Chapter 227: [227] "GETTING READY FOR CÔTE"

At seven-fifteen in the morning, the air above the primary training pitch carried a vicious, biting chill. The floodlights remained illuminated against the overcast sky, casting long shadows across the grass.

Luc Beaumont stood beneath the thick clouds. He drove his right cleat into the turf, twisting his ankle slightly to test the grip. The friction shot a standard reverberation up his shin, transferring through the tibial tuberosity.

Around him, the SC Valois squad moved through their mandatory dynamic warm-ups.

The atmosphere was subdued, heavily muted by the early hour and the lingering frustration of the dropped points. Coach Henri stood on the touchline, a thick wool coat zipped up to his chin, holding his whistle but refusing to blow it until the clock struck exactly seven-thirty.

"High knees, push the pace," Klaus Becker commanded, his voice rumbling over the quiet thud of boots hitting the grass. He led the primary line with discipline.

Cillian Doyle jogged beside Luc, the Irishman’s cheeks already flushed pink from the cold. "If Henri makes us run a marathon before the tactical briefing, I am faking a hamstring pull," Cillian muttered, barely opening his mouth to conserve heat.

"He doesn’t want your stamina," Luc replied, initiating a lateral shuffle. "He wants your positioning. Just follow the defensive shift and he won’t make you sprint."

Detone and Juliette stood near the dugout, holding thermoses of coffee. Juliette’s eyes tracked Luc’s every movement. Luc deliberately executed a sharp pivot, dropping his hips and changing direction. He shot a quick glance toward the medical staff. Juliette offered a microscopic nod before turning her attention back to her coffee.

He was good to go...is what she obviously thought.

At seven-thirty precisely, the whistle shrieked.

"Rondos! Five versus two, one touch only!" Henri barked, stepping onto the grass. "If you take a second touch, you switch to the middle. Move the ball. Wake your brains up."

The squad fractured into their assigned groups. Luc found himself in a shape with Hugo Blanc, Max Caster, Bense Baini, and Gabriel Assis.

Cillian and Bachra stepped into the center as the defenders.

Gabriel fed the ball in to start the drill. The speed of play escalated instantly. This was the core identity of SC Valois. The ball pinged across the grass in a blur. Hugo didn’t even look at the ball when he received it, the guy’s head was constantly on a swivel, mapping the pass even before the ball touched his boot.

He redirected a heavy pass from Baini with a delicate flick of his heel, sending it straight to Max.

Max trapped it with the sole of his boot, baiting Cillian to lunge, before slipping it through the Irishman’s legs to Luc.

Luc met the pass with a firm instep, snapping it back to Gabriel. The rhythm was hypnotic.

Clack, clack, clack.

The sound of perfectly struck footballs echoed across the complex.

"Faster!" Henri yelled, walking between the groups. "Côte d’Azur will not give you two seconds to think. Exploit the tight spaces."

After fifteen minutes of intense, high-focus rondos that left Cillian cursing under his breath from chasing shadows, Henri blew the whistle again.

"Shooting drills. Wingers provide the cutbacks, strikers finish. Pinto, get in the net."

The backup goalkeeper jogged into the eighteen-yard box, slapping his gloves together. The pressure on Pinto was immense. With Tomáš Blažek out for the season, the entire defensive structure relied on Pinto’s ability to survive the remaining fixtures.

Dário Ferrão took the ball down the left flank, driving toward the byline. He chopped the ball backward, delivering a low driven cross toward the penalty spot.

Luc timed his run without sprinting at maximum capacity, deliberately keeping his momentum controlled. He arrived at the penalty spot, opened his hips, and struck the ball with the inside of his right foot. He didn’t aim for power, he aimed for placement.

The ball skidded across the grass, sliding cleanly into the bottom left corner before Pinto could even set his feet.

"Good placement," Klaus noted from the line.

The drill continued in rapid succession.

Gabriel whipped a cross from the right. Idriss Konaté met it with a towering header, but Pinto reacted brilliantly, launching his frame backward and tipping the ball over the crossbar with his fingertips.

"Yes, Pinto!" Amadou Fall shouted, clapping his hands loudly. "Command the goal line!"

Luc watched the goalkeeper. Pinto was an elite shot-stopper when his feet were planted on the white chalk. His reflexes were arguably faster than Blažek’s. The issue was never his hands, it was his spatial awareness.

When the ball was in the air, Pinto froze. He trusted his diving ability more than his aerial command. Côte d’Azur knew this, and they were going to exploit it ruthlessly on Sunday.

Luc stepped up for his next repetition.

Bachra delivered a lofted ball from the edge of the box. Luc tracked the trajectory, elevated slightly, and struck a clean volley.

Pinto dove, getting a solid hand on the ball and parrying it away.

"Keep that up," Luc told the keeper as he jogged back to the line. Pinto offered a tense nod.

By eight-fifteen, the light work concluded. The real session began.

Henri walked to the center of the pitch, gesturing for the starting eleven to assemble on one side, and the reserves to take the other.

"Listen carefully," Henri addressed the squad, his voice dropping into its most demanding tone. "FC Côte d’Azur plays as I have said before. They do not care about possession through the center. They will bypass our midfield entirely by funneling the ball to their wingers. When their wingers receive the ball, their fullbacks will overlap."

Henri pointed at the wingers on the right and Dário on the left.

"If you stay high and wait for a counter-attack, our fullbacks will be isolated in two-on-one scenarios. Aubert and Florez will be overwhelmed. The crosses will come in uncontested, and Pinto will be facing an aerial bombardment for ninety minutes."

The manager pulled a tactical board from the hands of an assistant coach.

"To counter this, we shift our defensive structure. When Côte d’Azur initiates an attack down the flank, the winger on that side must drop immediately. You form a double-team on the touchline. We create a two-versus-two. You lock the ball against the chalk and force them to pass backward. You do not let them cross."

Gabriel Assis crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "So we play as secondary defenders again."

"You play the system that secures three points, Gabriel," Henri countered instantly, the manager’s patience non-existent. "If you fail to track back, the cross comes in. If the cross comes in, we concede. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Gabriel muttered.

"Luc," Henri shifted his attention. "Your job is to ensure the center-backs cannot push up to support the midfield. You pin them deep. Keep them occupied. Do not let them squeeze the pitch."

Henri blew the whistle. The eleven-versus-eleven transition drill commenced.

The reserves, instructed to mimic Côte d’Azur, immediately launched a long diagonal ball out to the right flank.

Kévin Aubert moved to intercept the reserve winger. The reserve left-back instantly initiated an overlapping run, sprinting past Aubert on the outside.

"Gabriel! Drop!" Klaus roared from the center of the midfield.