Date: Saturday night to Sunday, August 23–24, 2003
He stepped out of the tunnel into the fading heat. The parking lot was almost empty now—just Clara's little gray Renault, engine humming softly, headlights off, and the driver's window half down. She leaned back, one elbow on the window frame, hair messily tucked behind one ear, her eyes fixed on the stadium doors as if they still mattered.
Demien crossed without hurrying. He opened the passenger door, tossed his bag into the back seat, and sat down. No greeting. No apology. Just a silence that didn't ask for either.
She released the handbrake, and the car eased forward.
They didn't speak for the first three turns. Only the sound of tires on the old stone streets and the soft ticking of the turn signal as they moved through Fontvieille's late-night quiet. The city felt paused—lights on but no voices, empty balconies, traffic lights changing for no one.
At the second roundabout, Clara finally spoke. "I was going to wait ten minutes."
Demien glanced sideways, not quite smiling. "It took twelve."
"I counted." She flicked her blinker again. "You owe me food."
They didn't go far—just up into the quiet hills, past the old corner bakery with its shutters down, to a tiny Lebanese spot Demien had never noticed before. Clara knew the owner. She ordered quickly—two falafel wraps, one extra tahini, fries, and something sweet wrapped in paper with a name Demien didn't catch.
Back in the car, she peeled off the foil with her teeth, one hand still on the wheel. "Do you always sit like that?" she asked, glancing at him.
"Like what?"
"Like you're still waiting for a whistle."
He didn't answer. He unwrapped his food and ate in silence.
______
Clara's flat sat above a florist—one of those one-room places with thin walls and slanted light. It smelled faintly of lavender and lemon soap. She kicked her shoes off by the door and tossed her keys into a ceramic dish without looking. Demien followed more slowly, not bothering to take off his coat.
"You want to sit?" she asked, already halfway to the small kitchen.
He nodded, though she didn't see it.
He ended up on the couch while she brought plates, drinks, and something fizzy in a glass bottle. She sat on the floor with her back against the cushions, legs stretched across the rug.
No TV. No music yet. Just the sound of cutlery on ceramic and streetlights buzzing faintly through the window.
"You know," she said, gesturing at his plate with her fork, "this stuff is better when you eat it hot."
"I am."
"Not fast enough."
He took a bite and chewed. "Better cold than nothing."
"Spoken like someone who eats toast over the sink."
Demien didn't respond. She grinned and leaned back.
Later, she put on a record—Bill Evans or something similar. Jazz with no lyrics. Just piano, brushing drums, and the occasional sigh from a muted trumpet. She swayed slightly to the music, one foot tapping the air.
"You ever listen to anything made after 1970?" he asked.
"Only when I want to forget something."
Demien looked at her then—fully, for the first time that night. Her hair was looser now. She had a half-full glass of red wine balanced on her stomach, her fingers trailing the stem.
"Did you forget anything tonight?" he asked.
She tilted her head back against the couch. "Not yet."
They didn't talk about work—not once. No mention of training, results, or names.
She pointed at the clock once and joked that if he stayed too long, she'd charge him rent.
He told her the view from the couch wasn't worth paying for.
"You're the one still in your coat," she said.
"You didn't ask me to stay."
"I didn't think I had to."
He leaned forward, finally slipping off his coat and laying it neatly across the edge of the couch.
"Better?" he asked.
She smiled, soft and sideways.
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket not long after—once, then again.
He pulled it out without looking. The screen lit up.
Michael Stone
He glanced at it and let it ring once more before clicking it silent and slipping the phone back into his coat.
Outside, a bus passed on the far road. The jazz kept playing.
Clara continued talking about something small—about a broken plate she'd glued back together that morning or a dream she hadn't finished. He wasn't really listening now.
He was just… there.
No tactics. No pressure. No substitutions.
Just her voice.
And the quiet between them.
---
Sunday Morning – La Turbie Recovery
Sunday at La Turbie always sounded different. Not quiet, not loud—just loose. The pitch felt softer somehow, the drills slower, the air less sharp. No cameras today, no match on the line. Just sweat, stretching, and recovery.
Rothen and Giuly were already bickering by the time Demien walked out of the building. They weren't even warmed up yet.
"I ran more," Rothen said flatly, tugging at the Velcro of his ankle wrap. "Easily. I had to cover your wing three times."
"You slipped, Jérôme. That doesn't count as tracking back."
"It counts when I'm the one picking up the pieces."
Giuly smirked and kept bouncing on his heels, as if the argument didn't need finishing. Behind them, Adebayor was doing an exaggerated Morientes impression—arms out like a plane, pretending to leap above an invisible defender and head an imaginary ball into an imaginary net. Plašil almost dropped his foam roller laughing.
"Don't quit your day job," he muttered.
"Don't get jealous," Adebayor grinned, pointing to his forehead. "Power's all up here."
Demien didn't interrupt. He let it breathe. A Sunday morning didn't need direction unless it drifted too far.
The session was half-paced by design: elastic band stretches, light jogging circuits, and rotating rondos in small groups. No shouting, no whistles. The kind of day where a coach walked rather than barked.
He moved slowly down the sideline, one hand in his jacket pocket, nodding once at Evra, who was seated cross-legged by the cones, wrapping a band around his knee. Not injured—just tightness. The sort that came with responsibility.
On the far side of the pitch, Bernardi sat alone on a mat, sipping water as if it were his last cup for the week. Eyes closed. No earbuds. Just stillness.
D'Alessandro jogged across the width of the field and, without a word, dropped beside Zikos, handing him a bottle. No reaction. Just done. Routine.
Demien noted it. Small, but enough.
Later, when a rondo opened up, Andrés joined the Giuly–Rothen circle mid-rotation. He didn't ask; he just stepped in and clapped once. Giuly nutmegged him within a minute.
"Welcome to France," he said.
Andrés didn't even flinch. He just laughed and sprinted after the ball.
That was new.
Demien watched from the edge of the shade, leaning against a post that had been rusting since before the club's last title. He didn't take notes or pace. Sometimes the most important thing was what you didn't say.
Michel appeared beside him, holding a clipboard and squinting.
"Xabi lands tomorrow night," he said. "Nice airport. We booked a private transfer. He'll do his medical first thing Tuesday."
Demien didn't look away from the pitch.
"Does he know he won't start right away?"
"His agent does."
Demien's eyes tracked the rondo. Rothen pressed, Giuly stepped wide, D'Alessandro spun out. The triangle didn't collapse.
"Good," Demien said. "Keep it quiet until the scans clear."
Michel gave a short nod. "Already handled."
A few meters away, Adebayor was attempting a step-over that made even Plašil wince.
"You think he's doing that to make a point?" Michel muttered.
"No," Demien replied. "He just wants to laugh."
The players were now sitting with water bottles in hand, lying flat on the warm grass, squinting at the sky as if it had something left to tell them.
Demien took one last look. "Let them enjoy today," he said.
Michel nodded again, turning his gaze to the field. "And tomorrow?" he asked.
Demien's voice didn't change. "Tomorrow, we build again."
He stepped away before Michel could respond.
Demien turned toward the staff shed. "Bring them in," he said to Michel. "Fifteen more minutes, then the ice tubs."
Michel nodded and walked off, the whistle already in hand.
Demien stayed where he was, watching as Giuly clapped once and called for the ball. This time, someone chased it