Chapter 26: [26] "The Quiet Ones Are the Worst"
RC Alsace away.
The drive to Strasbourg took four hours on a bus that smelled of leftover sandwiches.
Luc was in the back row again. Eyes open this time. No taped ribs to breathe around. The painkillers from Nantaise were a memory now, the bruising on his side a dull yellow-green when he checked in the mirror.
He was reading the Alsace dossier on his tablet.
Mid-table. One loss in eight across all competitions. Clean sheet in four of their last six.
Not dramatic. Not violent. Not Belleville’s cruelty or Aquitaine’s grime.
Just quiet, competent, organised football.
Those were the ones that got you.
---
Hugo appeared in the seat beside him without asking.
He put a folded printout on Luc’s knee. Hand-drawn arrows over a photocopied tactical shape.
"Alsace press in a 4-4-2 medium block," Hugo said, his voice low and even. "But their two strikers press the CBs in a diagonal, they want to force the ball wide and double up on the full back."
Luc looked at the printout.
"They don’t press high enough to leave gaps behind," Hugo continued. "But the number eight, Reinhard, tracks the second striker aggressively. If Lacombe drops, Reinhard follows."
Luc tapped the paper. "So Lacombe’s pocket becomes mine."
"If you time the run," Hugo said. He was already standing up to go back to his seat.
Luc watched him walk down the aisle. The kid had been doing a lot of this lately. Just arriving with solutions and leaving.
He’d likely be a manager one day.
---
[System Notification]
[Reminder]
[Penalty: Temporary 20% reduction in passing accuracy for the next match. You will play like Mateo on a bad day.]
Luc stared at the screen.
"That’s genuinely evil. I totally forgot about this. Shit!"
---
Stade de la Meinau. Cold, grey, and full.
RC Alsace were compact from the first whistle. Their shape was disciplined and unhurried. Nothing flashy. Nothing reckless.
Luc felt it immediately. The midfield was tight, Alsace’s wingers were narrow and their 8 and 6 passed each other’s shadows.
Reinhard was already tracking Lacombe.
Exactly as Hugo said.
---
Minute 11.
Luc dropped into the hole Lacombe had vacated as Lacombe pushed wide.
Reinhard went with Lacombe.
There was no one between Luc and the edge of the area.
Mateo hit it first time, hard and flat, into Luc’s path.
Luc’s first touch killed it perfectly. He was already facing goal. One center-back closing hard.
The center-back committed early.
Luc used the oldest trick in the book. He dropped his left shoulder, the defender bit, he rolled onto his right and clipped a low shot inside the near post.
It hit the post.
"Shit!"
Then hit the keeper’s back and went in. It was scrappy and filled with luck, but...
1-0.
---
Minute 11.
Luc let the moment pass. He didn’t stare down the camera. He didn’t tap his wrist.
Alsace’s response was not panic. It was adjustment.
They pushed Reinhard tighter into the space Luc had occupied. Their manager, a cold-faced Belgian who wore the same grey sweater every game, signaled from the touchline and the shape narrowed.
For the next thirty minutes, there was nothing.
SC Valois held possession in the middle third but couldn’t break through. Alsace waited. Compact. Patient. Not conceding another goal.
Henri was pacing on the touchline by the 40th minute because Luc was constantly misplacing his passes. Aside from the goal, he looked like the worst player on the pitch.
---
Minute 43.
Demirci had the ball on the right. Under light pressure. He played it square to Ekberg, the left-footed Swedish center-back who had no obvious pass.
Luc had already broken into a wide right channel, near the touchline.
Ekberg looked up. Hesitated. Luc was not his natural target.
"Ekberg."
One word. Flat. Command dressed as suggestion.
Ekberg played it.
The pass was fine. Not perfect. Luc had to check his run slightly to collect it in the right channel.
The Alsace left back came flying in.
Luc took one touch with the outside of his right boot, cushioned the ball ninety degrees against the direction he had received it, and suddenly had the left back running away from play.
He looked up.
Lacombe had peeled off the back post. Unmarked. Classic diagonal run.
Luc didn’t try to beat two men himself.
He drove a hard, low cross. It was a horrible cross, he fluffed it completely. He couldn’t curse TES for this alone. He had been aided more times than punished.
Hugo was there to pick up the pieces. He one-touched the wasted attempt at a pass through the legs of the defender and through to Luc’s initial target, Lacombe.
Lacombe didn’t have to think. He side-footed it into the bottom corner.
2-0.
---
Assist for Hugo.
Luc’s play, Ekberg’s trust, Lacombe’s run and Hugo’s positioning. Team goal.
A collective piece of architecture that had nothing to do with the American being the only man on the pitch.
Something was changing. The team wasn’t just fighting for Luc’s wager anymore. They were fighting for themselves.
---
Second half. Alsace scored on the hour. A well-worked corner routine that Blažek should have done better with.
2-1.
Luc was subbed off immediately after the goal. His clearance led to the corner. It was a bad game overall for him.
The last 30 minutes were uncomfortable. Alsace pushed hard. Their shape held and the grey sweatered manager shifted them into a 4-3-3 they clearly hadn’t rehearsed enough. The transitions were too wide, too open.
SC Valois held.
Final whistle. 2-1.
Three points.
---
The locker room was not filled with celebrations.
It was just business now.
Mateo was unbuckling his shin guards. Hadj and Ekberg were talking quietly in the corner. Hugo had his headphones on.
This was a different relief.
These men were starting to look like a team that expected to win.
Luc noticed it.
---
His phone lit up before he reached the shower.
Valérie. She was beginning to chat him up more than Juliette now. For someone who doesn’t really have a passion for football, she is following the wager through and through.
Her message read:
Fontaine scored twice against Alsace’s city neighbors this evening. Both open play. Clean finishes, both. The press is calling it a return to form.
Luc leaned against the cold concrete wall.
He typed back.
Score?.
V replied immediately.
Beaumont 7, Fontaine 7.
Tied.
For the first time since Nantaise, the lead was gone. Seven apiece with nine matchdays remaining before December.
He picked his bag up, put his phone in and walked to the showers.
---
[System Notification]
[Wager Tally updated: Open Play Goals — Beaumont 7 | Fontaine 7]
[MD9 incoming: Dijon Métropole. Home. Bottom half. Struggling.]
[But Idriss Konaté has not forgotten what you took from him.]
Idriss.
The Ivorian striker he had displaced from matchday one. He had not caused visible problems. He had not confronted Luc. He had trained hard, said almost nothing, and watched from the bench for eight straight matchdays.
The quiet ones.
Those were always the worst.
