In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 48: Flight Pattern

Giuly clapped once, sharp and clean, and the ball rolled his way. This time, someone chased it—legs pumping, voices rising, a quick flick through the cones before the rhythm reset. Demien stayed by the sideline, arms folded and coat open at the chest. He didn't speak; he didn't need to.

The moment passed like a breath. Then Michel appeared behind him, phone in one hand and a small nod already half-formed.

"He's landed," he said.

Demien didn't look away from the pitch. "Good."

"He's with Stone now."

Still no response—just a slow blink and a quiet exhale through his nose. Not indifference—just the rhythm of knowing things were in motion now, that they'd arrive when they were meant to.

Michel hesitated, then added, "He looks tired. Flight was delayed."

Demien finally turned, just slightly. "He'll wake up," he said. "They always do."

Nice Côte d'Azur Airport wasn't crowded that afternoon—just the usual shuffle of delayed tourists and businessmen with loosened ties. Xabi stepped through the terminal with one bag slung over his shoulder and his coat folded neatly in the other hand. He wore a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled and collar open. No logo, no agents trailing behind him. The only thing that gave him away was his face—focused, unreadable, the kind that didn't look for signs, only exits.

Stone was waiting near the glass doors with a press assistant beside him and a discreet club photographer balancing a camera strap across his neck. No flash—just posture and patience.

Xabi walked straight up. They shook hands once, firmly. No grip games, no chest pats.

"Welcome to Monaco," Stone said.

Xabi nodded, squinting slightly into the sun just beyond the terminal doors. "You said low profile."

Stone tilted his head toward the photographer. "This is low. You should've seen Morientes."

Xabi let the corner of his mouth shift. "Did he smile?"

"Of course not."

"Then I'm in the right place."

They didn't linger. Three quick photos—one handshake in front of the club crest backdrop, one profile beside a red banner, and one candid shot as he looked off to the side. The photographer nodded, satisfied. The assistant had already queued the email draft for the press list.

No questions. No press scrum. No welcome parade.

Just the quiet hum of a car waiting at the curb.

They drove straight to a small private clinic tucked near the Cap-d'Ail border, where the club's trusted sports doctor was already waiting. No logos. No security. Xabi stepped inside with the same calm pace he'd maintained at the airport.

Blood drawn. Knees checked. Spine flexed. Eyes tracked a pen across the air. Quiet. Routine. He answered the questions in Spanish, nodded through the explanations, and asked once for the hydration plan.

By the time the scan finished, the press release had already gone out.

"AS Monaco is pleased to announce the loan of midfielder Xabi Alonso from Real Sociedad for the 2003/04 season. The player has passed all medical assessments and will join the squad for training later this week."

The fax had been sent to major outlets, and the photo uploaded quietly to the club site. No interview. No quotes. Just the facts.

Demien saw the email come in during cooldown but didn't open it.

Michel handed him the printout.

Demien skimmed it, then folded the page and tucked it into his coat pocket. "No press until Tuesday. Let him rest."

"He's not resting," Michel said. "He's already asking about training times."

That got the smallest response—a half-smirk, gone in seconds.

"Let him watch first," Demien said.

Michel nodded and walked back toward the building.

The sun was starting to drop lower behind the hills. Long shadows stretched across the training pitch as the players jogged one final lap. Demien looked out over them all—Giuly wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand, Rothen spitting on the grass, Adebayor with his socks rolled low and shirt untucked, and Morientes already half-walking the last turn.

It was still early in the season. They hadn't hit full stride—not yet. But pieces were arriving, and from tomorrow, the shape would start to change.

Demien stayed where he was, watching as Giuly clapped once and called for the ball. This time, someone chased it—not because they were told to, not because the coach was watching, but simply because they wanted to get there first.

The ball zipped into the circle and out again. Cleats scraped. Laughter cracked once, short and low, somewhere near Rothen. It was the kind of moment you didn't script—the kind that only came when no one was pretending to prove anything.

Demien didn't call time yet. He turned toward the touchline and started walking along the outer edge of the pitch, slow and silent. Not pacing—just checking where things were breathing again.

Near the benches, Morientes sat on an overturned crate, sipping water with one leg stretched out. Bernardi stood next to him, arms crossed, speaking in low Spanish—something about the national team, Spain's upcoming qualifiers, maybe. Morientes nodded but didn't say much, just kept looking toward the drills.

Plašil sat by himself a few meters down, back against the fence. He held a small letter in his hand, the envelope carefully torn at the top. No one asked what it said. He read it twice, folded it with both hands, and slid it into his boot bag beneath the laces. He stayed there a minute longer before standing and walking back to the group as if nothing had happened.

Giuly had broken off from the rondo. He moved to the far corner with a bag of balls and started placing them down one by one for corners. No call from the coach. No instruction. Just him, quiet, adjusting the cones by instinct. His first cross came in too flat. The second sailed long. He clenched his jaw and fired the third like it owed him something. The fourth finally dipped.

He didn't smile.

Behind the equipment shed, Rothen paced, phone to his ear, voice low, shoulders tight. He spoke softly, just above a whisper, paused frequently, rubbed his temple once, then his eyes. Whatever he said didn't sound like training talk. After a while, he let the hand holding the phone drop to his thigh. He stared ahead for a few seconds longer, then hung up and slipped the phone into his sock. When he returned to the pitch, he didn't speak; he just ran a lap.

Andrés moved through the drill like someone who had finally found his tempo again.

He dropped into passing triangles without a word, clapped softly when the ball zipped cleanly, slipped a short heel flick through Plašil's legs, and grinned when it connected. Giuly caught it from across the pitch and shouted something. Andrés just lifted both hands.

"Blame the weather."

Nobody chased him, but they laughed.

Demien stopped near the halfway line and scanned the group. Adebayor was mid-joke again, tugging lightly on Evra's sleeve, pointing to the back post and reenacting Morientes' header like it was a war story. Evra rolled his eyes, arms crossed, shirt off, sweat streaking down his back. He was watching and listening, but not really smiling.

Demien called out, "Patrice."

Evra turned immediately and jogged over without asking why. Demien waited until he was close.

"You're not just a left-back anymore."

Evra furrowed his brow. "No?"

Demien held his gaze. "They watch how you walk now, not just how you run."

Evra didn't blink. He nodded once, slowly, then looked back at the rest of the team, still passing, stretching, and shouting.

"Alright," he said, then walked off—not faster, just straighter.

Demien watched him go, then looked back at the group one last time. Michel was still at the sideline, clipboard under one arm, scribbling something while trying not to look like he was watching too closely.

Demien moved toward him. "Wrap it. Ten more minutes."

Michel nodded and blew the whistle—two short blasts. The sound cut clean through the rhythm. Water bottles uncapped, cones gathered. Giuly kicked the last ball back toward the sideline and caught Demien's eye for a second before jogging to the bench.

Demien didn't nod; he just turned toward the main building, coat loose around his waist, pace steady. The shape wasn't there yet, but the pieces were moving.