Chapter 243: [243] "MATCHDAY d’Azur 5"

The ball rolled smoothly into the path of the overlapping left-back.

The fullback didn’t even need to take a touch to control it, all he did was to adjust his stride, preparing to whip a devastating, first-time cross into the heart of the Valois penalty area, where two massive strikers were already making their runs.

Gabriel Assis saw the entire sequence unfold.

When Hugo’s pass fell short and the interception occurred, Gabriel’s initial instinct...forged by years of operating as a purely offensive winger...was to stay high. His ego told him to hover near the halfway line, wait for his defense to win the ball back, and demand an outlet pass to start a counter-attack.

Gabriel dropped his head. He gritted his teeth, abandoning his offensive pride, and committed to the recovery.

He initiated a sprint.

Gabriel being one of the fastest players on the roster with his ability for straight-line acceleration, he pumped his arms furiously, generating massive force with every stride. He covered the first ten yards in a blur, his eyes locked onto the back of the overlapping fullback.

He covered the next ten yards, closing the distance rapidly, eating up the turf as the stadium noise roared in his ears.

The Côte d’Azur left-back reached the ball. He planted his right foot heavily into the grass, establishing a base. He pulled his left leg back, opening his hips to generate maximum whip for the cross.

Gabriel arrived.

He knew he could not simply bump the player. The fullback had already established his shooting posture. If Gabriel attempted a standing tackle, he would likely arrive late, foul the player, and concede a dangerous free-kick near the edge of the box, earning a yellow card in the process.

Gabriel threw his body to the ground.

He executed a sweeping slide tackle. He extended his leg fully, keeping his cleats pointed safely downward to avoid a dangerous play infraction. He timed the impact down to the millisecond.

Just as the fullback’s boot swung forward to strike the ball, Gabriel’s extended leg swept through.

The Brazilian’s cleat connected purely with the center of the ball. There was no sound of shin guards clashing or malicious contact. It was a precise extraction of the football.

Gabriel hooked the ball backward, dragging it away from the crossing zone.

The Côte d’Azur left-back, his momentum fully committed to the cross, swung his leg through empty air. The sudden lack of resistance shattered his balance. His trailing leg tangled with Gabriel’s sliding torso, and the fullback went airborne, crashing into the grass.

The stadium crowd screamed for a foul. Fans voices demanded a free kick, a red card, anything to punish the disruption of their golden opportunity.

The referee, sprinting behind the play with a clear line of sight, waved both his arms in a crossing motion.

Play on. Clean tackle. All ball.

Gabriel did not admire his defensive work. The momentum of the slide carried him a few feet across the turf, but he scrambled to his feet instantly. The ball had popped loose, rolling slowly toward the touchline.

Gabriel surged forward, beating the recovering left midfielder to the loose ball. He trapped it, securing possession deep in his own defensive third.

He lifted his head with tiredness from the recovery sprint.

The landscape of the pitch had inverted. Because the Côte d’Azur left-back had overlapped, and their left midfielder had driven high, their entire left channel was vacant. Their two central midfielders had pushed forward to support the edge of the penalty area behind their attackers, assuming the cross was imminent.

Their midfield engine room was empty.

Gabriel saw the massive void in the center of the pitch. He opened his hips and drove a pass diagonally inside, aiming for the center circle.

Cillian Doyle was waiting.

The Irishman had tracked back to the edge of his own box during the panic, but as soon as Gabriel secured the ball, Cillian stepped forward into the vacated space. He received Gabriel’s pass with a heavy touch that pushed the ball three yards ahead of him into the empty midfield.

"Fucking brilliant, Gab!" Cillian roared, his thick accent echoing clearly over the stunned silence of the local crowd.

Cillian did not pass immediately. He engaged his powerful legs and drove forward, carrying the ball through the center circle. He was a runaway freight train, operating in acres of uncontested space. The transition was lethal, moving from a moment of defensive terror to a devastating counter-attack in the span of five seconds.

The two Côte d’Azur center-backs, who had pushed up slightly to compress the pitch during their attack, were suddenly caught in no man’s land. They scrambled backward, backpedaling furiously in an attempt to rebuild their defensive line before Cillian could reach the final third.

Luc had remained high during the defensive phase, trusting his teammates to handle the clearance. As Cillian drove across the halfway line, Luc initiated his movement. He did not make a sweeping run into the channels. He positioned himself between the two retreating center-backs, staying perfectly central, demanding the ball to his feet.

Cillian saw the captain. He drove a low pass straight across the turf, threading the needle between the recovering opposing midfielders.

The ball zipped toward the edge of the penalty arc.

Luc stepped forward to meet it. He planted his foot and trapped the pass flawlessly with the inside of his right boot, killing the pace of it instantly. He kept the ball glued to his laces and executed a fluid turn, squaring his shoulders toward the FC Côte d’Azur goal.

The two center-backs had retreated deeply into the penalty area, terrified of a footrace.

However, a single Côte d’Azur defensive midfielder, the player wearing the number six jersey, had managed to track back. The midfielder arrived at the top of the eighteen-yard box just as Luc completed his turn.

The midfielder stepped up to close the gap. He bent his knees, dropping his center of gravity, keeping his eyes locked onto Luc’s legs. He was the last line of defense before the penalty area. His sole objective was to delay the attack, force Luc backward, and allow his defensive line to organize.

The ball rested inches from Luc’s right cleat. He was isolated, one-on-one, twenty yards from the goal line.

Luc looked the midfielder directly in the eyes. A cold smile broke across his face.

"How about I use you--" Luc said, his voice quiet but carrying a terrifying certainty, "--to test if I’m really back."