Monday, August 18 – La Turbie Training Ground
The sky over La Turbie looked washed out. Pale blue, nothing clean about it. As if even the Mediterranean light had been dulled by the back-page saturation.
"Monaco Finds Its Killer."
"Laurent's Silence, Morientes' Fire."
"Le Retour des Rouges."
Stacked newspapers fanned across the front counter at the staff entrance. Demien didn't look down as he passed them. Just pushed through the main doors without slowing. Behind him, someone from the kit team chuckled and held up a copy of Nice-Matin for the physio to see. It didn't matter. He didn't read them. Not when they praised. Not when they spat.
Outside, three reporters stood by the fencing near the player gate, one adjusting a camera strap, another scribbling on a notepad as if her access badge made it official. The questions came fast—more than usual. One in French. One in Spanish. One in clipped, hopeful English.
Demien didn't break stride.
Michel caught the look, nodded, and stepped forward without prompting.
"No comments today," Michel said, already walking between them. "Press availability later this week."
Demien was gone by then, boots already crunching over gravel toward pitch two.
_______
Clara arrived late.
Black slacks, cream blouse, press badge swinging gently against her hip. She paused at the entrance gate, glanced across the compound—and found him immediately. She didn't wave.
Demien felt it but didn't look. Not yet.
_____
Later, inside, the espresso machine hissed softly, the bitter scent curling through the corner of the staff lounge. He poured two shots, drank only one.
She stepped in without knocking.
"You won't talk to them," she said, voice low but firm.
He didn't turn. "They're not the ones listening."
Clara exhaled. The kind that wanted to fight but didn't know where the battlefield was yet.
She walked past him and slipped a folded clipping from L'Équipe into the inside pocket of his coat.
"Page six," she said.
He didn't check.
She left without another word.
______
Tuesday – Morning Session
The cones were already out. Two tight rondo squares, two holding grids beside them. No warm-up. No build. Just movement from the first whistle.
D'Alessandro was there.
Full kit. Shin guards strapped. Jaw tight. He moved well—too well. Too fast. The ball clung to him for an extra touch each time.
Demien watched from the sideline, arms folded.
The rondo stalled. Bernardi checked out wide. Giuly clipped it to the center. D'Alessandro tracked the pass and stepped into space—but the angle was reactive, late.
Demien's voice cut through the rhythm.
"Andrés."
D'Alessandro didn't look.
"Don't follow the ball."
A pause.
"Shape the space."
He still didn't look.
They restarted.
______
Ten minutes later, it broke again. The sequence reset. Same mistake—Andrés followed the second pass instead of directing the angle. Giuly's touch bounced. Cissé reached late. Rothen called out something under his breath.
Demien blew the whistle. Walked straight through the grid.
"Freeze it."
Players stopped. The ball rolled to a halt near Morientes' boot.
Demien crouched, dragged his hand across the grid's lines with one finger.
"Watch this shape," he said. "Now tell me what it does."
Silence.
Rothen mumbled, "Closes space?"
"No," Demien said.
He turned to D'Alessandro.
"It invites pressure. Because we're chasing, not dictating."
Still no praise. Still no nod.
Just the whistle again. The drill restarted.
______
Later, Rothen muttered something near the cooler. Something about double sessions. About "running drills into the ground."
Demien heard it.
He didn't call him out in front of the group.
He waited. Then walked beside him as the others shifted into hydration.
"We're not here to feel right," he said, voice low. "We're here to get it right."
Rothen didn't answer. Just drank the water. Then tightened his laces and jogged back to formation.
______
No one had scored today.
Not in drills. Not in games.
But that was fine.
Scoreline: Monaco 4 – Lyon 1.
Still printed fresh in every mouth, every paper, every step.
And Demien didn't want them forgetting it.
He wanted them questioning whether it was enough.
______
Wednesday – La Turbie, Demien's Office
The air conditioning buzzed too loud. Stone pushed the door shut with one hip, dropped the folder onto the edge of the desk, and stayed standing.
Demien didn't look up yet. His eyes were on a clipboard—player fatigue data from the last three matches layered with heat maps from training. Rothen's metrics had dropped six percent. Cissé's had risen by four.
"International call-ups," Stone said. "You've got four definite, two maybe."
Demien flipped the page.
"Giuly's on the fence," Stone added. "Knock from Lyon—France might hold him."
"Good," Demien said. "He'll sulk for a day, then train properly."
Stone leaned on the window ledge. "Alonso arrives Friday. Everything's cleared."
"His medical?"
"Booked. He'll miss Saturday. First full session Monday."
Demien nodded once. Still didn't look up.
"And the press?"
Stone hesitated.
Demien stopped writing.
"They want D'Alessandro. Headlines are already written."
He finally raised his eyes.
Stone shrugged. "You want me to run it?"
Demien stood. Moved to the edge of the desk. Didn't sit. Just unrolled a tactics sheet between them—Nice's last two matches, color-coded zones.
"I'll take it."
Stone gave a quiet chuckle. "That'll rattle them."
Demien glanced sideways. "Let them write what they want."
"Andrés'll see the coverage."
"Good," Demien said. "He should."
Stone looked at the corner of the desk—at the faded pen strokes, the edge worn soft from years of resting arms and unfinished formations. Then he gestured toward the stack of pre-written media talking points from the club PR team.
Demien didn't touch them.
At the press conference, he sat with his arms folded.
A reporter from L'Équipe asked the obvious question. When will D'Alessandro debut?
Demien didn't blink.
"He plays when the space fits him," he said, calmly. "Not when the cameras want him."
No follow-up. Just the snap of a pen clicking open to jot the quote.
______
Later That Night – La Turbie, Outer Pitch
The lights over pitch three cast long shadows across the lines. It was past ten. The sky had turned black enough to reflect nothing. The sprinklers had already finished their cycle. The air smelled like soaked chalk and rubber soles.
Demien walked the sideline in silence.
One cone in his right hand. Another tucked under his arm. The rest waited in a faded bucket near the touchline.
He stepped. Set the cone. Adjusted the angle slightly. Stepped again.
This wasn't a layout for the squad.
This was something else. A sketch in real space.
Half-press shape. Broken line. Isolation trap on the wide overload.
He placed each cone with precision, as if the grass could remember where they were by morning.
A car idled at the edge of the lot.
Inside, Clara watched through the windshield, headlights off. She hadn't texted. Hadn't called. She hadn't even meant to drive here.
But she didn't leave.
Demien crouched low for the final cone. Studied the angle between the last two. Shifted one six inches.
Then stood.
Straightened his back.
And turned toward the car.
He didn't squint.
She didn't wave.
The wind picked up near the trees, lifting a loose scrap of chalk dust into the light.
Demien walked back toward the bucket.
His boots tapped over the soaked turf.
Each step marked by nothing but space.