Chapter 6: [6] "Tick-Tock, Your Clock has Started"
It poured down in torrential amounts over Stade Valois, transforming the field into a muddy, deep ditch. The scoreboard was lit up in the mist in the 78th minute of the season-opening game against Olympique de Rive.
The score was still tied, it was a miracle. The game of football was not the point of SC Valois at the moment, they were living through a siege. Olympique de Rive, who had been in Europe contention the previous season, were a force to be reckoned with in the Valois defensive third. They unleashed barrage after barrage of attacks and left the home side in the shit.
Luc was sitting on the damp bench, his coat buttoned up to his collar. He could not have been more detached from what may turn out to be a massacre if even one goal gets in. Hugo Blanc, with his thumbnail being gnawed at on his finger, was a man of nervous energy, who sat next to him and watched the ball being tossed away by the defenders of the Valois in pure desperation.
Hugo grumbled in the roar of the rain "They’re going to score. We are not gonna be able to keep them contained for much longer."
"Too much. They’re pressing too much," replied Luc. "I’d say there’s 30 yards of green grass behind them, just because they are pushed so far up, and if somebody played a ball in that space, I would kill their in a foot race."
Coach Henri was pacing on the touchline like a caged animal. His coat was sodden. He continued to watch the game’s clock, hoping for the last whistle. An Olympique de Rive draw and a point a piece would be a big win for a relegation battling side.
A quick whistle suddenly rang out. A midfielder of the Valois team fell to the mud with his narrow calf pressed against his knee.
Henri cursed violently. He turned around and looked frantically at the bench. He required some new blood.
"Beaumont! Blanc! Get your gear off!" Henri barked.
Hugo jumped. Luc unbuttoned his coat and dropped it on the concrete floor as if in a relaxed manner. His bare arms were hit by the cold, rain and his adrenaline jolted into his bloodstream.
They jogged to the technical area. Henri took both of their shoulders in his hands.
Henri shouted, "Listen to me! 12 mins left plus stoopages. We are to park the hell out of this bus. Hugo, sit in front of the defensive line. Beaumont, go up top, but fall back and defend on set pieces. Do not take risks. We hold this point."
Hugo nodded frantically. Luc didn’t utter a single word. Survive? He did not cross the Atlantic in an effort to make it through to the big stage. He came to conquer!
---
The substitution board was called up. The numbers changed, green colors into red.
Luc crossed the white line. His boots found the soil that was damp. He was jogging through the middle of the circle when he was hit in the shoulder.
Luc barely stumbled. He looked up. The Valois captain, Mateo, turned his head to stare at him, his face covered with mud and breathing heavily.
"Don’t screw this up, Yankee," Mateo snarled. "Get back and play defense. Do not try any college tricks here, we have bled for 80 minutes to keep a clean sheet."
Deep in his heart, Mateo felt as though he wasn’t listening, Luc removed his fingers from his jersey. "Since I’m here, we are going to win. That’s what I cane on for," said Luc, his voice deadly calm. "Not to survive! Now move out of the way!"
---
The last 10 minutes were extremely hard. When they saw any opportunity, Olympic de rive chased blood. They went up and pressed higher, trying to get the three points.
Luc ran between the two large centre-backs. They laughed and joked to each other about him and his size in fast French.
[System Notification]
[Downloading French]
Luc understood, but paid no heed to them, making short, sudden runs to gauge their responses. As he knew they were heavy-legged. The mud had sapped their stamina. They were half a second late.
It was now the 85th minute.
Rive launched an attack down the left flank. One of their wingers attempted to run in, but lost grip on the soil as it got wetter, shoving the ball the wrong way by a foot.
Hugo was there. The young midfield who had just slipped, lunged at the ball to bring it under control.
Hugo jumped to his feet, suddenly afraid. He was in his own half with two angry Rive players running towards him. Instinct kicked in. He turned his body, winding up to boot the ball backward to his goalkeeper. This was the safe play.
"Hugo! Turn!"
The rain fell, but the shout was like a knife through the rain.
Hugo froze. He peeked around his shoulder.
Luc was running 50 yards up the pitch. He had his back to the last man in line on the Rive defence, aggressively pointing his fingers into the vast interlinking empty spaces behind the Rive defense line.
Henri’s directions blared in Hugo’s ears: Do not take risks. Luc’s eyes were asking for something else however.
Hugo selected the American.
Hugo didn’t pass back, he turned around instead. He knew he would fail to go through the air with it. He simply swung his right-foot, using all the might he could, through the leather.
A well driven through ball! It skinned around the turf, right between the two big center-backs, and on into no-man’s land.
The defenders panicked. They turned and started to run.
Luc had already been in fifth gear though.
He broke away from them with a roar. The distance between them grew to 5 yards, 10 yards and then 15 yards. The rain was falling hard on his forehead that his hair was plastered against it, but his eyes were fixed solely on the ball. He was not able to hear the people. He failed to hear Henri screaming. Only the sound of his boots could be heard.
He was able to reach the ball outside the penalty area. He didn’t move a muscle as he took one fluid touch with the outside of his right boot, and killed the momentum just right and set himself up for the shot.
He was all alone with the goalkeeper.
The Rive keeper pushe off his line aggressively, making himself as large as possible, closing down the angle. He thought the rookie was going to go off and blast the ball under pressure.
Luc slowed down, dropping his shoulders. The keeper got his feet on the ground, ready for impact.
Luc pulled his right leg back and feinted a big shot to the far post. The keeper bit. He instinctively widened his legs slightly apart to nail his dive.
It was a wrong choice, a deadly wrong one.
Instead of following through with power, Luc snapped his ankle inward at the very last millisecond. He tapped the ball, sliding it gently right between the keeper’s spread legs.
A nutmeg. The ultimate humiliation.
[System Notification]
[Reward +5 General Points]
"For the nutmeg?" he thought.
The keeper collapsed into the mud, helplessly watching the ball roll over the white line.
The net was still, just a little glance.
---
Stade Valois was silent for a split-second. The fans weren’t able to understand what they saw. After 85 minutes of utter unadulterated despair, a team that had been battered. Produced a moment of magic.
After that, the stadium went crazy. It was a loud, noisy roar, that shook the concrete pillars.
The Valois bench went into pure ecstasy. Henri threw his arms up in the air. Hugo fell on his knees in the mud, exclaiming happily. The other players were running up the pitch, ready to dog pile the new American hero.
Luc chose to ignore them all.
[System Notification]
[Objective completed: Use Hugo]
[Reward: Weaner size +1]
He felt a bulge in his pants. But it wasn’t the proper time for an examination.
He didn’t go and take a run for the corner flag. There he was, without a shirt, of course yellow carded, basking in the rain. He didn’t rush into the multitude.
He ran straight towards the touchline, butting through a stunned Rive defender. He watched around the edges until he spotted what he knew he was looking for: the main television broadcast camera. The one this match was being broadcast live to stations around the country.
Luc came up to the lens. He had no expression on his face. Cold. Calculated. Ruthless.
He looked dead into the glass, knew who he was looking for, who was sitting in a penthouse in Paris on the other side of this same screen. He lifted his left arm and tapped his right index finger on his bare left wrist, and spoke two words under his breath.
Tick-tock.
He kept the position for two seconds as if to a message across, making it loud and clear.
It was the Olivier Fontaine signature celebration. The warning shot had just been fired.
[System Notification]
[Objective completed: Wager a challenge to Olivier]
[Reward: Recognision as a threat]
