Chapter 288: [288] "THEY ARE DONE"

Luc lay flat on his back, staring up at the blinding array of stadium floodlights. The grass of Stade Phocéen was cool and damp against his sweat-soaked jersey. His chest heaved, pulling desperately at the humid air.

The preceding eighty-plus minutes had compounded in a single wave of exhaustion the exact moment Gabriel Assis slotted the fourth goal across the line.

Luc could hear the distant screams of the Brazilian winger celebrating by the corner flag. That sound was audible over the graveyard silence of the home supporters. Thousands of people had been rendered mute. The hostile cauldron that SC Valois had walked into had been dismantled piece by piece, finalized by a counter-attack of terrifying speed.

Luc closed his eyes for a second, letting the scoreline settle into his bones.

The referee’s whistle sounded, demanding the players reset for the kickoff.

Luc pushed himself up from the turf. His arms trembled slightly under his own weight. He got his cleats under him and stood, wiping a mixture of sweat and loose dirt from his jaw.

On the touchline, the fourth official stepped forward, raising the electronic substitution board high above his head. The bright red numbers glowed against the dark backdrop of the stadium.

Luc saw his designation.

He did not feel a single ounce of frustration at being pulled before the final whistle. The match objective had been achieved. The three points were secured, the Golden Boot margin was wide enough, and the integrity of his recently healed knee may still require preservation.

He unfastened the captain’s elastic armband from his bicep. Klaus Becker was standing ten yards away, anchoring the central midfield space. Luc walked over, slapping the band into the German midfielder’s chest.

"See it out," Luc instructed, his voice raspy from the exertion. "No stupid fouls. Keep them pinned."

"Done," Klaus rumbled, securing the fabric around his arm. "Get some ice on those legs. Rest up."

Luc turned toward the touchline and began the long walk toward the technical area.

As he crossed by, the atmosphere inside the stadium began to shift. Th fenced-in pocket of SC Valois away supporters had been singing his name continuously, but now, an entirely different sound joined the away section.

It started in the lower tiers. A few scattered claps.

Within seconds, the applause spread. It moved up the steps, infecting the adjacent sections. The Stade Phocéen ultras, the same supporters who had rained hostile whistles and relentless insults down upon him for over an hour, were rising from their seats.

They were not cheering for their own team. They were acknowledging the player walking off their pitch.

It was a begrudging, reluctant ovation, born out of pure footballing respect. They had watched him useless their own center-backs to score an impossible goal, manipulate their defensive structure to secure the equalizer, and his team orchestrate the final counter-attack that broke their spirit.

They recognized that they were watching the apex of Ligue Alpha operating at the peak of his powers.

Luc kept his posture. He maintained his focused demeanor, walking with the heavy strides of a man who had entered enemy territory and burned it to the ground.

He reached the white chalk of the touchline. Idriss Konaté was standing there, desperate to get onto the grass and contribute to the final minutes.

Luc extended his hand. Idriss slapped it firmly.

"Press the center-backs," Luc ordered, without any pleasantries. "Do not let them carry the ball past the middle third."

"I will lock them down," Idriss promised, sprinting onto the pitch to take his position at the vanguard of the Valois formation.

Luc stepped off the grass. Coach Henri was standing at the edge of his technical area, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tailored suit trousers. The manager did not offer a congratulatory hug or a theatrical handshake. He offered only approval.

"Sit down and apply ice," Henri commanded without looking away from the pitch. "Your shift is concluded."

Luc walked past the manager and entered the dugout. Cillian Doyle slid over, making room on the bench. The midfielder handed Luc a fresh water bottle and a bag of crushed ice.

"Put that on the knee," Cillian said, "You earned the rest, Cap. That ovation out there... I haven’t seen this crowd stand up for an opposing player in my entire life."

Luc took the ice pack, strapping it securely over his leg. He twisted the cap off the water bottle and drained half of it in a single swallow. "They respect the result, Cillian. If we had lost, they would be throwing coins at us."

"Well, we didn’t lose," Owusu chimed in from the row behind them. The left-back was wrapped in a thick training coat, his legs stretched out. "We broke them. Look at them out there. They don’t even want the ball anymore."

Luc directed his attention back to the pitch. The final minutes of regulation time were bleeding away.

Stade Phocéen had completely lost their structure. The absence of Neji in the center of the park had removed their ability to dictate possession, and the psychological trauma of Fresko missing the penalty followed immediately by the Valois counter-attack had shattered their discipline.

The home side attempted to push forward, but their movements were disjointed. A Phocéen midfielder received the ball and tried to force a pass through the center. Max Caster anticipated it, stepping across the lane and intercepting the ball with effortless grace.

Max did not rush as he dragged his boot over the ball, shielding it from a desperate lunging tackle, and slipped a calm pass out to Hugo Blanc.

Hugo operated in the half-space like an enigma.

The teenager received the ball, mapped the press of the opposition, and played a simple one-touch pass backward to Klaus. Klaus swept it wide to Zack Florez.

SC Valois was executing a professional suffocation. They kept the ball glued to their laces, moving it from flank to flank, draining the clock and forcing the exhausted Phocéen players to chase shadows.

"They are done," Cillian noted, leaning back against the dugout wall.