Thursday – La Turbie Training Ground
The cones from last night hadn't moved.
Some of the staff thought it strange. No one touched them. They stood where Demien had left them—sharp angles across pitch three, like fragments of a diagram too exact to erase.
By morning, the full squad was out. Wind light. Sun low. The pitch quiet, save for the sound of ball on boot and instructions snapped short across the grass.
Two tight triangles. Rotating lines. One drill.
Demien didn't speak for the first fifteen minutes. He stood on the sideline with arms behind his back, watching the pattern unfold like it was breathing. Midfielders circled each other. The ball moved, bounced, bit back.
Then Rothen bit too early.
Pressed high. Shouldered inside. The ball broke the line behind him with ease.
Bernardi turned to recover, but the channel was open. The press, undone.
Demien blew the whistle once. Sharp. Not loud.
Everyone stopped.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't call names.
He walked onto the pitch, stepped beside Rothen, and pointed toward the open space with two fingers.
"Don't chase the line."
A pause.
"Draw it."
Then he walked off. No more. The drill reset.
____
Ten minutes later, D'Alessandro made his move.
The triangle rotated too quickly. The pass into Cissé was heavy. Andrés stepped in—not lunging, just gliding—and swept it off his boot with a turn so subtle the defender didn't see it until it was gone.
A touch, then a pivot, then space.
The players paused for half a second. It was clean.
Demien turned his back before the move finished.
Walked toward the water rack.
Didn't say a word.
Andrés stood in shape. Waiting. No acknowledgment came.
No smile. No nod.
Just silence.
The drill continued.
_____
Post-Session – Locker Room
Steam hung low over the benches. Boots clattered. Shirts peeled off in slow rhythm. Nothing about the session had been loose. Even now, voices stayed low.
Demien walked through the middle. No clipboard. No scolding.
He stopped beside Morientes, who sat with one towel over his head and another wrapped around his waist.
"You don't need three," Demien said, not breaking stride.
"One will do next time."
Morientes didn't look up, just smirked beneath the towel.
"Then we'll be done faster."
Demien kept walking.
_____
Cool Down – Pitchside
While most of the squad hit the showers, Giuly and Adebayor stayed behind. Passing grid, 10-yard box. Short taps, one-touch rhythm. No commands. Just feel.
Giuly missed a cue. The ball rolled short, clipped off Adebayor's ankle and skidded wide.
Adebayor shrugged. Didn't stop smiling.
Demien walked past at a diagonal. No clipboard, hands tucked into his sleeves.
He called out mid-stride.
"You two better not switch wings if you're going to confuse yourselves."
They both laughed. Not loud. Just enough to feel like the week had cracked open, slightly.
First laughter since Sunday.
Demien didn't turn back.
Friday, August 22 – La Turbie HQ, 6:10 PM
The players filed into the tactical room in ones and twos, sweat still drying at their necklines. Some carried notebooks. Most didn't. A few—Giuly, Evra—brought nothing at all, just their boots unlaced and a slight limp to their step.
Demien stood at the board with a white piece of chalk already in hand.
The shape was already half-drawn: Nice in a mid-block, two flat lines in tight spacing, a sharp zigzag indicating their shifting fullbacks. Two markers above the second line, lightly smudged to show press triggers.
No one spoke.
D'Alessandro took a seat in the front row without hesitation. No pen. No fidgeting. He just watched. Eyelids heavy, posture locked.
Demien didn't call it a meeting. Didn't introduce it. He pointed to the board with the chalk.
"They push wide only when they have numbers behind. So we create overloads, then pull them in."
He tapped twice where the fullback collapses. Another time at the edge of the middle third.
"We give them space. We take their shape."
He turned, scanned the squad.
"Play into their hands and you'll get fouled. Draw them out and you'll get behind."
Cissé raised a hand. "And if they don't bite?"
Demien's reply came without pause.
"They will. They always do."
He moved to the left side of the board, began outlining Monaco's rotations, sliding midfield arcs, fullback reversals. He didn't name players. Just zones. Lines. Timings.
Giuly leaned forward, one ankle over the other, eyes following every chalk stroke like it was a riddle.
Near the back, Adebayor scribbled into a folded sheet of paper.
When Demien finished, he stepped back.
"Rothen. Stay."
The others stood, collecting bottles and boots. The rustle of movement filled the room, a current of sweat and silence.
Rothen lingered by the board, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Demien didn't step closer. He just nodded toward the edge of the left channel on the sketch.
"They're going to double you early," he said. "Before the ball's even on your side."
Rothen's mouth tensed. "You want me to check inside?"
"No," Demien said.
"Don't look over your shoulder."
A beat.
"Make them look over theirs."
Rothen nodded once. Not forced. Just enough.
Demien picked up the eraser and wiped the board clean.
Later – Coach's Office, 9:23 PM
The hall was empty.
Down the corridor, someone had left a radio on low, but the sound didn't carry into the room.
Inside, the lights were half-dimmed, the only glow coming from the chalkboard on the wall. Demien sat in a chair pulled too far forward, legs planted, sleeves rolled.
He was drawing again.
Not a full formation—just fragments.
A trailing run from the ten. A broken midfield diamond. A press reset line near the halfway circle.
He drew one more arrow—cutting from the edge of the right channel into the penalty area.
He paused.
Then he crossed it out.
Not messy. Not angry.
Just clean. One line through.
He turned the page on the clipboard.
The next sheet was blank.
At the top, in black ink, one printed label:
"Saturday – The Debut?"
He stared at it.
Didn't write.
Didn't move.