Boots scraped against short grass, cleats clicking as players divided into two sides. The sun hung lower now, turning the pitch to liquid gold where light still touched it. Shadows stretched across the half-field setup—cones precisely arranged, mini-goals positioned at either end, tension crackling in the air like static before lightning.
Michel walked with clipboard under arm, calling names with military precision.
"Evra. Plasil. Zikos. Nonda. Left bibs." He pointed toward the half already marked with red cones.
"Giuly. Rothen. El Fakiri. Adebayor. Right side."
No protests. His tone permitted none.
Evra tugged the red bib over his chest like armor, adjusting shin pads with practiced hands. Across the pitch, Giuly bounced on his toes, flashing Rothen a grin loaded with predatory anticipation.
Demien remained at the edge, arms folded behind his back. The posture belonged to Yves—calm, silent, watchful. But inside, tension coiled in his chest like a wound spring. His heart beat steady but tight. Ready. He'd never coached at this level. Never guided players whose faces graced magazine covers. Never instructed a defender who would someday captain Manchester United.
He'd been the player once. Forgotten. Now he was the one they glanced at from beneath lowered brows, whispering behind cupped hands.
The ball rolled. Whistle pierced the air. Match began.
Evra's team held shape initially, pressing in organized banks. Zikos sat deep covering second balls. Plasil floated between gaps, tracking Giuly whenever he drifted inside. On the opposite side, Giuly never stopped moving, constantly pulling the back line just wide enough to create hesitation.
Rothen complicated things. Too eager, driving forward, leaving acres of space behind. Demien saw the problem before the second pass even connected.
Too much space between midfield and defense. The gap widened further on the next break.
Giuly exploited it—slipping the ball through Rothen's abandoned channel. Adebayor turned, laid it back across goal. Wide this time.
Evra barked something in French, sharp and authoritative. The defensive unit tightened under his command, a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Demien didn't move. Just watched. Hands still clasped.
A shape problem. Not Evra's to fix. The midfield's chase instinct is causing it.
Second phase. Another turnover. Zikos strayed too far forward. Giuly peeled inside. Adebayor drifted back post. The formation fractured in nearly identical fashion.
Twice now. The same mistake.
Michel muttered something to the strength coach beside him. His expression remained neutral, but Demien caught how his eyes cut sharply across the line.
Time to intervene.
Demien stepped forward during a reset as water bottles circulated and players regrouped.
"Bernardi," he called—quiet but firm.
The midfielder turned, surprised to be singled out.
Demien tilted his head toward the sideline. As Bernardi jogged over, Demien leaned in, voice controlled and low.
"You're pressing on instinct. Hold the line with Zikos instead. Stay closer to the centerbacks on second balls. Let them pull you wide if they want. Don't chase when you're last man."
Bernardi nodded once. No hesitation. Just focused clarity.
Demien tapped his shoulder lightly—a single touch—and sent him back.
Michel watched from twenty feet away, eyebrow arched. Said nothing.
Play resumed. Bernardi stayed home during the break. Intercepted Adebayor's return pass. Fed Zikos quickly. Ball moved out wide. Two touches. Giuly closed late. Cross cut inside. Nonda hammered it low, first-time.
Net rippled.
Michel's head tilted slightly—his version of celebration.
Giuly clapped twice. Not enthusiastic. Respectful.
Evra's head turned slowly, watching where the play began. Eyes tracked from Bernardi along the sideline... until they found Demien.
No smile. No nod.
Just that stare.
Long. Measured.
Several heartbeats too long for casual acknowledgment.
Then he jogged back into position.
Demien remained motionless, the moment resonating in his mind.
He hadn't said much.
But the ones who mattered were already watching closer.