Date: Tuesday, August 26, 2003
The shape wasn't there yet. But the pieces were moving.
Demien closed the office door behind him and didn't speak for the first ten seconds. Xabi sat on the other side of the desk, still in travel clothes. No sweat yet. No boots. Just a fresh notepad resting untouched on his lap and a bottle of water unopened beside his elbow.
He looked up. Didn't smile.
Demien didn't sit right away. He took a few steps toward the window, watched the sunlight cut sharp across the training pitch where the warm-ups were starting. Adebayor and Plašil were already running figure-eights through cones. Giuly was stretching with one knee down, jaw clenched, like every muscle in him refused to trust the softness of the morning.
Behind them, Zikos and Bernardi ran in silence.
"You're not here to carry us," Demien said.
Xabi blinked once.
"You're here to connect us."
The words didn't land with drama. Just fact.
Xabi took a breath, not long, not slow. When he answered, he did it in Spanish—quietly, without flourish.
"Entonces, dame tiempo para aprender su idioma."
Demien turned away from the window. He wasn't fluent, but he understood enough.
"You'll learn it faster out there."
That was it. No handshake. No tactics. No map. Demien nodded once toward the door. Xabi stood without pushing the chair back too far, grabbed the bottle but left the notebook behind.
As he stepped outside, the sun caught his eyes and he squinted, not from surprise, just the brightness. A few heads turned. Bernardi spotted him first, jogged over with a sideways smirk and slapped the inside of his wrist.
"Bienvenido," he muttered, before turning back into the circle like nothing happened.
Zikos walked past him and nudged him lightly with his shoulder. Didn't say a word.
Then Morientes appeared from the side, not with words but with a low thump of his hand on the back of Xabi's head—playful, not cruel. Xabi laughed for the first time since landing.
Not wide. But real.
No speeches followed. No formation drills yet. Just warm-up touches. Movement. Patterns.
Michel gave Demien a glance from the sideline. Demien stayed still.
Let them find it.
D'Alessandro was already mid-drill on the opposite side. He didn't join the greeting. Didn't avoid it either. He just turned his head once, slow and careful, and watched Xabi's second touch. The ball came short and fast. Xabi met it clean, flicked it wide, adjusted position without pausing.
Andrés didn't speak.
But he stopped watching after that.
Later, in a short triangle drill, Xabi moved without sound. He didn't speak French yet, not a word of it on the field. But the passes came back sharp. Every one of them. Players started calling to him in half-English, half-hand signs.
He nodded to all of it.
Giuly tried a joke that he didn't understand, but the laughter was easy enough to follow. Xabi gave a small shrug and laughed anyway.
Adebayor clapped twice, pointed at him. "He's got rhythm," he said. "He just needs lyrics."
Nobody corrected him.
Demien walked the touchline once, then again. Said nothing.
Michel leaned toward him.
"You think he fits?"
Demien didn't answer right away. He was watching the ball move again.
From Zikos, to Xabi, back to Bernardi, into Giuly.
Sharp. Simple.
He turned to Michel finally.
"Better question," he said. "Do the others believe he does?"
Michel opened his mouth, paused, then gave a short nod. He wasn't smiling, but the edge of something was there.
The drill rotated. The tempo didn't drop.
And from the middle of it, Xabi kept moving—never pointing, never gesturing. Just running, offering, touching, releasing. Again and again.
No banners. No spotlight.
Just rhythm. Just work.
And behind it, Demien watching.
Not with pride.
But with trust.
______
Dinner didn't happen at a restaurant anyone recognized. No press outside. No sponsors in the corner pretending not to listen. Just a private bistro up the hill, long wooden tables under dim amber lights, with chairs that scraped too loud and wine glasses that clinked when someone laughed too hard.
Giuly arrived first. He didn't sit. Just leaned against the wall like it was his house. Rothen came in with his sleeves rolled, eyes red—not tired, just full. He sat without speaking at first. Evra ducked his head through the doorway like he wasn't sure it was the right place.
Morientes came straight from the physio table. Tracksuit, clean shirt. No words, no phone.
Adebayor walked in late, again. Already apologizing.
Demien didn't come.
The waiter handed them menus no one opened. The food had already been chosen. Nobody needed choices tonight.
Evra clinked his fork against his glass before the mains arrived. Not loud, just enough.
"Before anyone says it—yes, I ran more than all of you."
Rothen scoffed from across the table. "You ran like you forgot your boots."
"Better than jogging like your thighs were afraid of the grass."
Laughter followed. Real, from the chest. Someone coughed mid-laugh and blamed the bread. Plašil nearly spilled water trying to hide his grin.
Giuly leaned over and pointed his knife at Adebayor.
"Your first touch," he said, "should come with subtitles."
Adebayor raised both arms in mock surrender.
"That first touch gave us time. Y'all were just too slow to use it."
Someone threw a napkin. Evra ducked.
A few seats down, Xabi sat quietly between Cissé and El Fakiri. He didn't speak much—not because he was closed, but because everything was still new. The rhythm. The slang. The way laughter built and died in different languages. He nodded when Cissé leaned in to translate a punchline. Smiled when El Fakiri elbowed him after someone roasted Morientes for finishing every sentence with a shrug.
He didn't pretend to belong.
But he didn't sit apart either.
When water ran low, he passed bottles. When the waiter arrived, he pointed at others to help translate. When someone raised a glass, he lifted his without hesitation.
That was enough for tonight.
By dessert, the table had spilled into one long stretch of noise. Cutlery forgotten. Chairs pulled closer. Elbows on the wood, crumbs on sleeves. Giuly stood up halfway through a story and acted out the worst dive he'd ever seen Rothen do. Rothen nearly choked on a grape defending himself. Morientes called it "theater." Bernardi called it "honest work." Zikos muttered something in Greek no one understood, but it made Adebayor howl.
No one filmed it. No one posted.
They just lived it.
And as the plates emptied and the laughter settled into softer pockets, Demien sat on his own balcony, phone buzzing in his palm. He scrolled past the squad group chat blowing up with blurry photos and terrible jokes. Then typed one line to Clara.
Dinner's loud. That's good, right?
Her reply came ten minutes later.
It's everything.
Back at the table, the waiter brought the last of the coffee and left them to it. No bills, not yet. No one moved.
Evra leaned back, hands behind his head. "You think we'll get another day like this?"
Rothen didn't look up from his espresso. "Only if we win again."
Xabi didn't speak. But when Cissé passed him a sugar packet, he caught it mid-air, smiled once, and nodded like he'd been there all season.
Giuly clapped his hands once.
"Alright. Who's paying?"
Everyone looked at each other. Then at Adebayor.
"What?" he said. "I didn't even order dessert!"
"You ordered three mains."
"That was team spirit!"
"You ate team spirit?"
El Fakiri held up his napkin. "I vote Adebayor."
They all laughed again.
No one left yet. No one checked the time.
And when the waiter came back with the bill, Giuly stood up, took it, and walked it to the bar without saying a word.
Behind him, the others stayed seated. Still talking. Still arguing. Still there.
Still together.