Friday Morning – La Turbie Training Ground
It was just past nine, but the sun had already baked the sideline boards until they gave off that faint, metallic smell of heat on paint. Somewhere in the distance, sprinklers ticked softly, washing over the far side of the secondary pitch. No one was using it today. All drills were compressed. Narrow space. High intensity.
The main squad had just finished the final segment—five-zone shape rotation, done with uneven teams. Giuly and Plašil pressed like madmen. Morientes held ground between four cones without ever receiving the ball. Adebayor got kicked twice and still managed to draw the smile out of Rothen during cooldown.
Demien stood alone near the tactical shed. Not leaning. Just watching.
Behind him, cleats scraped the stone corridor as players filtered out toward the showers. A few low laughs, nothing loud. The session had burned enough energy to mute the ego. That's how Demien preferred it.
He didn't turn when he heard footsteps on gravel. Didn't need to.
"It's done," Michael Stone said, coming to a stop beside him. His tie was gone. Sleeves rolled. Eyes bloodshot from whatever flight or meeting had dragged him through the week.
Demien's gaze didn't shift. He was still watching the cones. The spacing.
"Xabi's camp said yes. One-point-five million loan fee. Buy clause at eight."
A short pause. Then:
"He'll be ready for medicals Monday."
Stone sounded like he'd been holding that line for three days, polishing it in hotel lobbies and terminal lounges.
Demien nodded. Just once.
"Make sure he arrives quiet," he said.
Stone raised an eyebrow.
Demien finally looked at him.
"He'll speak with the ball."
Stone gave a tired grin. "I'll tell the photographers to lose their batteries."
Demien didn't smile. Just turned back to the pitch, one hand brushing a loose cone with the tip of his shoe. Resetting it by instinct.
Midweek Flashback – Spain, Two Days Earlier
It had been raining in San Sebastián. Not pouring—just the soft, insistent kind that soaked through shoes and made umbrellas feel performative.
Michael Stone stood outside Real Sociedad's training offices, collar turned up, leather portfolio pressed against his ribs. He looked more like a broker than a football exec, but that was part of the design. Monaco didn't want to look desperate.
Xabi Alonso's agent arrived five minutes late, but polite. No showmanship. Just a firm shake and the kind of handshake that told Stone he was dealing with someone who read the room fast.
"We've had Wolfsburg contact us," the agent said after coffee arrived. "Strong offer. Bundesliga minutes. Salary guaranteed."
Stone didn't blink.
"We're not offering minutes," he said. "We're offering vision."
The agent tilted his head, unimpressed.
"Ligue 1 isn't La Liga."
Stone leaned in. "But Champions League is."
That landed.
Then the next play: "You've seen the midfield. Cissé's not permanent. Bernardi's aging. This boy won't be part of a rotation. He is the rhythm."
Silence stretched.
The director stepped in, cautious but open. "What about the purchase clause?"
"Eight million," Stone replied. "And we won't blink twice come June."
The agent didn't agree then. But his pen stayed uncapped the rest of the meeting.
La Turbie – Friday, August 15, 2003
The drills had ended fifteen minutes ago, but the heat still hung low over the pitch like steam rising off tarmac. Shinguards sat discarded in lines near the benches. The sprinklers hadn't been turned on yet. The grass was thirsty.
Most of the players had already disappeared into the tunnel—shirts plastered to their backs, studs clacking against stone. Some muttered under their breath. Some didn't speak at all. The morning had been short, sharp, and unforgiving. Every transition drill bled into the next. No recovery between sets. The margin was deliberate.
Demien stayed behind.
He crouched near the far sideline, left foot planted, right knee pressed to the turf. The cone in front of him was slightly off-center—half-pushed during a high press drill where Giuly had slid too wide. Demien didn't reset it for symmetry. He pressed two fingers into the grass around it, felt the earth below.
It was damp. Not from water. From pressure. From boots digging into it, over and over again, chasing ghosts and passing shadows.
Michael Stone stood a few paces behind him. No clipboard, no phone. Just him, arms folded, jacket slung over one shoulder. His shoes were still too polished for the dirt around the shed, but at least now he wore them like they were meant to get scuffed.
Stone looked up toward the stands. Mid-row, right side.
Andrés D'Alessandro sat alone, legs crossed, arms folded, sunglasses on. Not leaning forward. Not slouched. Just still. Watching. Like he wasn't there to learn but to evaluate. It wasn't arrogance. It was something colder. Sharper.
Stone exhaled softly through his nose.
"Think they'll gel?"
The words fell into the quiet like a test balloon.
Demien didn't react at first. He kept his hand pressed to the grass, eyes fixed on the shape of the cone grid. Then, without looking up, he spoke.
"If they don't," he said, voice flat, "we'll make them."
He rose slowly, brushing his hands against his thighs. No dirt. No rush.
Stone nodded once. "You want him integrated before Sunday?"
Demien finally looked at him. "No. He trains with the group Monday."
"Even if Xabi's not here yet?"
"He'll see the space first. Then we fit him into it."
Stone raised an eyebrow. "And the others?"
"They'll adjust."
It wasn't optimism. It was instruction.
A gust of wind pushed through the trees behind the far fence, stirring the upper branches. The flags near the admin building flapped once, then settled again. For a moment, everything held still.
Demien turned, walking back toward the tactical shed, past the scattered cones and worn ground. He didn't call for staff. Didn't signal for the youth players lingering near the benches. He just kept walking, head down, coat unzipped now, one hand tapping lightly against his thigh like the rhythm of the morning hadn't left him yet.
Stone stayed behind a few seconds longer. He looked again at the figure in the stands—still unmoving, still watching—and then back at the empty pitch.
One architect on the field.
Another in the stands.
And a plan that had to make them more than just names.
Then he turned and followed.
Saturday Evening – Lyon, August 16, 2003
The bus pulled into the hotel's underground car park just after 3:30 p.m.
There were no fans outside. No banners. Just the usual low whirr of traffic three floors above and the mechanical wheeze of the security gate closing behind them. The players moved off in pairs—some stretching their legs, some rubbing their necks after the four-hour ride. The concierge had the keys pre-arranged. Luggage was handled with silent efficiency.
Demien didn't say a word during check-in. Just nodded when handed his room folder and walked straight to the elevator, shoulder brushing lightly against the door frame as he entered. The mirrored interior reflected tired faces behind him—Cissé yawning, Givet squinting at his watch, Giuly pressing the button for the fifth floor like it had personally wronged him.
No one asked about the match yet. That was for morning.
By early evening, the hotel lobby had emptied. Some players disappeared into their rooms. Others wandered to the lounge for water, cards, TV. Demien stayed behind. He had a habit of walking before matchday—not a ritual, not superstition. Just distance. A way to let the noise bleed out before it started again.
He left the side door in a black polo and plain slacks, no jacket, no club crest. The summer air in Lyon had a faded warmth to it—still enough sun to dry the sidewalks, but the edges had cooled. The city buzzed gently, like it was resting between pulses.
Three blocks away, past a row of shuttered cafés and narrow-laned boulangeries, Demien turned left onto a residential street. Then he stopped.
Voices. Laughter. The unmistakable scuff of rubber soles against concrete.
A small park opened up behind a row of parked cars—barely a pitch, more like an alley widened by urban accident. The fence had rust spots. The surface was torn up in the corners. No nets on the goals, just frames. One of the corner flags was a broken broomstick. But there was rhythm.
Ten bodies. Maybe twelve. A blur of limbs, movement, color.
And at the center of it—Giuly, barefoot, darting between two boys half his size, laughing.
Further back, Adebayor had a sock pulled over one hand like a glove, holding it up like it was a yellow card as he argued a foul with a grinning teenager. Rothen was in goal, knees bent, arms wide, still in his white compression shirt from travel. He shouted at one of the local kids—half-joking, half-serious—then immediately got nutmegged by a boy in jeans who couldn't have been older than ten.
Demien stepped closer.
They hadn't seen him yet.
One of the local teens called out something in French—mocking, fast, affectionate. Giuly responded with a shoulder feint and a sudden burst of pace, chasing a loose ball near the side rail. He slipped, caught himself, then flicked the ball behind his heel straight into Adebayor's path.
"Encore! Encore!" someone shouted from the side.
The play kept going.
Demien folded his arms. Didn't move.
He watched as Pršo arrived late, jogged onto the pitch still holding a bottle of water, and was immediately tackled by two grinning boys who didn't care that he was six-foot-three. Evra stood on the fence line, arms draped over the rail, calling fouls for neither team.
A voice called out.
"Coach!"
It came from one of the kids. Maybe eight, maybe younger—face lit up, cheeks flushed.
Demien didn't react immediately.
Then—just a flicker. A grin, small and sharp, barely a crease at the edge of his mouth.
He stepped forward. Dropped his coat at the sideline.
"Alright," he said, walking onto the concrete, eyes scanning the loose chaos. "Let's see if you lot can defend without a clipboard."
Giuly whooped. The game didn't pause—it just widened to let him in.
And just like that, the lines between teams blurred.
Coach and players, kids and professionals, noise and silence—all of it gone.
Just ball.
Just space.
Just play.