Football: I Scored a Hat-Trick Against Real Madrid at 17 Chapter 94 94: Securing the Second Fortress!

Ti seed to freeze inside the PGE Arena.

For a fraction of a second after the ball violently shattered the net, the entire stadium descended into absolute silence.

The French supporters stretched their necks, an expression of profound horror slowly spreading across their faces.

Conversely, the Spanish fans transitioned from stunned disbelief into absolute, unadulterated hysteria.

"SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!"

The roar detonated with the force of a physical explosion.

The broadcast booth violently reawakened.

The Spanish comntator fully demonstrated his terrifying lung capacity. He held his first "GOAL" for a solid ten seconds, took a massive, shuddering breath, and imdiately continued.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"

On the French broadcast, the comntators were deeply despondent.

"We've conceded... It is an absolutely unstoppable wonder goal. An earth-shattering volley from Carter..."

"In this torrential rain, long-range shots are inherently dangerous. But the velocity and the trajectory of that strike were mathematically flawless. Even if it was perfectly dry, Lloris wouldn't have saved that..."

"It is entirely confird now. Vicente del Bosque is intentionally utilizing Carter as Spain's primary executioner for this tournant!"

"False 9? This is essentially a 'striker dropping deep into defensive midfield' formation..."

The entire stadium was captivated by the absolute violence of the strike.

Ignoring the driving rain, Vicente del Bosque abandoned his covered dugout, his prominent belly bouncing as he sprinted out to the touchline to celebrate with his staff.

Fifty yards away, Laurent Blanc slowly lowered his head, his expression incredibly grim.

He glanced sideways at Del Bosque.

He was suddenly struck by the exact sa horrifying realization that Cesare Prandelli had experienced during the group stage.

Are you seriously using legendary, generational midfielders like Andrés Iniesta, Cesc Fàbregas, and David Silva purely as tactical decoys... just to create shooting space for an eighteen-year-old kid?!

That is an unbelievably arrogant, luxurious use of talent.

Or, to put it another way...

Just how terrifying is this kid's fundantal talent for Del Bosque to justify making that tactical decision?

Blanc ntally replayed the volley in his head.

A wry, helpless smile briefly flickered across his face.

It was an unsolvable equation.

He genuinely believed that if you gave Carter that exact sa setup ten more tis in this weather, he likely wouldn't strike it with the sa flawless biochanical perfection again.

Wonder goals inherently involve a microscopic elent of luck.

But a goal was a goal.

Blanc imdiately stepped to the edge of his technical area and gestured frantically for Franck Ribéry.

"Intensify the press! Hunt them down!" Blanc ordered violently. "The rain is too heavy; they cannot control the ball perfectly! Force the turnover!"

Ribéry nodded rapidly.

When the score was 0-0, France could afford to sit back, remain calm, and wait for Spain to make an unforced error.

But down 1-0, patience was a luxury they no longer possessed. They had to actively initiate the pressure.

Naturally, this involved massive tactical risk. If they pressed high, they inherently exposed the space behind their defensive line. Considering almost every single Spanish player possessed elite long-range passing capabilities, exposing that space was terrifying.

But risk and reward are forever intertwined in football.

Having conceded first, France was out of options. They had to attack.

Up in the ESPN broadcast booth, Ian Darke and Taylor Twellman were absolutely stunned.

After a solid minute of repeating the words "unbelievable" and "incomprehensible," they finally regained their analytical composure.

"Carter breaks the deadlock with an absolutely breathtaking strike! The tactical burden now shifts entirely onto the shoulders of Laurent Blanc and the French National Team..."

"Historically, Spain is the most dangerous team on the planet when playing with a lead. However..." Twellman paused, looking out at the sky. "These are not historical conditions. The rain is actually intensifying."

Splash. Splash. Splash.

The downpour continued relentlessly.

The internet match threads were completely lting down.

"BRO. WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL WAS THAT STRIKE?!"

"With that kind of finishing technique... why is he playing as a defensive midfielder?! Just put him up top as a striker!"

"Nah, midfield is perfect for him. He gets to dictate the entire ga. He's a natural-born focal point."

"Imagine being an 18-year-old kid, and your designated backup dancers are Xabi Alonso, Xavi, and Iniesta..."

Fans around the world stared at their screens, absolutely srized by the replays of the goal showing the water violently exploding off the net.

Within minutes, GIFs and clips of the goal had completely taken over global social dia trends.

Everyone was so captivated by the aesthetic violence of the strike that nobody had even ntioned the most terrifying statistic yet:

That was Carter's fifth goal of the European Championship.

On the TF1 broadcast in France, legendary comntator Christian Jeanpierre sat in the booth, his expression profoundly grave.

Sitting beside him as guest analysts were two of the most iconic figures in French football history.

Zinedine Zidane and Lilian Thuram.

"Spain's tactical blueprint is aggressively transparent. They are utilizing their superior possession to artificially manufacture space for long-range shots. Carter and Xabi Alonso had already attempted several strikes before the goal..." Jeanpierre noted.

Zidane shook his bald head slowly.

"Our defenders are being entirely suppressed by their three forwards... if you can even call them forwards. Regardless of their positional title, they are pinning our backline extrely deep."

Thuram chid in. "We must push forward and initiate a high press. The weather conditions heavily favor us. Ribéry and Benzema possess elite finishing capabilities; we cannot simply abandon our offensive potential."

Zidane nodded in agreent. His eyes, however, were intensely focused on the Spanish number 15.

Recently, the managerial position for the Real Madrid U19 squad had been a massive, chaotic revolving door.

When it was publicly revealed that Carter had previously played in the Real Madrid academy and was let go, club president Florentino Pérez had been absolutely furious. Seeing the U19 setup physically enraged him.

He had summarily fired two consecutive youth coaches.

The U19 managerial role had essentially beco a toxic, radioactive position.

Left with absolutely no other viable options, Zinedine Zidane—who currently served as a club ambassador while completing his coaching licenses—was essentially forced into taking the job.

When Zidane eventually learned the full context of how Carter was expelled over a minor, petty conflict with a youth coach, he legitimately wanted to murder soone.

How phenonally blind do you have to be to let a generational talent like that walk out the door over a stupid argunt?

However, Zidane was a pragmatic man. He realized it was likely destiny.

Honestly, if Carter had stayed at Real Madrid, he would probably still be rotting in the Castilla (B-Team). There was absolutely zero chance José Mourinho would have integrated an academy teenager into the first team over his established superstars.

Zidane turned back to his microphone. "Carter is unequivocally their primary offensive threat. If I were Laurent Blanc, I would imdiately assign a man-marker to completely neutralize him. A pure 1-vs-1 sacrifice."

"A sacrificial man-mark?" Jeanpierre looked slightly surprised. "You an entirely dedicating one player to shadow Carter? That is incredibly pragmatic."

Zidane shrugged slightly. "The only issue is... I'm not entirely sure we have anyone capable of successfully neutralizing him."

The kid's close control and dribbling are simply too terrifying.

As play resud, Spain, heavily emboldened by the goal, imdiately initiated an aggressive high press.

While the three "forwards" (Silva, Fàbregas, Iniesta) were relatively diocre at traditional striker duties, their ability to execute a coordinated, suffocating midfield press was genuinely world-class.

They were absolute experts at manipulating space and severing passing lanes.

Under imnse pressure from the Spanish trio, the ball was forced out to French left-back Patrice Evra.

The exact second Evra received the ball, he realized he was trapped.

Passing backward to his center-backs or the goalkeeper was practically suicidal given the intense Spanish pressure and the flooded pitch.

His only viable option was to play it forward.

But...

If he launched a desperate long ball, Benzema would be forced into a physical aerial duel against Sergio Ramos, and Ribéry would have to challenge Gerard Piqué.

The legendary Manchester United captain didn't like those odds.

So, he chose the hardest option.

He decided to carry it himself.

Evra executed a brilliant body feint, instantly dropping his shoulder and exploding forward.

Iniesta's legs simply didn't possess the necessary burst speed to catch the French veteran.

Evra aggressively carried the ball directly across the halfway line.

"Evra breaks the press! Brilliant run! France is finally launching a sustained attack!"

As the comntator shouted, Evra slightly lifted the ball with his instep, bypassing the flooded turf entirely, and launched a perfectly weighted, chest-high pass toward Karim Benzema.

Benzema was currently locked in a brutal physical wrestling match with Sergio Ramos.

The two Real Madrid teammates were engaging in absolute warfare.

Benzema gritted his teeth, perfectly utilizing his massive fra to physically shield Ramos off the ball. He brought the pass down flawlessly off his chest.

He held the ball up perfectly.

Benzema was incredibly proud of his elite hold-up play. It was exactly why he deeply resented José Mourinho constantly utilizing him as a backup for Gonzalo Higuaín at Real Madrid.

Can Higuaín do this? Benzema thought bitterly.

Sure, Higuaín scores goals. But can he link up with Cristiano Ronaldo like I can? Isn't the entire point of the striker position right now to facilitate Ronaldo?!

Benzema shook his head. At least in the French National Team, he didn't have to compete with Higuaín.

He only had to compete with Olivier Giroud.

Can a Honda Civic outrace a Ferrari?

Please.

Shielding the ball expertly from Ramos, Benzema scanned the pitch.

Franck Ribéry was aggressively cutting inside from the left flank, accelerating violently into the space Benzema had created.

In that fleeting mont, looking at Ribéry's run, Benzema's brain automatically superimposed the image of Cristiano Ronaldo.

Perfect timing! Right here!

Benzema executed a flawless, perfectly weighted lay-off pass directly into Ribéry's path.

Ribéry arrived at full speed, perfectly aligning his body for a massive, first-ti strike.

He swung his boot through the ball.

Thwack!

The ball flew wildly over the crossbar.

Benzema sighed heavily.

The illusion of Cristiano Ronaldo instantly evaporated, replaced by the scarred, rugged face of Franck Ribéry.

Ribéry possessed phenonal speed, elite dribbling, and incredible playmaking vision.

But he had never been an elite, high-volu goalscorer.

While Ronaldo had successfully transitioned from a traditional winger into an utterly lethal, goal-scoring inside forward, Ribéry fundantally remained a traditional winger.

He had correctly identified the tactical space and made the perfect run, but his final execution was drastically lacking.

"Ribéry... fires it high into the stands! But Spain must remain vigilant. In these conditions, any shot from outside the box is a massive threat."

Ribéry spat onto the wet grass, gave Benzema an apologetic thumbs-up, and muttered a string of incredibly vulgar northern French profanities under his breath.

The broadcast transitioned to an aerial, tactical cara angle.

The rain continued to fall in relentless sheets.

As Casillas prepared to take the goal kick, France fully committed to the high press. They aggressively pushed their entire formation into the Spanish half.

They were turning up the temperature.

Casillas placed the ball on the six-yard line.

Piqué and Ramos imdiately split wide to the edges of the penalty area to offer short passing options.

However, Ribéry and Benzema were standing directly on the eighteen-yard line, coiled like springs. The absolute millisecond Casillas played a short pass to a center-back, they would violently attack.

Casillas refused to launch a blind long ball.

He locked eyes with Carter.

Carter aggressively dropped deep, sprinting directly toward his own penalty area to demand the ball.

French midfielder Yohan Cabaye was tracking him closely, shadowing him step-for-step.

Seeing the intense pressure on Carter, Casillas hesitated for a fraction of a second.

But ultimately, he decided to trust his orchestrator.

Casillas drove a hard, incredibly fast ground pass directly down the center of the pitch toward Carter, intentionally hitting it with extra velocity to ensure it didn't get stuck in a puddle.

"Casillas plays out from the back... Carter drops to receive, but Cabaye is breathing right down his neck!"

The comntator's voice spiked in pitch.

"Take him out!" French fans scread at their televisions.

Seeing the ball accelerating toward Carter, Cabaye instantly accelerated, fully committing to an aggressive, sliding interception. He wasn't worried about conceding a foul.

This was deep in the Spanish defensive third. If he committed a foul, it was a simple free kick. But if he sohow won the ball cleanly... it was an imdiate, 1-on-1 goal-scoring opportunity.

It was a massively favorable risk-to-reward ratio.

Fueled by that logic, Cabaye launched himself violently across the wet grass.

"Watch your back!" Ian Darke scread from the booth.

Several Spanish players yelled warnings.

Carter appeared completely oblivious to the impending violence. He maintained his exact rhythm, jogging forward to et the pass.

But the absolute microsecond before Cabaye's sliding tackle made contact...

Carter delicately slipped the toe of his right boot under the rapidly approaching ball.

With a microscopic flick of his ankle, he popped the ball straight up into the air.

The ball floated beautifully, tracing a delicate, miniature rainbow directly over Cabaye's sliding body.

Simultaneously, Carter executed a completely weightless, liquid spin, seamlessly pirouetting around the sliding Frenchman.

"MAGNIFICENT! ABSOLUTELY BREATHTAKING FOOTWORK!"

The crowd gasped audibly.

Having flawlessly bypassed the tackle, Carter smoothly collected the descending ball, took a massive touch forward, and violently accelerated into the vacant midfield.

"He single-handedly shatters the French high press!"

The French forwards, suddenly realizing they had been completely bypassed, instantly panicked and initiated a desperate, chaotic sprint backward.

The entire French defensive structure naturally violently contracted to contain Carter's terrifying solo drive.

Up in the TF1 booth, Zinedine Zidane subconsciously rubbed his bald head.

Is this kid secretly Brazilian? he wondered in sheer disbelief.

The absolute fluidity of the movent, the terrifying composure under pressure, the sheer, unadulterated street-football audacity...

It reminded him vividly of a certain buck-toothed Brazilian he used to play alongside at Real Madrid.

"It's fine! Don't panic!" Lilian Thuram said quickly, trying to calm the deeply anxious French viewers. "He is playing with absolute fire in a highly dangerous area. He succeeded this ti, but he cannot consistently execute that maneuver. If he fails once, Spain is dead!"

Zidane didn't share Thuram's optimism.

Because the tactical reality on the pitch was currently catastrophic for France.

Please God, do not let him execute the final pass... Zidane prayed silently.

The thought had barely formulated before a second, infinitely larger rainbow appeared in the Polish sky.

Having drawn the entire French defense centrally, Carter launched a magnificent, sweeping, sixty-yard diagonal long ball out to the right flank.

Zidane imdiately closed his mouth.

Across France, thousands of fans were undoubtedly screaming at their televisions, blaming Zidane for jinxing them.

Thuram opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words.

From their tactical vantage point, the sheer devastation of the pass was explicitly clear. It was perfectly weighted for Andrés Iniesta, who had already initiated a full sprint down the right wing.

Iniesta wasn't inherently fast, but he had anticipated the pass perfectly.

By the ti the French defenders tracked the flight of the ball, they realized with absolute horror that there wasn't a single blue shirt within ten yards of the Spanish magician.

"Iniesta! He brings it down flawlessly! He is driving directly into the penalty area!"

French center-back Philippe xès had no choice. He desperately rushed across the box to confront Iniesta 1-on-1.

Against an elite dribbler like Iniesta, recklessly rushing in is practically a death sentence.

Iniesta aggressively dropped his shoulder, feinting a drive toward the byline. As xès committed his weight, Iniesta instantly dragged the ball back inside onto his left foot and unleashed a vicious, near-post strike.

Hugo Lloris's montum was already carrying him in the opposite direction.

He could only watch in sheer agony as the ball zipped past him and violently struck the back of the net.

Who said midfielders couldn't play as forwards?

Iniesta initiated a massive, water-logged knee slide toward the corner flag.

The Spanish players completely lost their minds.

The French players buried their faces in their hands.

In the span of roughly ten minutes...

Spain had secured their second fortress!

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