The ball moved in a blur against the grass.

It was a standard rondo, one-touch passing in a tight circle, designed to wake up cold muscles and sharpen reflexes before the real tactical work began. Luc stepped in to press, reading Cillian’s hips to anticipate the pass to the right.

He lunged to intercept, his weight shifting forward.

The pass didn’t go right. Cillian disguised it, snapping it left to Hugo.

Hugo didn’t even take a touch to control it. He met the ball perfectly with the inside of his right boot, redirecting its momentum instantly. The ball slipped cleanly through the narrow gap between Luc’s open legs before he could snap them shut.

A nutmeg! Clean, deliberate, and humiliating.

"That’s what you get for the Mateo birthday prank," Hugo said, his voice completely deadpan, not even breaking his rhythm as the rondo continued around the circle.

Cillian let out a sharp laugh, nearly missing the return pass. Idriss just shook his head, though the corner of his mouth tilted to a smile.

Luc stopped his pressing run and turned around, looking at the seventeen-year-old playmaker. He wasn’t angry. After the grinding pressure of the Paris Royal loss and the lingering ghost of Olivier Fontaine’s hat-trick, the sheer audacity of the kid was exactly what the morning needed.

"Fair," Luc said, jogging back into the center of the circle to resume his turn as the defender. "But do it again, and I’ll tell Juliette your ankle is flaring up."

"You wouldn’t dare. That’ll be a lie," Hugo said, a flicker of actual panic crossing his face.

"Try me."

The sharp sound of Henri’s whistle cut through the air, echoing across the training complex.

"Bring it in!" Henri shouted, standing near the center circle with his tactical whiteboard already out.

The squad broke their circles and jogged over, their breath pluming in white clouds. The mood was focused. The 5-3 loss to Paris Royal was still in their legs, but it hadn’t broken them. If anything, the realization that they could score three goals away against the league leaders had forged a new, sharper edge in the locker room.

Mateo stood at the front of the group, his arms crossed over his chest, the captain’s presence as massive as ever.

Henri uncapped his marker.

"Lyon B on Saturday," Henri said, drawing a quick, rough formation on the board. "Domestic cup. They lead Ligue Beta. They haven’t lost a match since September. And they play a very specific brand of football."

He tapped the board repeatedly in the midfield area.

"They play tiki-taka. Or at least, their manager thinks they do. They want possession. They will build from the back, short passes, numerical superiority in the midfield. They will try to make you chase shadows until you get frustrated and pull yourselves out of shape."

"So we press them high?" Cillian asked, bouncing on his toes to stay warm. "Choke them in their own box?"

"No," Luc said.

He hadn’t meant to interrupt the manager, but tactics were already unfolding in his head. Henri looked at him, lowering the marker, allowing Luc the floor without ego.

Luc stepped forward slightly. "If you press a possession team in their own box, you give them exactly what they want. You stretch our lines. They’ll use their keeper as an extra man, ping it over our first line of pressure, and suddenly Varela-- Sorry... whoever their equivalent is... has fifty yards of open grass to run into."

Bastien frowned. "So we just let them have the ball?"

"We let them have the ball where it doesn’t matter," Luc corrected. "Ligue Beta center-backs aren’t Barcharlona’s center-backs. They can pass, but they aren’t elite under pressure. We drop into a mid-block. Let their center-backs hold the ball at the halfway line. Make them think they control the game."

Hugo saw it instantly. "The trap."

"Exactly," Luc nodded at the kid. "We let them pass side to side. But the moment their center-back tries to play the vertical pass into their holding midfielder, that’s the trigger. We collapse on their midfielder from three sides. Me, Idriss, and Hugo. We win the ball in the transition when their fullbacks are already pushed high. Two passes, and we’re in on goal."

Mateo looked at Luc, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. The captain didn’t say anything, but the look communicated everything. ’You’re ready’

Henri nodded, capping his marker. "Beaumont is right. It’s a pressing trap. We don’t hunt the ball, we hunt the passing lane. If we execute, we don’t just beat them. We break their entire system."

[System Notification]

[Observation: Tactical command asserted. Locker room influence expanding.]

[Mateo’s departure still counting down. The vacuum is preparing to be filled.]

[No objective assigned]

Luc dismissed the blue text with a thought. The System was getting too observant about the team’s politics.

"Alright, let’s run it," Henri clapped his hands. "The players I assigned in the orange bibs. The rest in the blue. Blues, I want you playing like Lyon B. Hold the ball, be patient. Oranges, set the mid-block. Wait."

The team scattered to their positions.

Luc pulled an orange bib over his head and took his place up top alongside Idriss. The cold air felt good in his lungs. The lingering fatigue from Paris Royal was gone, scrubbed away by the Physical Conditioning Buffer and the sheer, uncomplicated joy of a tactical puzzle waiting to be solved.

The whistle blew. Piii

The blue team started circulating the ball. Edouard to Demirci. Demirci back to Edouard.

Luc held his ground. Idriss mirrored him, staying compact. Behind them, Hugo floated in the ten space, watching the blue team’s holding midfielder like a hawk.

They let the blue team pass. Ten passes. Fifteen passes.

"Patience," Luc shouted, pointing a finger at Cillian, who was looking eager to sprint out of the midfield line. "Hold the shape!"

Demirci, playing as the blue center-back just for the session, looked up. He saw the holding midfielder checking into a seemingly open pocket of space. It looked safe.

Demirci played the vertical pass.

"Now!" Luc yelled.

Luc dropped back instantly, cutting off the return pass. Idriss pinched in from the left, cutting off the wide escape. Hugo surged forward from the blind side, arriving at the holding midfielder exactly as the ball did.

The pressure was suffocating. The midfielder... Bastien, panicked, taking a heavy first touch.

Hugo didn’t tackle, he just picked the ball cleanly off the poor touch and immediately drove it forward. The blue team’s fullbacks were caught high up the pitch. The center of the defense was completely exposed.

Hugo didn’t need a second look. He slipped a perfectly weighted through-ball between the scrambling center-backs.

Luc was already on his run, his Blind Side Run Timing having triggered the moment Hugo won the ball. He met the pass in stride, took one touch to set himself, and buried it past the reserve keeper into the bottom corner.

Six seconds. From the moment the trap was sprung to the ball hitting the back of the net.

"Yes!" Mateo roared from the backline. "That’s it! That’s how we kill them!"

Luc jogged back to the center circle, tossing the ball back to the blue team. He looked over at Hugo, who was already resetting his position.

"Nice pass," Luc said.

"Don’t get used to it," Hugo replied dryly. "Next time I might just score myself."

Luc laughed, settling back into his defensive stance, knowing his favorite piece would always feed him the ball.