FC Côte d’Azur were in the wrong kind of confidence when they went to play at Stade Valois.

They were a decent side 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 post-match interviews and used the term "game management" as though it was a personality.

Most importantly, they had seen the videos of Luc.

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 left channel."

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 scouted you," Juliette said without looking up from her own notes at the kitchen table.

"I know."

"That means Saturday will be a no go night on the left channel," 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’re looking at my left foot their right back is going to be a nervous wreck for 90 minutes, and a nervous right back makes mistakes."

He put the cup aside.

"I’ll just not score with it, but I’ll use it."

---

[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 checked the notification, his amusement and resignation intermingled.

"Well, it guess TES wants me to score with my right foot too."

He was of course left-footed. His right was working. Clinical, but not his weapon of choice, in short bursts.

Fine. He’d 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]

---

Friday. The previous 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.

No lights on. Only the orange light of the lamps around the pitch. He was at the eighteen-yard-line, and was on the right side of the box with a ball in his hands. "Simple angles. Driven low. Inside the post."

His right foot was clogged. Less intuitive. Every time he hit it was like hitting 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 his ball at his feet and he knocked it towards the near 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 inner edge at the last minute."

Luc lowered his head to his feet. He considered this.

"Again," Hugo said.

Luc put another ball in. Made adjustments to the plant foot. Four inches inward.

He struck it.

Inside the post. Clean.

The net seemed to move with a resigned acceptance.

Hugo nodded, without even so much as a sound. He then faced in the other direction and returned to the facility. "Remember to be here at the usual time tomorrow."

Luc just watched the kid for a long while as he departed.

His age was 17. He could only speak 20 words a day, according to his teammates. Luc thought they were bullying him slightly. But Hugo saw angles in the dark that most coaches didn’t see in the light.

Luc placed another ball down and once more corrects his foot.

---

Saturday. Matchday 6. Stade Valois.

The sun was scarce and scanty. Cold but dry. The ground was firm and ideal for short passing football.

Côte d’Azur set up in a 4-5-1. During the warm-up, the right-back of 26-years of age, Farès was already monitoring Luc’s position. Keeping an eye on the left foot. The left channel. He knew what he wanted, because he knew his homework.

Luc saw him seeing him.

He was doing nothing interesting on the left for the first 25 minutes.

He drifted. He dropped. He started to move towards the right flank. He was followed each time by Farès, who ate the distance and was too aggressive, out of his zone.

Minute 26. On the left side, Lacombe kept the ball up high.

Farès took three automatic steps across to cover.

The room that was created was abrupt and sterile.

Mateo hit the ball at a 45 degree angle to Luc on the right side of the penalty box. It wasn’t his typical side.

The right center back came to close in quick.

Luc didn’t wait. His plant foot 4 inches inward. Hip through. Defender not present yet.

He hit it.

Right foot. Low. Hard. Inside the post.

Net.

1-0.

---

Stade Valois had been waiting for that all season. It was not Rive’s ecstasy nor Nantaise’s shock that created relief in the stands. It was something else that was calmer. More earned.

Luc was not all show anymore, he didn’t celebrate dramatically. He turned and saw Hugo half way up the line. He directed his finger at him once.

Hugo responded with a brief sideways gesture of his head.

That was enough.

---

But Côte d’Azur equalized in the 51st minute after the ball was deflected by Blažek, who was able to palm it with his hand, but unable to keep it out of the net. It bounced off, kissed the keeper on the 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 built something magnificent like a cathedral.

The SC Valois bench was very silent.

Henri began to pace.

Luc didn’t pace. He was mulling over Farès.

The right back had been given time to come back after the goal. The scouting report was sufficient. But the American was also a menace on the right.

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 conditioned. Salivating. Already preparing a pocketing.

Luc’s froze in his stride.

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

Luc received a short square 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. Hard. Across the face.

Mateo came out of the midfield. He was on a menacing run and came in at full pace. He had been doing it all season that, coming late, unmarked and too fast for a goalkeeper to track.

He didn’t even have to think. 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.

"You fucking Yankee!", Mateo spat out.

It was 14 minutes later when the final whistle sounded. But before that SC Valois remained steadfast, dirty, organized and 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 outside the tunnel in the cold air, strip still on, scarf someone had thrown from the stands around his neck.

There was a text from Valérie.

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

Luc typed back.

How many penalties has he scored in total?

The reply was immediate.

Six. All confirmed. None of them count. It’s 2 goals clear in your favor from Open Play.

— 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 engine.

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.