Chapter 239: [239] "MATCHDAY d’Azur"

Henri made it crystal clear. You double-team the channel, you win the ball, and then you use your pace to transition. You don’t wait for the game to come to you."

Gabriel held Luc’s gaze for a second before looking away, nodding slowly. "I know. I’ll drop back. Just make sure you hold the ball up when we clear it. If I’m making yards of recovery sprints, I can’t afford to watch you lose possession in the center."

"I won’t," Luc promised. He had the Physical Anchor passive. He had the Phantom Step. He wasn’t going to lose possession to a pair of traditional center-backs.

On the opposite side of the pitch, Zack Florez was walking the length of the left touchline. The left-back was visualizing the shift Henri had implemented during one of their last sessions. Because Dário Ferrão was instructed to stay high, Zack was going to be defending his channel solo. He was pacing out the distances, visualising the angles he would need to jockey the overlapping runners.

Dário stood near the halfway line, stretching his hamstrings. The winger looked relaxed. He had the offensive freedom today. His job was to wait for Zack to kill the overload and immediately exploit the vacated space on the counter.

Luc turned his attention toward the penalty area.

Pinto was standing on the goal line. The backup...now only goalkeeper was not executing any stretches. He was simply staring at the penalty spot, his gloved hands resting on his hips.

The weight of the fixture was visibly pressing down on his shoulders. He knew Côte d’Azur’s entire game plan was designed specifically to target his reluctance to command the aerial space or step off his line.

Amadou Fall walked up to the goalkeeper. The center-back clapped Pinto on the shoulder.

"We own the airspace," Amadou said loudly, making sure the rest of the defensive line heard him.

Leo Hernandez jogged over, nodding in agreement. "You stay on your line. You stop the shots. Leo and I will handle the crosses. Nobody gets a free header inside the eighteen today."

Pinto exhaled, nodding rapidly. "I’ll hold the line. Just don’t let them pin me."

Luc watched the interaction. The defensive unit was solidifying. They understood the vulnerabilities and they had agreed on the compensation they each had to involve themselves in. It was exactly what a title-contending squad needed to do when missing a key piece like Tomáš Blažek.

"Let’s get inside," Klaus yelled, clapping his hands together. "Fifteen minutes. Get kitted up."

The squad turned away from the grass and funneled back down the tunnel.

The Côte locker room was identical to dozens of other away dressing rooms across the country. Gray metal lockers lined the walls. A whiteboard for game plans was mounted on the far wall. The fluorescent lights buzzed with an irritating frequency.

The players moved to their assigned stalls. From calm pitch inspection to the high-intensity pre-match preparation.

The kit managers had already laid out the away jerseys. The fabric stood out sharply.

Luc stripped off his training jacket.

The sounds of the locker room consisted of athletic tape tearing, the clattering of studs against the floor, and the low murmurs of focused conversations.

Cillian Doyle pulled a small Bluetooth speaker from his bag. He didn’t ask for permission as he connected his phone and blasted an aggressive track. The bass practically rattled the metal doors of the lockers...it was that loud.

It was the Irishman’s standard routine to spike his own adrenaline before kickoff.

Klaus Becker tolerated the noise for about three minutes. The midfielder finished tying his boots, stood up, walked across the room, and pressed the power button on the speaker, killing the music instantly.

"Focus," Klaus commanded into the sudden silence. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. "Match intensifies from the first tackle."

Cillian didn’t argue with the second in command. He just grinned, taping his wrists with snapping motions.

Luc sat on the wooden bench in front of his locker. He laced his boots, pulling the strings tight and locking them down. He grabbed his phone from his bag.

Not to check social media or read his messages. He went straight to the official Ligue Alpha application.

The league calendar this weekend was synchronized. Due to the broadcast scheduling and the tightening title race, the top three teams were all kicking off at exactly three o’clock in the afternoon.

SC Valois against FC Côte d’Azur.

Stade Phocéen against Union Aquitaine.

Paris Royal against Lyon.

Luc refreshed the live scoreboard page. The clocks on all three fixtures was yet to read 00:00.

He looked at the Golden Boot standings permanently pinned to the top of the app’s interface.

* Luc Beaumont - 30 Goals.

* Fresko - 29 Goals.

* Olivier Fontaine - 26 Goals.

Fresko was playing a Aquitaine side that had very little to fight for this season in either direction of the table. They were safe from relegation and too pointless to qualify for European tournaments.

It was the exact type of fixture where a possession-heavy team like Phocéen could easily run up the scoreline. Fresko was going to get chances today. Multiple chances.

If Luc didn’t score against Côte d’Azur, there was a highly probable outcome that he would drop to second place in the scoring charts by the time he stepped off the pitch.

Luc locked his phone screen and tossed the device back into his bag. He didn’t need to stare at the numbers. He knew the stakes.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, accessing the dormant interface of The Everything System.

The blue text overlay materialized instantly in his mind.

[INVENTORY CHECK]

[VACUUM TRAP (X2)]

[CANNON HEADER (X1)]

[PHANTOM STEP (X1)]

[ABSOLUTE STRIKE (X1)]

[PREDATORY AURA (X2)]

The arsenal was loaded. He had practically depleted his entire GP and SP balances to acquire these specific tools. He was not going to rely on luck today.

If a cross came into the box, he had the Cannon Header. If he needed to snap an ankle in the penalty area, he had the Phantom Step.