FC Côte d’Azur were decent for a mid-table club and had some not-so-great habits.

Three draws from four games, a tight, unflorid defensive formation and a manager who gave three separate match interviews and used the term "game management" in all of them as though it was a his name.

Most importantly, they had seen Luc’s matches.

All of it.

---

The press already had the news. The Côte d’Azur tactical analyst had already told L’Équipe Tuesday night that he had been briefed on the American’s habit of "exploiting the channels, mostly the left."

Luc read the headline in Juliette’s kitchen over a cup of coffee.

He placed the paper on the table. He refilled his cup with a second cup of coffee that lay idle on the table.

"They did their homework on you," Juliette said without looking up from her notes at the kitchen table.

"I know."

"That means Saturday you should mind how you use the left wide area," she said.

Luc responded, "I know that too." He had his cup of coffee in his hand, and took a sip. "Good."

Juliette looked up. "Good?"

"If they’ve watched my matches then they’ll be looking at my left foot. And that means their right back is going to be a nervous wreck for 90 minutes because they’ll assign him to me. A nervous right back makes mistakes."

He put the cup aside.

[System Notification]

[Objective: Score with your weaker foot]

[Reward: +1 Technical stat (permanent)]

[Penalty: Cramp in both calves during the next match. Both. Simultaneously.]

Luc read through the notification, his amusement and resignation intermingled.

"I guess TES wants me to score with my right foot too."

He was of course left-footed. His right was working. It wasn’t as clinical and definitely not his weapon of choice, in short bursts or in shooting.

He’d have to sharpen it. "By the way, TES, the last time I checked out the store what happened?"

[System Notification]

[You were tired and had severe rib pains... You slept off on the bus. But you activated Predatory Aura in the last match for 5 General Points]

[Balance: 5 General points, 5 Skill points]

"Huh."

---

Friday. The day to the match.

No one was on the training pitch, it was cold. The bulk of the team had been sent home for light recovery. Henri allowed it. The time between matchdays was starting to get tight.

Still there at 7 PM was Luc.

Only the orange light of the lamps around the pitch. He was at the eighteen-yard-line, and was on the left side of the box with a ball in his hands. "Simple angles. Driven low. Inside the post."

His right foot was less intuitive than his left. Every time he hit the ball, it was like writing with the wrong hand.

He kept going.

After forty minutes, he noticed someone walking behind him on the grass.

He didn’t turn. He was playing with the ball at his feet and then knocked it towards the post. It struck the post and rebounded.

"Bend your hip more on the follow through."

Hugo Blanc was there with his hands in the pockets of his training jacket. The cut on his cheek had healed to a thin pink line. He glanced at the ball and at Luc’s feet.

"Aside from the right, your plant foot is too far forward. You lose the power at the last second playing the ball like that."

Luc lowered his head and looked at his feet placement. He considered this.

"Again," Hugo said.

Luc put another ball down on his marked spot. Made adjustments to his plant foot.

He struck the ball.

Inside the post. Clean at the top corner.

The net seemed to move with a resigned acceptance.

Without even so much as a sound Hugo then faced in the other direction and started heading in. "Remember to be here at the usual time tomorrow," he said as he left.

Luc just watched the kid as he departed.

Hugo was only just 17. He spoke about 20 words a day, which some of his teammates made jokes about. Luc thought they were bullying him slightly, but nonetheless, Hugo saw plays in the dark that most coaches didn’t see in the light. His mind far surpassed that of the average playmaker.

Luc placed another ball down and once more corrected his foot. Goal.

---

Saturday. Matchday 6 at Stade Valois.

The sun was scarce and the atmosphere was cold and dry.

Côte d’Azur set up in a 4-5-1. During the warm-up, the right-back age 26, Farès was already monitoring Luc’s position. Keeping an eye on that left foot. He was doing his homework.

Luc saw him seeing him.

The match started and Luc was doing nothing interesting on the left for the first 25 minutes.

He drifted. He dropped back. Then he started to move towards the right flank. He was followed each time by Farès, who ate up a lot of distance in a short time.

Minute 26. On the left side, Lacombe flung a high cross.

Farès took three automatic steps across to cover.

The room that was created was enough.

Mateo received the ball in the midfield and hit it at an angle to Luc on the right side of the penalty box. It wasn’t his typical side.

The right center-back came to close him down.

Luc didn’t wait. His plant foot(left foot) some inches back. Hips widened. Defender not present yet.

He hit it with his right foot. A low and hard straight diagonal shot Inside the left bottom corner of the post.

Goal.

1-0.

Stade Valois erupted.

Luc was not all show anymore, he didn’t celebrate dramatically. He turned and saw Hugo half way up the pitch. He pointed a finger at him. It wasn’t his assist but the advice made the goal possible.

Hugo responded with a brief nod.

---

The second half began.

Côte d’Azur equalized in the 51st minute after Blažek was able to get a hand on the ball, but unable to keep it out of the net. It kissed the keeper’s wrist and went over the line in the worst way possible.

1-1.

The Côte d’Azur manager slapped his hands together on the touch line as if he had just orchestrated something magnificent.

The SC Valois bench was very silent.

Henri began to pace.

Luc didn’t pace. He only had one thought, which was mulling Farès over.

Minute 67. Lacombe got back to the left channel once again.

But this time, Luc accompanied him.

Farès was the first one to get across to them. He was already preparing a pocketing.

Luc froze in his stride.

Farès was a half step over committed. His weight was already in motion.

Luc received a short pass from Demirci and had three yards of freedom in front of him at the top of the box.

He didn’t shoot. He crossed it.

Low and hard across the face of goal.

Mateo came out of the midfield. He was on a menacing run as a came in at full pace. He had been doing it a lot in the last few games, coming late, unmarked and striking the ball too fast for a goalkeeper to track.

He didn’t even have to think about placement. He just swung his boot.

The ball dug itself into the bottom corner.

2-1.

---

Mateo looked right at Luc.

Luc looked back.

No words. Both knew that something was different on the pitch now. It was Mateo’s goal. But it was all Luc’s architecture.

The tattooed captain grabbed Luc by the back of the neck.

"Fucking Yankee!", Mateo spat out.

It was 14 minutes later when the final whistle sounded. But before that SC Valois remained steadfast and organized, sharp when needed.

[System Notification]

[Objective complete: Scored with weaker foot]

[Reward applied: +1 Technical stat — permanent]

[Updated Wager Tally: Open Play Goals: Beaumont 6 | Fontaine 4]

[MD7 incoming: AS Lyon-Rhône. They are at home.]

Luc read the notification in the tunnel in the cold air with a scarf someone had thrown from the stands around his neck.

His phone buzzed in his jacket, there was a text from Valérie:

Fontaine scored 2 penalties against Rive today. Missed two big chances. His winger scored two. The dressing room might be splitting.

Luc typed back:

How many penalties has he scored in total?

The reply was immediate:

Six, confirmed but none of them count. It’s 2 goals clear in your favor from Open Play. Penalty merchant if you ask me — V

Luc put the phone into his pocket.

Six penalties. Spot kicks were being used as a way of covering up cracks, Fontaine knew it. It was the same midfield service - the same machine of a team that Paris Royal were. However, there was a difference in the star man.

The king stopped playing good football. He was surviving.

Luc was strolling toward the dressing room.

Six goals to four.

It wasn’t about the gap. The point was that somewhere in Paris, Olivier Fontaine was watching a man who had started from nothing, reach out and grab his ceiling.

And the ceiling was getting lower every week.