In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 54: Absences and Echoes

Nothing left to teach in that moment, but plenty left to test.

By Wednesday, La Turbie felt stripped bare. The main pitch held more empty air than players. No music, no laughter bouncing off the changing rooms—just boots scraping rubber as they emerged one by one from the tunnel, youth kits with loose sleeves, half of them pulling at their collars as if they didn't fit.

Demien checked his watch once. Michel handed him the already folded list: thirteen names. He didn't open it; he knew who was here.

Rodriguez rolled his ankle as he jogged to the middle grid. Ibarra followed with a slow jog, gum tucked in one cheek. Biancarelli was in gloves before anyone else hit the pitch. His warm-up consisted of talking—lines, angles, pace—more drill sergeant than backup keeper.

Plašil arrived last, dragging two cones under his arm, already calculating shapes with his eyes. He didn't stretch; he just waited for a ball.

Demien stood on the touchline, arms crossed.

"Six-a-side," Michel said quietly beside him. "Short field. One touch max until the third pass."

Demien didn't answer; he just nodded once.

They split quickly—no huddles, no slow circles. Rodriguez grabbed the bibs without speaking and pointed out names. Ibarra adjusted the back line and told one of the academy midfielders to move up.

The first ten minutes were quiet—not relaxed, but tense in the way empty spaces are. Each mistake felt louder, every scuffed touch as if it were under a spotlight. Demien didn't yell or stop them; he let the rhythm bleed out slowly.

Plašil anchored deep, didn't press—just passed and passed again, talking low between movements. On the third rotation, he shouted for a switch before the ball had even left the winger's foot.

Grax scored a deflection and celebrated as if it were a league goal. No one joined him. Lanteri played the next three minutes too fast, trying to match it.

Maurice-Belay picked up the ball near the sideline, tried to beat two defenders, lost it, chased it, and lost it again. Demien stepped forward.

"Stop."

Everyone froze.

He didn't raise his voice; he just walked across the touchline, eyes on Maurice-Belay.

"You chase the wrong ball," he said, "you miss the right one."

The kid nodded, breath tight, mouth already open to say something—but didn't.

The ball rolled back in.

Play resumed.

Biancarelli shouted every time someone hesitated. "Again—inside, not flat. You've got two seconds, not six." He wasn't guessing; he was measuring.

Michel drifted over with a clipboard under one arm.

"They're raw," he said.

"They're honest," Demien replied.

They watched one more pass break down, then another build cleanly from the back—Plašil to El Fakiri, cut inside, switch to Ibarra, first-time cross. No shot, but everyone had moved.

Demien didn't smile; he just pointed once to the end line.

"Conditioning. Reset."

They ran.

Plašil stayed smooth. Lanteri clipped his heel once while trying to overtake Grax and swore under his breath. Rodriguez ran flat-footed but didn't lose ground.

As the boots slowed and sweat started pooling behind their ears, Demien walked the line with Michel.

"Evra's report came in," Michel said. "France U21. Ninety minutes. Didn't lose a duel."

Demien didn't answer at first; he just watched Maurice-Belay finish his sprint with his head still down.

"He's ready," Michel said again.

"He doesn't need sharpening," Demien said. "He needs a mirror that doesn't shake."

Michel nodded once and said nothing else.

Demien called for water, and they walked toward the cooler. No one sat; the players listened—not for instructions, just for the next signal.

Demien reached for a cone and tossed it toward Plašil without looking.

"Switch the midfield. One touch. Start again."

Michel stepped back.

The ball rolled into the grid.

Feet followed.

By nightfall, the flat was silent. No street noise crept through the windows—just the steady tick of the cheap wall clock above the sink and the faint rattle of a water pipe behind the plaster. Demien sat at the kitchen table with a plate of food that had gone cold two hours ago. The Deportivo folder was open in front of him, the first page creased from where he'd held it too long without turning it.

He hadn't made it to page three.

Instead, a second file sat beside it—thin and unlabeled: PSV.

Their first opponent. Their first test abroad. September 16.

He flipped it open and scanned the header.

"Counter-pressure in midfield. Right side bias. Center backs push late on vertical passes."

He traced the underline someone—Michel—had made beside "Mark van Bommel: First outlet under pressure."

Demien closed the folder halfway and let it sit. There was no point in reading patterns if the players weren't back to make them real.

The tactical board in the corner still held the setup from the last full session. He hadn't cleared it; he didn't need to.

He reached for his glass, lifted it halfway, then set it back down.

The phone buzzed across the table.

He let it go once. Twice.

On the third buzz, he picked it up.

Clara.

Dinner. Tomorrow. My place. Bring wine or don't come.

He read it once, then again.

His thumbs hovered.

What pairs with long silences?

He stared at the screen until it faded to black.

A minute passed.

It lit up again.

You'll figure it out.

He set the phone face down—no smile, no reaction.

He moved the Deportivo folder off the table and stood.

He didn't look back at the tactics board as he crossed the room; he didn't need to.

The lights clicked off, and the chair scraped quietly back under the table.