Chapter 215: [215] "Not done yet"

Valois camped inside the Nantaise half. Even Leo Hernandez pushed up to the halfway line, operating as an auxiliary midfielder to sustain the suffocating possession. Pinto was the only player in a black and gold kit standing in his own half.

Minute eighty-seven.

Hugo collected a pass from Cillian. The teenager recognized that passing sequences were failing to penetrate the block. He decided to test the goalkeeper from distance.

Hugo took a heavy touch to set himself, locked his ankle, and unleashed a ferocious strike from twenty-eight yards out.

The ball stayed low, skipping violently across th turf.

It was aimed perfectly toward the bottom corner, but it never reached the target. A Nantaise defensive midfielder threw his body into the path of the shot, taking the full force of the shot directly against his thigh. The impact dropped the midfielder to the grass, but the block was successful.

The ball deflected out for another Valois corner.

The resulting set-piece was met by the head of a Nantaise center-back, cleared once again into the relative safety of the midfield.

"We are running out of time," Valérie said, checking her gold wristwatch. The analytical tone was cracking slightly, revealing the underlying anxiety of a dropped point in a title race.

Luc knew exactly how much time was left. The situation was settling heavily in his chest. They had dominated the ball. They had dominated the territory. But they lacked what was required to break a low block of this magnitude.

If he were on the pitch, he could have occupied two center-backs or more. He could have pinned the defenders deep, and created the half-yard of space Hugo or Max needed to operate. A target man drew attention differently than a runner not through speed but through mass, through presence, through the constant, grinding threat of a back-to-goal hold-up that forced center-backs to commit early and commit hard.

Max was technically gifted and tactically intelligent, but he was sixteen, and he was slight, the Nantaise center-backs were outweighing him by minimum of forty pounds apiece. They weren’t scared of Max. They would have been scared of Luc. But he was on a couch. And Idriss, who possessed the frame for the job, had been sacrificed at halftime to fix the broken midfield.

Minute ninety.

The fourth official raised the electronic board.

Four minutes of stoppage time.

The stadium erupted in a final, desperate roar, urging the team forward for one last heroic effort.

Coach Henri stood on the very edge of the technical area, waving his arms frantically, commanding his entire team to push higher. Even Cillian and Mallorca abandoned their holding positions, flooding the Nantaise penalty area with bodies.

Minute ninety-two.

Gabriel Assis received the ball on the right wing. He didn’t try to cut inside. He drove to the byline and clipped a high, desperate cross toward the back post.

Dário Ferrão threw himself at the delivery, out-jumping the Nantaise right-back. Dário made clean contact, directing a looping header back across the face of the goal.

Max Caster was waiting near the penalty spot.

The false nine watched the ball drop. He knew he didn’t have time to take a touch. Three Nantaise defenders were instantly collapsing on his position.

Max threw his body sideways, executing a highly technical, acrobatic scissor kick.

His cleats connected cleanly with the leather skin of the ball. The shot rocketed toward the center of the goal.

The Nantaise goalkeeper, completely blinded by the mass of bodies in front of him, didn’t even react.

But a Nantaise center-back, standing firmly on the goal line, threw his chest into the path of the ball. The shot slammed into the defender, dropping him to his knees. The ball rebounded wildly back into the chaotic scrum of the six-yard box.

Cillian Doyle lunged for the rebound, extending his right leg, but the Nantaise goalkeeper scrambled across the grass, diving bravely at the Irishman’s cleats to smother the ball just a mere fraction of a second before Cillian could make contact.

The goalkeeper curled into a fetal position, wrapping his entire body around the ball, refusing to let it go.

The Valois players threw their hands up, screaming for time wasting, but the referee shook his head emphatically, waving play on.

The stadium groaned in unison.

The Nantaise goalkeeper stayed on the grass, clutching the ball to his chest for another thirty seconds, bleeding the final remnants of stoppage time off the clock.

He finally stood up, backed away, and launched a massive punt kick high into the night sky.

Before the ball could even land near the center circle, the referee raised the whistle to his lips.

Piii. Piii. Piiii.

The final whistle echoed across Stade Valois.

The match was over.

Olympique Nantaise 1, SC Valois 1.

The contrast in reactions on the pitch was immediate.

The Nantaise players reacted as if they had just won a cup final. Players dropped to their knees, pointing at the sky. The center-back who had blocked Max’s scissor kick was swarmed by his teammates, hauled to his feet, and embraced fiercely. They had survived an onslaught. They had come to the home of a title contender and secured a point that could ultimately save them from relegation.

The Valois players reacted differently.

Max Caster stared at the penalty spot, his hands resting on his hips, exhaustion radiating from his slight frame. Gabriel Assis ripped the tape off his wrists, throwing the white strips onto the grass before marching straight toward the tunnel without waiting for his teammates. Cillian Doyle spat onto the turf, shaking his head in disgust.

The winning streak was officially broken.

Up in the executive suite, Valérie Laurent stared down at the pitch. The euphoria of the equalizer felt like a lifetime ago.

"A draw," Valérie stated, her voice lacking any emotion. "Against fourteenth place."

Luc leaned back in his chair, picking up his crutch. He didn’t look at her.

Neither did he offer an excuse. He looked at the television monitor in the corner of the room.

The graphic flashed on the screen, updating the live Ligue Alpha table.

SC Valois remained in second place. But the comfortable cushion they had fought so hard to build was reducing.

"Stade Phocéen won their match," Luc murmured, calculating the math in his head. "They closed the gap a little. And Fresko is only one goal behind me."

The title race was not done yet, infact it was still wide open.