Chapter 238: [238] "A LITTLE CÔTE PITCH REVIEW"

The SC Valois team bus slowed, its brakes venting with a sharp hiss.

They had traveled down to the southern coast the evening before, escaping the chill of their home stadium for the slightly milder climate of the Mediterranean. The hotel stay had been strictly regimented.

Curfew at ten, mandatory carb-loading, no media availability. Henri had isolated the squad, allowing the tactical drills of the past week to settle into their muscle memory.

Now, they were pulling into the loading bay of the FC Côte d’Azur stadium.

The tinted windows of the bus offered a clear view of the ramp leading down to the player entrance. Positioned behind a row of metal barricades was a dense cluster of media personnel. Cameras with massive photo lenses and reporters holding branded microphones were packed tightly together, waiting for the bus’ doors to open.

Luc Beaumont unbuckled his seatbelt. He wore the standard club-issued training kit.

A black tracksuit with the gold and black Valois crest over the chest. He grabbed his gym bag from the overhead compartment.

He didn’t feel the usual pre-match stiffness.

His right knee was perfect. The grade-two contusion was a closed Chapter now.

"They look hungry today," Cillian Doyle noted from the seat across the aisle. The Irishman stood up, cracking his neck. "Probably hoping to see you limping. Good headline for the morning papers. ’Captain Crippled, Title Hopes on Hold’."

"They are going to be so, so disappointed," Luc replied flatly.

Klaus Becker moved down the aisle, his face positioned in its usual matchday scowl. The German midfielder didn’t say a word, just offered a sharp nod to Luc before moving toward the front doors.

The doors folded inward.

Klaus stepped out first, followed by Amadou Fall and Leo Hernandez. The cameras clicked, but the pace was steady.

Then, Luc stepped onto the top stair and descended onto the pavement.

The loading bay erupted.

Flashes of white light flashed rapidly, reflecting off the walls. Shouts from the press pack overlapped in a chaotic wave of questions.

"Luc! Are you one hundred percent?"

"Is the knee fully healed?"

"Remember that Fresko scored a brace while you were injured, are you feeling the pressure for the Golden Boot?"

"Does Pinto starting change the defensive stability?"

Luc ignored the voices entirely. He didn’t raise his hand to shield his eyes or alter his walking pace to show the questions affected him. He planted his foot firmly onto the ground with every stride, demonstrating his 100% physicality.

He kept his eyes locked on the steel doors leading into the stadium’s interior corridors. He carried his bag over his shoulder, his posture relaxed but inaccessible.

Hugo Blanc walked closely behind him. The teenager was completely unbothered by the flashing lights, his focus already projected forward to the ninety minutes awaiting them.

Max Caster trailed Hugo, keeping his head down slightly, still adjusting to the intense media scrutiny that accompanied traveling with a title contender team.

They passed the barricades and pushed through the doors, leaving the noise of the press pack behind.

The interior of the FC Côte d’Azur stadium was highly standard. It lacked the modern, hyper-commercialized sheen of Paris Royal’s arena or the imposing atmosphere of a Stade Phocéen. The corridors were built from painted cinder blocks. The lighting was slightly yellowed.

It was a functional, working-class stadium designed to hold around thirty thousand hostile fans... similar capacity to Stade Valois.

"Pitch inspection," Klaus called out, pointing toward the tunnel that led out to the grass.

It was the new Henri mandated routine. Before they entered the locker room to tape ankles and put on shin guards, the starting eleven needed to feel the turf.

They needed to understand the friction, levels, and the dimensions of the specific battlefield they were about to walk onto.

Luc dropped his bag near the locker room door and walked down the tunnel. The scene change from the dim corridor to the open bowl of the stadium was cinematic.

The stands were currently filling up but mostly empty, a sea of plastic seats waiting for the local supporters. The public address system was playing a low pop track, testing the speakers.

Luc stepped over the white chalk of the touchline and onto the grass.

He dragged his cleats across the surface. He pressed his weight down, testing the give of the soil.

"It’s alright I guess," Luc stated, looking over at Klaus who was currently pressing his palm into the turf a few yards away. "Standard length. Not overly watered. They didn’t flood it like some teams did."

"They don’t need to," Hugo observed, walking toward the center circle with his hands in his pockets. The teenager gazed at the width of the pitch. "Côte d’Azur does not play a low block designed to kill technical possession. We all know what they play. They require a stable surface to facilitate rapid overlapping sprints down the touchlines. Flooding the pitch would neutralize their own game plan."

"Exactly," Luc agreed, walking deeper into the Côte d’Azur half. "They want a fast track on the outside. They want their fullbacks overlapping and whipping crosses into the box."

Gabriel Assis jogged past them, executing a few high knees before coming to a stop near the right touchline. The Brazilian winger looked down at the grass, his expression sour.

"I’m going to be spending half the match in my own defensive third," Gabriel complained, crossing his arms. He kicked a loose clump of grass. "Tracking back to double-team their wingers. It’s a waste of my potential."

Luc didn’t let the complaint slide. He closed the distance between them, stopping right in front of the Brazilian.

"Potential man," Cillian called out amusingly.

"It’s not a waste of your pace, Gabriel. It’s the only way we survive today," Luc said, his voice lacking any sympathy for the winger’s ego. "If you don’t track back, their fullback overlaps. If he overlaps, Kévin Aubert gets isolated in a two-on-one. The cross comes in, and Pinto may get exposed. You know the drill."