Chapter 263: [263] "DON’T DOWNPLAY IT"

"That header from twenty yards out defied expectations. But the sequence began at the opposite end of the pitch."

The interviewer turned his attention to Pinto.

"Pinto, you faced intense scrutiny leading up to this fixture. C?te d’Azur clearly targeted you with an aerial bombardment as their primary gameplan. Walk us through that crucial interception and the decision to launch the immediate counter-attack."

Pinto cleared his throat. He looked at the camera, remembering Luc’s advice to keep it brief.

"The defense did the heavy lifting all afternoon," Pinto answered, his voice steady. "They kept the box as clear as they possibly could. On that specific cross, I saw the trajectory and knew Amadou wasn’t getting there after seeing the attacker’s leverage. I made the decision to claim it. When I hit the ground, I saw Luc making the run. The opposition was out of position. I just put the ball into the space he was attacking."

"A phenomenal read of the game," Rossi praised, before pivoting back to the captain. The veteran journalist’s eyes sharpened slightly. The pleasantries were concluded. It was time to hunt for the headline.

"Luc, your individual performance today was exceptional, but the context of the league cannot be ignored," Rossi stated, his tone shifting into a more serious register. "We have the final scores from the parallel fixtures that kicked off simultaneously with yours."

Luc kept his expression neutral, but his internal focus spiked. He waited for the numbers.

"Stade Phocéen defeated Union Aquitaine," Rossi revealed. "Fresko found the back of the net once. Meanwhile, Paris Royal secured a comfortable victory over Lyon, with Olivier Fontaine scoring a brace."

Luc processed the scores.

Before kickoff, he sat at thirty goals. Fresko was at twenty-nine. Fontaine was lower.

With his two goals today, the low drive through the center-backs and the cannon header, he was now sitting at thirty-two.

Fresko’s single goal moved the Phocéen striker to thirty. Fontaine’s brace pushed him to twenty-eight.

The gap was maintained, but the pressure was still compounding nonetheless. Two goals separated first and second place. Four goals separated first and third. With only a handful of matches remaining in the calendar, a single scoreless outing could erase the advantage entirely.

"The Golden Boot race is officially the tightest we have seen in Ligue Alpha in a decade," Rossi pushed, leaning closer to Luc. "Fresko is relentless. Fontaine is surging. You are currently leading, but the margin is thin. Do you feel the pressure closing in as we approach the final stretch of the season?"

Luc stared into the camera lens.

He did not offer the standard, media-trained response.

He also chose not to spout clichés about focusing on the team’s success over individual accolades. He knew exactly what the media wanted, and he knew exactly what his rivals were watching at this exact moment. He decided to give them exactly what they asked for, wrapped in unwavering arrogance.

"There is always pressure," Luc admitted, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a cold certainty. "When you operate at the top of the table like the three teams do, pressure is the baseline requirement. You are talking about the Golden Boot. You are talking about the definitive proof of who the most lethal forward in the country is."

Luc paused, letting the silence stretch for a second, ensuring the microphones captured every syllable.

"I know," Luc continued. "I know who is scoring. But let me make this very clear. I am capable of winning it. I possess the tools and the squad to secure it. Fresko relies on other things. Fontaine relies on flash. But neither of them dictates a match the way I do. No striker in this league operates on my level. They can score their meaningless goals. When the golden boot is on the line, I am the one who decides the outcome."

Rossi blinked. The broadcaster had expected confidence, perhaps a subtle jab at his rivals, but he had not anticipated an unfiltered declaration of absolute supremacy such as this.

The silence from the camera crew standing behind the lens was palpable. They knew they had just recorded the soundbite that would dominate the sports networks for the next week.

"A definitive statement from the Valois captain," Rossi recovered smoothly, wrapping up the segment. "Luc Beaumont, Pinto, thank you for your time, and congratulations again on the victory."

"Thank you," Luc said sharply.

The red light on the camera blinked off. The sound technician stepped forward, unpinning the microphones from their jerseys.

Rossi lowered his own microphone, offering Luc a highly respectful glance. "That quote is going to run every hour on the hour until next weekend, Beaumont. You just put a massive target on your own back."

"The target was already there," Luc replied, turning away from the media station. "I just painted it in black and gold."

Taking the pressure alone and away from his teammates was the captains job.

Luc and Pinto walked away from the touchline, heading toward the tunnel entrance. The stadium was nearly empty now, silence settling heavily over the pitch.

"You really don’t care what they think, do you?" Pinto asked quietly as they stepped into the light of the corridor.

"If you show them humility, they look for weakness," Luc explained, his cleats clicking against the floor. "If you tell them you are untouchable, they spend all their energy trying to prove you wrong, which means they aren’t focusing on their own game. It’s just mental warfare, Pinto. You handled your part perfectly out there today."

"I just punted it upfield, I didn’t do much."

"You claimed a cross under pressure, absorbed the hit, and mapped the transition in under three seconds," Luc corrected. "Don’t downplay it. You earned your spot today."

They reached the doors of the away dressing room. Luc pushed them open, stepping into the chaotic noise of the Valois sanctuary.

The atmosphere was a sharp contrast to the quiet tunnel. Players were scattered across the benches, actively managing their physical fatigue.