Chapter 248: [248] "MATCHDAY d’Azur 10"

The opposition midfielder threw his hands up in the air, screaming in frustration at his own forwards for failing to press.

The cracks were expanding. Valois continued to apply the pressure.

Zack pushed the ball down the line to Dário. Dário played it inside to Hugo. Hugo found Luc.

Luc and Dário established a devastating rhythm on the left side of the pitch.

They utilized quick, one-touch passing that carved through the Côte d’Azur block with needed precision.

Dário received a pass from Hugo. He instantly drove the ball into Luc’s feet. Luc, heavily marked by the number five center-back, did not attempt to turn. He killed the ball with the inside of his boot, laying it off precisely into the space Dário was currently sprinting into.

Dário collected the layoff, advancing passed the right-back. He reached the byline, threatening a cross. The Côte d’Azur goalkeeper shifted nervously toward his near post, while the center-backs scrambled to mark the penalty spot.

Dário pulled the ball backward, cutting away from the byline, and played a pass out to the edge of the eighteen-yard box.

Hugo arrived at it. The teenager let the ball roll across his body, threatening a long-range strike. Two defenders threw themselves into the anticipated shot, desperate to block the shot.

But Hugo didn’t shoot. He executed a flawless fake, later chopping the ball backward and allowing the defenders to slide uselessly past him. He then played a calm, grounded pass back to Cillian in the center circle.

The frustration within the Côte d’Azur ranks reached critical.

They were being humiliated on their own pitch. The instructions from their manager were forgotten, only unregulated anger remained now.

They began to swing wild tackles.

Cillian received the ball. A Côte d’Azur striker lunged at him, aiming toward the Irishman’s ankle. Cillian anticipated the aggression. He skipped lightly over the challenge, dragging the ball with him, and drove his shoulder heavily into the striker’s chest as he passed, sending the forward crashing to the turf.

The referee kept his whistle out of his mouth. Play on.

Cillian passed to Gabriel. Gabriel flicked it to Klaus. Klaus drilled a pass into Luc’s feet.

Luc was positioned centrally, roughly twenty-five yards away from the Côte d’Azur goal. His back was facing the net.

He trapped the heavy pass smoothly, keeping the ball beneath his center of gravity. He knew exactly what was coming. The entire defensive line was operating on frustration. They were tired of being passed around. They wanted so desperately to disrupt the rhythm.

The veteran center-back who had been grappling with Luc all day, charged out of the defensive line.

He didn’t care about the ball. He cared about sending a message. He sprinted forward, lowering his shoulder, preparing to drive his into the back of the Valois captain.

Luc felt the heavy footsteps approaching. His vision tracked the defender.

He had the physical strength to absorb the impact. If he braced himself, the center-back would simply struggle before he actually inflicts damage.

But Luc did not want that at the moment. Valois had just been passing around without a shot to show for it. He wanted to punish the aggression.

He recognized the value of the specific area of the pitch he was currently occupying. Twenty-five yards out, dead center. It was the optimal range for a direct set-piece.

Luc decided to execute a classic piece of veteran forward thinking.

He needed to draw the foul, but he needed the referee to buy it.

The center-back arrived. He closed the final yard, driving his forearm into the center of Luc’s spine while simultaneously clipping the back of Luc’s left heel.

The contact was aggressive, but it was not devastating. It was a gritty foul typical of Ligue Alpha defending. In isolation, a striker of Luc’s size and balance could easily ride the challenge, stumble a single step, and maintain possession.

Luc did not ride the challenge.

He had always wanted to try out the dark arts.

The exact second the defender’s forearm made contact with his back, Luc allowed his core to go completely limp. He removed all resistance from his posture. As the cleat clipped his heel, Luc intentionally crossed his own ankles, manufactured a loss of balance, and threw his arms out wide.

He went down.

He really thought about diving to the ground theatrically. Or maybe screaming would be better, or even clutching his face in feigned agony.

But he went for the most believable choice. He executed a highly realistic collapse, allowing gravity and the defender’s momentum to drive him face-first into the grass.

He hit the ground hard, his chest absorbing the impact, the ball rolling harmlessly away.

The referee, positioned yards away with a clear line of sight, did not hesitate to bring the whistle to his lips and blow for the foul.

The whistle shrieked, a piercing blast that cut through the hostile noise of the stadium.

The official pointed emphatically at the exact patch of grass where Luc had been tackled, signaling a direct free kick for SC Valois.

The veteran center-back went nuts.

The defender threw his hands in the air, his face turning a violent shade of red. He stormed toward the referee, his veins bulging in his neck.

"He went down easy! He barely felt it!" the center-back roared, pointing an accusing finger at Luc, who was currently pushing himself up from the turf. "He’s not even that small of a striker! That’s a dive! You can’t give that!"

The referee did not entertain the argument. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a yellow card, and thrust it into the center-back’s face.

"Late challenge from behind. No attempt to play the ball," the official stated coldly, writing the number five in his notebook. "Back away immediately."

The Côte d’Azur players swarmed the referee, shouting their protests, but the decision was final. The frustration had finally yielded a tangible and highly dangerous consequence.

Luc stood up, brushing the loose dirt from the front of his black and gold jersey.