failures that had led to Fresko’s overhead kick...which was unlike him.

Henri walked to the center of the room, his eyes scanning the exhausted faces of his players.

"You absorbed the pressure," Henri stated, his voice calm and carrying a distinct tone of approval. "You conceded a goal born of individual brilliance, not from our system failure. You did not panic. You retained possession, you waited for the vulnerability, and you executed the counter-strike flawlessly."

Henri paced a tight circle, looking at Hugo and Luc.

"The transition was perfect. The spacing was brilliant. You broke their line and punished them before the whistle."

Henri checked his watch, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket.

"Rest your legs. Hydrate. I will be back in five minutes with the shape adjustments for the second half. Phocéen will be forced to alter their midfield structure. We will exploit whatever they introduce."

The manager turned and walked out of the locker room, allowing the door to shut behind him.

The tension in the room loosened. Henri rarely offered praise without attaching a harsh critique to the end of it. To receive validation for their survival in the first half... without criticism injected a surge of energy into the squad.

Cillian Doyle sat up from his bench, tossing his towel aside. The Irish midfielder leaned forward, looking across the room at Luc. An unrestrained grin was plastered across his face.

"I have spent forty minutes chasing that ghost around the midfield," Cillian announced, his thick accent dominant in his speech. "I tried to tackle him, I tried to barge him, and he made me look like an idiot. He baited me into a yellow card without breaking a sweat."

Cillian pointed a finger at Luc.

"And you," Cillian laughed, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "You step into the midfield for one single possession, you drop your shoulder, and you twist his ankle so hard he has to be carried off the pitch like a little kid. You broke him without even touching him, Cap. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the dressing room. Even Klaus cracked a faint smile as he drank from his water bottle.

Luc leaned back against his locker. He stretched his legs out in front of him, feeling the satisfying ache of a half played. He looked at Cillian, then glanced toward the closed door of the dressing room, his mind already projecting forward to the remaining forty-five minutes.

"He definitely won’t be okay enough to continue the second half," Luc said.