Chapter 255: [255] "MATCHDAY d’Azur 15"

The defender didn’t even flinch at the sorry attempt of a dribble.

Gabriel analyzed his options. He could not outrun the fresh fullback. He could not pass inside. If he attempted to shield the ball, the double-team would strip him of possession within seconds, triggering another lethal counter-attack down his exposed flank.

Desperation clouded his judgment.

Gabriel remembered the sequence from the first half. He remembered Luc Beaumont receiving the ball, feeling the pressure on his back, and expertly manufacturing a foul to relieve the pressure and secure a dangerous free-kick. It was a veteran maneuver. A tactical release he desperately needed.

Gabriel decided to buy his own tactical foul.

He slowed his footwork completely, bringing the ball to a stop on the touchline. He turned his back to the defender, deliberately exposing the ball, inviting the physical contact.

The C?te d’Azur fullback stepped in, placing a hand firmly on Gabriel’s shoulder, attempting to reach his long leg around the winger to poke the ball away.

The contact was standard. It was a basic establishment of physical leverage.

Gabriel did not try to fight the leverage. The exact moment he felt the defender’s hand on his shoulder, Gabriel threw his arms up into the air, arched his back and launched his body forward onto the grass.

A theatrical dive.

He rolled twice across the turf, clutching his ankle, his face contorted in an expression of manufactured agony. He waited for the referee’s whistle to halt the play and grant Valois the much-needed free-kick.

Piii

The whistle blew...

Gabriel stopped rolling, opening one eye to look at the official.

The referee was sprinting toward him, but he was not pointing at the spot of the tackle to indicate a Valois free-kick. The official reached sharply into his breast pocket, pulling out a yellow card.

The referee stood over Gabriel, pointing the card down at the Brazilian winger.

"Simulation!" the referee shouted, his voice carrying authority. "Get up! There was no contact on the ankle. Play acting."

A chorus of mocking cheers and derisive applause broke out in the stadium. The local supporters reveled in the blatant failure of the dive.

Gabriel pushed himself up from the grass. He opened his mouth to protest, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence, but the argument died in his throat. He knew he had faked it. The referee had been positioned merely ten yards away, possessing a perfectly unobstructed angle of the engagement.

The official had seen the lack of malicious contact and correctly identified the theatrics.

"Nothing in it," the referee warned, writing Gabriel’s number in his notebook. "Next one is red. Stop diving."

Gabriel dropped his head, walking away from the official. The humiliation of the booking burned in his chest, compounding the physical exhaustion radiating through his legs. He had tried to execute dark art, but he lacked the precise timing and situational awareness that made Luc’s earlier maneuver so effective.

Up on the touchline, Coach Henri did not look surprised.

The manager had been watching Gabriel closely for the past few minutes. He had seen the winger’s tracking runs grow slower. He had seen the heavy touches. The dive was simply the final symptom of tiredness.

Gabriel had run out of oxygen, and when a player’s legs die, their decision-making process immediately follows suit.

Henri turned away from the pitch, walking toward the Valois bench.

"Bachra," Henri commanded, his voice sharp. "Jacket off. Now."

The nineteen-year-old Spanish winger stood up instantly, ripping the zippers of his training jacket down and tossing the garment onto the bench. Bachra Goza had spent the last nervous minutes vibrating with nervous energy, desperate to inject his own flair into the tactical battle.

Henri did not wait for the next stoppage in play to deliver his instructions. He grabbed Bachra by the shoulder, pulling the teenager close to the edge of the technical area.

"Gabriel is finished," Henri stated, his eyes locked onto the pitch as C?te d’Azur prepared to take the free-kick awarded for the simulation. "They are targeting the right flank. They introduced fresh legs, and they are trying to overload Aubert. You are going on."

"I’ll pin their fullback back," Bachra said confidently, adjusting his shin guards. "I’ll run at him. Make him defend me."

"No," Henri corrected sharply, his grip tightening on Bachra’s shoulder. "You do not abandon the system. You track back. You provide the double-team for Aubert. The defensive shift remains active. Only Dário has the freedom to stay high because of Florez. You win the ball first, then you attack."

Bachra nodded, though the defensive mandate clearly dampened his enthusiasm. "Understood, Coach. Track back."

The referee blew his whistle, halting play as the fourth official raised the electronic substitution board on the sideline. The glowing red numbers indicated Gabriel Assis was coming off.

Gabriel saw his number.

The Brazilian winger initiated a slow, exhausted trudge toward the technical area. His chest heaved. He had sacrificed his entire offensive game to protect Pinto, running himself into the ground for the benefit of the squad, only to end his afternoon with a yellow card for simulation.

He crossed the touchline. He did not look at the manager. He expected a reprimand for the dive. He expected Henri to critique the loss of possession.

Henri did not say a word. As Gabriel walked past, the manager simply offered only acknowledgment. Henri knew exactly what the winger had sacrificed today. The system had demanded everything Gabriel had, and the player had delivered it until his body simply quit.

Bachra stepped onto the grass, his fresh cleats digging into the turf.

The dynamic on the right flank was shifting. Bachra possessed elite dribbling, explosive acceleration, and a level of technical arrogance that bordered on reckless. He was a lethal offensive weapon, but he lacked the disciplined defensive mindset that Gabriel had forced himself to adopt.

FC C?te d’Azur recognized the substitution.

The veteran playmaker orchestrating the home side’s midfield analyzed the fresh Valois winger. He noted Bachra’s high starting position. He recognized the aggressive posture.

The playmaker received a pass from his center-back. He did not look toward his right flank. He drove a precise, lofted pass directly toward the new C?te d’Azur left-winger, testing the newly formed defensive partnership of Aubert and Bachra.

The ball sailed through the air.

Bachra Goza tracked the flight. The Spanish teenager remembered Henri’s explicit instructions to track back and support Aubert. However, his attacking instincts overrode that. Bachra saw an opportunity to intercept the pass before it reached the winger, visualizing a clean steal followed by an immediate counter-attack.

He abandoned his deeper defensive positioning and sprinted forward, attempting to cut in front of the C?te d’Azur player.

It was a catastrophic miscalculation.

The pass was weighted perfectly. It dropped just over Bachra’s outstretched leg. The teenager lunged, his cleats catching nothing, his momentum carrying him out of the defensive structure.

The C?te d’Azur left-winger trapped the ball cleanly on his chest, dropping it to his laces. He didn’t even have to beat Bachra because the Valois winger had taken himself out of the equation singlehandedly.

Kévin Aubert was instantly isolated.

The Valois right-back backpedaled frantically. The exact two-versus-one overload that Gabriel had killed himself to prevent was now establishing.