Chapter 264: [264] "TOO ARROGANT IN FRONT OF A MIC"

Cillian Doyle was lying flat on his back on the floor, a medical staff member aggressively stretching his hamstrings. Gabriel Assis was still seated in the corner, staring blankly at the wall, too exhausted to even remove his boots. Klaus Becker was methodically cutting the athletic tape away from his ankles with a pair of medical scissors.

Hugo Blanc sat neatly in front of his locker. The teenager had already changed into his club-issued tracksuit, looking unaffected by the ninety minutes of high-intensity football.

Luc walked to his stall. He sat down heavily, the adrenaline finally leaving his system. He knew would require deep tissue massage tomorrow.

Before he could begin unlacing his boots, the door at the front of the room opened.

Coach Henri walked in.

The manager did not look like his team had just secured a vital away victory to keep them in the title race. His face should no form of celebration. The lines of his jaw were tight. He carried his notebook in his left hand, tapping it against his thigh.

Cillian stopped groaning. Gabriel sat up. The medical staff stepped back, giving the manager the floor.

Henri walked to the center of the room. He looked at his players, absorbing their physically exhausted state.

"You survived today," Henri stated. "You adapted to the defensive shift. You covered for the mistakes that were made. You secured the three points."

Henri did not mention Bachra Goza by name, but the Spanish teenager, sitting near the door, flinched slightly. The manager’s gaze swept past him without stopping. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

"However, survival is no longer sufficient," Henri continued, raising the notebook slightly. "Today was a test of discipline against a team fighting only for relevance. Next week is the heavy hitter."

Henri paused, ensuring he had the undivided attention of every single person in the room.

"We play Stade Phocéen on Saturday. The 30th."

The name of the opponent hung in the air, instantly altering the atmosphere of the dressing room.

Stade Phocéen.

The team currently sitting in third place just begind Valois. The team that possessed Fresko. The team that had matched Valois blow for blow throughout the entire season.

"They won today," Henri reminded them. "They maintained their position. The fixture next Saturday is not just another match on the calendar. It is part of the title race decider. If we drop points, they get closer to us and we pull farther from Royal in first. If we win, we solidify our spot and continue to chase down Royal with the final matches remaining."

The gravity of the situation settled over the squad. The grueling months of training, the tactical shifts, the injuries, the media scrutiny, it had all converged onto a single six days from now.

"You have six days," Henri commanded, his voice dropping. "You will rest tonight. You will clear the fatigue from your legs tomorrow. When you step onto the training pitch on Tuesday morning, I demand absolute perfection. There will be no lack of focus. There will be no complaints regarding fatigue. You are preparing to play one of the most important matches of your professional careers. Rest up. Be ready."

Henri walked straight out of the locker room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

The silence lingered for a full ten seconds.

Klaus Becker tossed his medical scissors into his open bag. The loud clatter broke the tension.

"You heard the man," Klaus rumbled, standing up. "Ice baths. Nutrition. Get yourselves right. We go to war, again, on Saturday."

The locker room slowly returned to life, but the energy was a bit different. The celebration of the C?te d’Azur victory was erased for the time being, the looming shadow of Stade Phocéen overpowered it.

Luc stripped off his kit, placing his shin guards into his bag. He unlaced his boots, feeling the familiar relief as the pressure was removed from his feet. He grabbed a fresh towel and a change of clothes, heading toward the showers.

The hot water worked to loosen the tight muscles in his back and shoulders. He stood under the spray, letting his mind process the timeline. Six days. He had six days and he could finally optimize his remaining system consumables.

The Absolute Strike was still sitting in his inventory. It was the nuclear option, the guaranteed goal, and he knew exactly which match he was going to deploy it in.

He finished his shower quickly, dried off, and dressed in his club tracksuit.

Returning to his locker, he found the room mostly empty. The majority of the squad had already filtered out toward the loading bay to board the team bus for the drive home. Klaus and Cillian were standing near the exit, engaged in a low conversation regarding a specific midfield rotation Phocéen utilized.

Luc packed his remaining gear, zipping his bag shut. He pulled his phone from the side pocket, unlocking the screen.

He had three unread messages from Juliette.

Juliette: Watched the broadcast. The header was absurd. Are you experiencing any whiplash?

Juliette: Also, you are a too arrogant in front of a microphone. Valérie is going to have a field day with that quote.

Juliette: Call me when you get back.

Luc smiled, typing a rapid response confirming he was fine and that he would call her soon. He locked the phone and slid it into his pocket.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the locker room. The corridors of the stadium were empty, the echoes of their earlier arrival long gone. He navigated the turns, heading toward the exit ramp that led up to the loading bay.

The night air was cool as he stepped outside. The media barricades had been dismantled. The team bus sat idling, its massive engine rumbling quietly. Most of the players were already onboard, finding their seats and putting on noise-canceling headphones for the journey.

Luc walked toward the open doors of the bus.

Before he could step onto the first stair, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the luggage compartments.