Chapter 289: [289] "BLOCK OUT THE STADIUM NOISE"

"They are done," Cillian noted, leaning back against the dugout wall. "Fresko is just walking around. He knows the match is gone."

Luc watched the opposing striker. Fresko was isolated up top, his hands resting on his hips. The missed penalty had clearly taken a massive mental toll. He was no longer making the sharp, diagonal runs that had terrorized Amadou Fall in the first half. He was a passenger in a match that had passed him by.

The fourth official raised the electronic board, indicating four minutes of stoppage time.

The stadium continued to empty. The stands were becoming more and more vacant as the local supporters headed for the exits, unwilling to watch the final seconds of their team’s capitulation. The only sound dominating the arena was the relentless chanting of the Valois away section.

Minute ninety-two.

Phocéen managed to recover possession near their own penalty area. Their left-back launched a long, hopeful ball toward the halfway line.

Hadj stepped out of the defensive line. The massive center-back judged the flight of the ball perfectly, launching himself into the air and driving a powerful clearing header back into the Phocéen half.

The ball bounced harmlessly out of bounds for a Valois throw-in.

"Hold the line," Henri barked from the touchline, stepping right up to the chalk. "Do not commit numbers forward. Keep the shape."

Gabriel Assis jogged over to take the throw-in. The Brazilian winger, operating flawlessly in his improvised right-back role, took his time. He wiped the ball on his shirt, surveyed the pitch, and threw a safe, short pass to Hugo.

Hugo killed the ball, shielded it near the corner flag, and absorbed a frustrated shove from a Phocéen defender. The referee blew the whistle, awarding a free-kick to Valois.

"That is exactly how you kill a game," Luc murmured, admiring the teenager’s game management.

Hugo stood over the free-kick, waiting for the referee to mark the distance. He played a short pass to Max. Max rolled it back to Klaus.

The referee checked his watch. He raised the whistle to his lips.

Piii. Piii. Piiii.

The final whistle echoed across Stade Phocéen. The match was officially over.

Stade Phocéen 2, SC Valois 4.

The SC Valois bench erupted. The substitutes and coaching staff poured out of the dugout, flooding onto the grass. Luc unstrapped the ice pack from his knee, leaving it on the bench, and walked out onto the pitch to join his teammates.

The center of the pitch was a scene of unrestrained celebration. Klaus Becker had grabbed Pinto, lifting the backup goalkeeper off his feet in a massive bear hug. The penalty save had been the undeniable turning point of the fixture, and the defensive unit was ensuring the keeper received his full validation.

Amadou Fall and Hadj were chest-bumping near the penalty arc. Max Caster and Hugo Blanc exchanged a stylized sequence of handshake in the midfield.

Luc navigated through the celebrating bodies. He found Gabriel Assis sitting on the turf near the touchline, spent.

Luc reached down, grabbing the Brazilian by the wrist and hauling him up to his feet.

"Sick speed, Gab," Luc said, slapping him hard on the back. "I tried to keep up with you on the counter, but you left me running by myself."

Gabriel grinned, his chest still heaving. "I didn’t even look back, Cap. I just saw the empty grass and I knew nobody in this stadium was catching me. We broke them."

"We did," Luc agreed, looking up at the scoreboard suspended above the stands.

Reality of the victory was finally setting in.

Before kickoff, the top of the Ligue Alpha table had been a congested nightmare. Now, the landscape was definitively altered. Stade Phocéen, sitting in third place, had just dropped three massive points at home. The gap between Valois in second and Phocéen in third had been expanded to a comfortable margin. The threat from behind was neutralized.

Now, there was only one target left on the board.

Paris Royal.

The league leaders. The financial juggernaut operating in the capital. SC Valois was no longer looking over their shoulders, they were actively hunting the crown.

Luc walked away, seeking out Hugo. The teenager was standing quietly, adjusting his shin guards, looking unbothered by the magnitude of what they had just accomplished.

"The midfield control in the second half was amazing," Luc told him, stopping beside the young maestro. "Max stepping in changed the dynamic, but you dictated the tempo."

"Phocéen lacked the players to press dual eights," Hugo analyzed, his voice flat and analytical. "Without Neji to coordinate their shifting, their central zone was vulnerable. We simply exploited the advantage."

"You make it sound so boring, damn, Hugo."

But Luc laughed, shaking his head. He slung an arm around the teenager’s shoulders, steering him toward the away end of the stadium where the rest of the squad was gathering to applaud the traveling fans.

The connection between the players and the supporters was electric. The away end was a sea of black and gold flags, the chants echoing loudly in the mostly empty arena. The players clapped, threw their training shirts into the crowd, and absorbed the adoration.

Luc stood at the front of the group, applauding steadily. He felt the vibration of his phone in the pocket of his training jacket, which he had grabbed from the dugout in-between events.

He pulled the device out. The caller ID displayed Valérie Laurent.

The owner of SC Valois rarely called him immediately after a match unless something significant had occurred. Given the magnitude of the victory, he anticipated a congratulations.

He stepped away from the loudest section of the celebration, pressing the phone to his ear and plugging his other ear with his finger to block out the stadium noise.

"Good evening, Valérie," Luc answered, keeping his tone professional.

"Beaumont," Valérie’s voice came out through the speaker. She did not sound like the cold billionaire who ruthlessly negotiated contracts and purchased real estate to manipulate her players’ environments. She sounded genuinely thrilled.