The wind didn't shift. The rain hadn't returned.
But the pressure did.
The second half began with a metronome's patience—Monaco pushing, prodding, searching for a crack that wasn't quite there yet.
52'
Evra tucked inside to overload the left half-space. Zikos played safe—then shifted the ball out wide to Cissé. One pass. Two. Then the switch. Bernardi stepped up late but found the angle.
Giuly took it clean on the bounce, pulled his man with a faint step-back, then punched the ball across the face of goal—knee height, driven.
It skipped past one defender.
Morientes lunged, but missed.
Bernardi followed late, leaned into it—
Blocked.
Off the line.
The crowd roared. Metz's bench stood. Demien didn't move.
He just watched Rothen gesture at the ref for a handball. None given.
The ball was already back in play.
59'
It came again. Fast, this time.
Cissé opened his shoulders under pressure and picked Rothen with a laser from the right channel to the left wing. The ball swerved through misty air. Rothen didn't take a touch. Just adjusted, stepped into it, curled a left-foot cross on the run.
Morientes made the run near post. Leapt early.
But the header snapped wide.
Not by much—but enough.
He landed heavy. Stayed crouched for half a breath longer than usual. Rain stuck to his sleeves. No gesture. No apology.
Just silence.
Demien's arms stayed folded, but his foot tapped once.
Then again.
66'
Zikos pushed too high—too quick.
A sloppy touch from Metz invited the trap. He went.
But they turned through it—one quick pass into the pivot. Evra had already started to press wide. Rodriguez hesitated, unsure whether to track in or hold shape.
Squillaci guessed wrong.
One touch, and Metz broke the line. Wide runner dragged Giuly back. Inside man sprinted free.
Rodriguez recovered late—slid and missed.
Demien stepped once toward the touchline. Stopped.
Michel was already up, gesturing for the bench to warm.
"Too many bodies too far forward," he muttered.
Demien didn't answer.
78'
It started with nothing.
A harmless clearance from Metz's keeper—high, long, not aimed, just out.
But Monaco's line stayed too high.
Zikos had drifted again. Rodriguez stepped out without cover. Squillaci didn't check behind.
The ball bounced once.
And then the Metz striker was through.
No angle. Just pace. Just space. Just a heavy breath ahead of everyone else.
Roma came out. Hard.
Too late.
The finish was low. Simple. Brutal.
1–0.
Saint-Symphorien exploded.
Metz's bench poured onto the touchline. Flags waved in the back rows.
Demien stood still.
Didn't shout.
Didn't kick the bottle.
Just shook his head once. Then turned.
The fourth official was already glancing his way.
Demien raised one finger. Then another.
"Get ready," he said to Michel, voice even.
Adebayor jogged down the touchline, pulling off his bib. Behind him, Sébastien Givet rose from the bench, tightening the tape around his wrists.
Morientes walked off slowly—no protest. Just tired legs.
Rodriguez followed, shirt untucked, boots soaked.
Demien clapped once. Not loud. Not demanding. Just final.
"Reset."
But no one heard it through the noise.
And the match rolled on.
83'
It broke ugly—how most last hopes did.
A deflected clearance off Zikos' shin, a scuffed half-volley by Giuly that cannoned into a wall of legs, and then the ball pinballed toward the penalty spot.
Adebayor didn't wait.
He burst between two defenders, lanky strides clumsy but honest, and toe-poked the loose ball through the chaos.
It struck someone's thigh—red or black, impossible to tell—and spun toward the bottom corner.
The Metz keeper flung himself sideways.
Block.
Ball out. Corner.
Demien didn't move. One hand gripped the dugout railing. No words, not even to Michel, who hovered just behind, eyes narrowed.
The fans roared like it was the final whistle. It wasn't. But it felt like it should've been.
88'
Corner came short. Routine.
Rothen rolled it back for Bernardi, who let it run across his body before swinging in the cross.
Too deep. Too soft.
Caught easily.
Demien's jaw clenched. Not from rage—but from what came next.
The Metz keeper didn't even drop to the grass to buy seconds. He launched it long—immediately. Testing Monaco's recovery.
The backline held, barely. Rodriguez headed clear.
But it wasn't control anymore. It was survival. Bare hands against rainfall.
90+2'
One last breath.
Free-kick drawn near the left touchline after Adebayor had been tugged off the ball.
Rothen stepped up. Shirt clinging to his spine. Hair matted to his temple.
He didn't wait for the wall to set.
Curled it early, aiming for the back post—one final question sent spinning through the night.
The Metz keeper punched.
Gloved fist. Clean. All distance. No second ball.
Whistle.
Real this time.
The stadium didn't erupt. No wild celebrations. Just a crashing of lungs from the Metz side, players collapsing into each other like men pulled from water.
On the other bench, Demien turned once, then stepped toward the tunnel.
Behind him, no one spoke.
The wind picked up again, dragging rain against the plastic roof above the dugouts.
It sounded like sandpaper across glass.
—
The locker room smelled of rain and something bitter underneath—like copper or tension.
Steam drifted from jerseys peeled halfway down torsos. Socks rolled off in silence. The clatter of studs against tile filled the gaps.
Demien walked in late.
No clipboard.
No coat.
His shirt still stuck to him, thin enough to see the outline of his shoulder blades as he moved.
He stopped in the center of the room and said nothing.
The silence expanded, filled the corners, climbed the lockers.
Then, low and exact:
"You think effort replaces execution?"
Nobody answered.
Giuly's head dropped. Morientes didn't even untie his boots.
Demien's eyes moved without haste. Stopped at Evra. Then Zikos. Then Cissé.
"All that running. All that pressing. And still—spacing errors. No second cover. No balance behind the line."
He turned, slow.
"Morientes."
The striker looked up.
"You pressed once in the second half. Once. And when we needed width, you stood in the same channel for seven minutes."
No shout. Just measurement.
The room stayed still.
Demien stepped back. Stood near the wall. Let the silence return.
Then—
"No rest. Five a.m. tomorrow. You'll play it until you feel it."
He looked up, made eye contact with no one and everyone.
"If you can't play it tired, you can't play it at all."
He didn't wait for reactions.
Just turned. Door open. Gone.
—
Night again.
Hotel suite. Monte-Carlo skyline long forgotten.
Demien sat in the glow of his laptop, the only light in the room. Shirt off. Hair still damp. He didn't reach for his notebook.
The screen played on mute—Lyon's last match, frozen frames of their 3–1 win.
He rewound. Watched the same 12-second clip for the third time.
Midfield press trigger. Left half-space overload.
Pause.
Play.
He didn't blink.
Just leaned forward.
Somewhere outside, the wind pulled at the balcony chair cushions.
Demien didn't hear it.