Chapter 285: [285] "FRESH REPLACEMENT"

Coach Henri stepped back inside after the 5 minutes.

He walked to the center of the room and stopped, his eyes locking onto Cillian Doyle.

"You are coming off," Henri stated.

Cillian looked up from the bench, a water bottle halfway to his mouth. The Irishman’s face flushed. He had spent the first half running himself into the ground chasing Neji, and had finally watched the Phocéen playmaker carried off the pitch.

"I am fine," Cillian argued, his accent thickening. "My legs are good. Neji’s gone now. I can run the midfield better."

"You are carrying a yellow card," Henri replied coldly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Stade Phocéen just lost their primary engine. Their manager is going to instruct every player on that pitch to target you. They will dive, they will initiate contact, and they will force the referee to level the numbers. I am not playing the second half with ten men. Jacket on."

Cillian set the water bottle down on the floor. He didn’t throw it or curse. He understood the ruthless pragmatism of the decision. He grabbed his training jacket from the hook behind him and pulled it over his shoulders.

Henri turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Max. Get your shin guards on. You are going in."

Max Caster, seated quietly near the corner, stood up instantly. The American teenager stripped off his warmup gear, revealing his black and gold match kit.

"The structure shifts," Henri announced, addressing the midfield unit. "We drop the double pivot. Klaus, you anchor the base alone. You sit in front of Hadj and Amadou. You do not push forward."

Klaus nodded.

Henri pointed at Max, then at Hugo Blanc. "You two operate as dual eights. You sit in the half-spaces directly behind Luc. Stade Phocéen has no suitable player to replace Neji. They do not have a veteran playmaker sitting on their bench waiting for minutes. Whoever they bring on will be an obvious downgrade. We exploit that. Keep the ball. Suffocate them in the center. Make them chase."

Luc adjusted the captain’s armband. The tactical adjustment was aggressive. Removing Cillian sacrificed physicality in the center of the pitch, but inserting Max Caster alongside Hugo created a technical overload that very few teams in Ligue Alpha could handle.

"Three minutes," the fourth official called from the hallway.

Henri stepped back toward the door. "Do not give them an inch of hope. You own the pitch now. Go."

The squad filed out of the dressing room, the clatter of their boots echoing against the floors. They walked down the tunnel, the temperature rising as they approached the opening. The stadium noise washed over them, a continuous murmur from the home supporters still processing the loss of their star midfielder.

Luc led the line onto the grass. The floodlights cut through the sky.

He jogged toward the center circle, taking his position. He looked across the pitch at the Phocéen half. The opposing players were organizing their shape.

The substitution board flashed on the touchline. Neji’s number lit up in red. A green number forty-two appeared next to it.

A teenager jogged onto the pitch for Stade Phocéen. He looked nineteen, maybe twenty at the most. He possessed a slight build, wearing boots that looked brand new.

Luc analyzed the substitution. Phocéen’s squad construction was built around Neji playing thirty-eight league matches a season. No established, starting-caliber midfielder would ever sign a contract to sit on their bench and play four times a year. When Neji went down, their only option was to pull a raw prospect from the reserves.

The kid took his position. He looked nervous, his eyes darting between Klaus Becker and Hugo Blanc.

The referee checked his watch and blew the whistle.

Phocéen kicked off.

The ball went backward to their center-back. The defender took a touch, looking up the pitch. Usually, this was the exact moment Neji would drop into a pocket of space, demand the ball, and dictate the transition.

The young substitute tried to replicate the movement. He jogged toward the ball, checking his shoulder.

Klaus Becker stepped forward. The German midfielder did not sprint. He merely occupied the passing lane, his massive frame blocking the angle.

The Phocéen center-back hesitated. He did not trust the teenager to receive the ball under pressure. The defender ignored the short option and launched a long, hopeful pass out toward the left flank.

Gabriel Assis tracked the flight of the ball. Operating at right-back, Gabriel positioned his body perfectly, cushioning the long pass with his chest before it could reach the Phocéen winger. Gabriel dropped the ball to his feet and played a simple pass inside to Max Caster.

Max received his first touch of the match.

The American teenager trapped the ball with the sole of his boot. He did not look for a safe backward pass. He turned his hips, facing the Phocéen goal.

The young Phocéen substitute, eager to prove his worth and inject energy into his team, initiated a reckless press. He sprinted at Max, lowering his center of gravity, intending to win the ball back for the home crowd.

Max waited. He held the ball, letting the guy close the distance.

The exact moment the Phocéen teenager was ready to initiate the tackle, Max dropped his right shoulder. It was a subtle, street-style feint. The guy bit hard, shifting his weight to intercept the dribble.

Max rolled the ball backward with his sole, dragged it behind his planted leg, and flicked it cleanly through the open gap between the charging player’s legs.

A nutmeg.

The Phocéen substitute stumbled, his momentum carrying him past Max and out of the play.

Max collected the ball on the other side, accelerating into the middle third. He drove the Valois transition forward, the ball glued to his laces.

The stadium fell silent. The home supporters had just watched their academy prospect get humiliated on his first defensive engagement.

Max reached the edge of the final third.