Chapter 287: [287] "YOUR TURN"

The giant screen suspended above the stadium replayed the incident. The slow-motion footage clearly showed Hadj’s elbow striking Fresko’s jaw. The intent was debatable, but the contact was undeniable.

The penalty stood.

Luc walked into the penalty area. He ignored the arguing players and the deafening noise of the home crowd. He walked to where the football had settled after the clearance had been hit back, near the edge of the six-yard box.

He bent down and picked it up.

He held the ball in his right hand. He turned and walked toward the penalty spot.

Fresko was back on his feet. The Phocéen striker was rubbing his jaw, but his eyes were clear, focused on the upcoming strike. He stepped toward the spot, waiting for a teammate to fetch the ball.

Luc stopped two feet away from him.

He extended his arm and handed the football into Fresko’s chest.

Fresko took it.

Luc stared into the striker’s eyes. He didn’t say a single word. He didn’t offer a taunt or a piece of trash talk. He simply handed the man the weapon that could equalize the match and alter the Golden Boot race, offering a silent challenge.

Your turn.

Fresko held his gaze for a second, his jaw tightening, before turning away to place the ball on the white chalk dot.

Luc backed out of the penalty area, taking his position on the edge.

Pinto stood on the goal line. The Valois backup goalkeeper bounced lightly on his toes, shaking his arms out to loosen the tension in his shoulders. He stared at Fresko. He knew the striker’s tendencies. Fresko preferred power over placement, often driving the ball low and hard into the corners to eliminate the keeper’s reaction time.

The referee checked the positioning of the players on the edge of the box, ensured Pinto had both feet on the line, and blew the whistle.

Fresko began his run-up. He approached the ball with a very deliberate stride. He planted his left foot, dropped his head, and struck the ball with the laces of his right boot.

It was a thunderous strike.

The ball stayed low, rocketing across the grass, aimed precisely at the bottom right corner of the net.

Pinto did not guess early. He waited for the exact fraction of a second the boot made contact, reading the angle of Fresko’s hips. The moment the ball launched, Pinto threw his body to his left...Fresko’s right.

He extended his frame to its maximum limit. He stretched his left arm out, his gloves parallel to the grass.

The ball was traveling too fast for a clean catch.

Pinto’s fingertips grazed the leather exterior.

It was a minimal intervention, but it was enough. The slight deflection altered the trajectory of the strike by a single degree. The ball escaped the inside of the post, slamming against the outside of the metal frame.

The heavy clank echoed across the penalty area. The ball deflected off the post and spun out of bounds, crossing the byline.

Missed!

The stadium fell into a state of collective shock. Thousands of fans gasped simultaneously.

Pinto hit the turf, sliding across the grass, before immediately springing back to his feet. He pumped his fists, letting out a massive roar. Amadou Fall sprinted over, grabbing the goalkeeper by the shoulders and shaking him aggressively.

"Massive! Massive save!" Amadou screamed.

The referee pointed to the corner flag. The penalty had resulted in a corner kick.

Stade Phocéen hurried to execute the set-piece, desperate to capitalize on the lingering chaos in the box. The Phocéen left-winger placed the ball and whipped a rapid, in-swinging cross toward the near post.

Klaus Becker was waiting.

The German midfielder absorbed a shove from a Phocéen center-back, and swung his right leg, executing a booming, first-time volleyed clearance.

The ball soared out of the penalty area, launching high into the sky.

It flew over the congested midfield, dropping toward the empty expanse of space. The home side had committed every single outfield player forward for the corner, leaving only one defender loitering near the halfway line.

Gabriel Assis, operating at right-back, had been positioned near the edge of the Valois penalty area to collect any short clearances.

He saw the ball flying over his head.

The Brazilian turned his back to his own goal and initiated a sprint.

He reached the dropping ball just as it crossed the halfway line, hence, no offside call. The lone Phocéen defender stepped up, attempting to execute a tactical foul to kill the transition. Gabriel didn’t even try to dribble around him. He simply pushed the ball ten yards past the defender, trusting his raw pace to win the race.

The defender lunged, grabbing empty air.

Gabriel was free.

He accelerated into the Phocéen half. The ball rolled smoothly across the turf.

Luc had started his run from the edge of the Valois penalty arc the moment Klaus cleared the ball too. He pumped his arms, his long strides chewing up the grass, attempting to catch up to Gabriel to offer a passing option. It was a pure two-on-zero counter-attack.

Luc crossed the halfway line, his lungs burning, his legs pushing to their maximum capacity. He looked ahead, tracking Gabriel’s progress.

He realized almost immediately that he was not going to catch him.

Gabriel Assis hit a gear that defied the fatigue of the previous sixty minutes. The Brazilian winger, unlocked a top speed that had not been seen in Ligue Alpha all season. He was a blur of black and gold, tearing down the channel.

The speed radar, monitored by the broadcast networks, clocked his sprint. He was pulling away from Luc with every single stride.

Luc watched the gap between them widen. He was fast, but Gabriel was operating on an entirely different plane.

Gabriel reached the edge of the Phocéen penalty area.

The Phocéen goalkeeper, left isolated by his defense, chose to stay on his line. He didn’t charge out toward the edge of the box, but he threw his arms wide, attempting to close the angle.

Gabriel did not slow down.

He maintained his top speed, executing a touch with the outside of his right boot. The ball shifted two feet to the right.

The keeper saw that and charged forward, hoping to reach the ball before the Valois player...but Gabriel reached first, slipping the ball past the charging goalkeeper.

Gabriel collected the ball on the other side, stared at the empty net, and calmly slotted the ball across the goal line.

Goal.

4-2.

Gabriel kept running. He veered toward the corner flag, sliding onto his knees, his hands raised toward the dark sky.

Thirty yards behind him, near the top of the penalty arc, Luc came to a stop.

The fatigue from pressing, the jumps, the sprints, and the sheer tension of the match crashed into his body all at once. His lungs demanded oxygen he couldn’t immediately provide. His legs felt heavy.

He looked at the ball resting in the back of the Phocéen net. He looked at the Brazilian winger celebrating in the corner.

Luc let out an exhausted exhale.

"Damn," Luc muttered.

His legs gave way. He collapsed backward, letting his body hit the cool grass. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the blinding stadium floodlights, completely drained, as the victory was closer now more than ever.