In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 55: One Glass, No Disguises

The chair scraped quietly back under the table. Clara opened the door without a word. She wore socks, a loose grey sweater, and her hair was tied back as if she had meant to undo it earlier but forgot. No makeup. No smile either—just a look, and then she stepped aside.

Demien stepped in. He hadn't taken off his shoes yet. She glanced down but didn't say anything.

The apartment smelled of garlic and rosemary, maybe onion. Light jazz played from a half-covered speaker near the bookshelf. A record skipped once, then caught itself.

He held out the bottle. "Red," he said. She took it from his hand, turned it over once, then walked past him toward the kitchen.

"Sit," she said. He didn't—at least not right away. He just stood, scanning the room. Everything felt soft: the light, the walls, even the edges of the furniture looked like they could bend.

When he finally sat, it was at the island, not the table. Two plates were already set, one fork beside each, but no napkins. Steam still curled from the pan on the stove.

She poured the wine but didn't lift her glass. He followed suit. They ate the first few bites in silence. She didn't ask if it was good, and he didn't say. The food was warm, fresh, and unhurried.

Clara spoke without lifting her eyes from her plate. "Where'd you grow up?"

Demien glanced over. She wasn't asking to pry—just to create space. "Montreuil. Rue des Blés."

She chewed once, then again. "Paris side?"

He nodded. She leaned her elbow on the counter.

"What kind of place?"

"Small windows. Cracked paint. Concrete yard with rusted hoops."

"Basketball?"

"Everything."

Clara smiled, just a little. "You don't talk about it."

"It's not where I work."

She set down her fork. "Is that why you never go back?"

Demien didn't answer; he just reached for the glass. They sat in silence again.

She broke it once more. "What does a locker room sound like after a loss?"

He set down the glass and rolled it once between his fingers. "Shoes untie slower. You hear the tape peel off skin. It's not loud; it just takes longer."

She leaned against the island now, closer. "And a win?"

"Quieter." He said it without hesitation.

Her hand brushed a hot pot handle on the stove as she turned to refill his glass. She hissed—softly, more out of instinct than pain.

He moved without thinking, reached for the pan, and took it off the heat. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Just stupid."

He didn't correct her or say it wasn't; he just slid the pot away and passed her the towel. Then he sat back down.

They kept eating. She passed him the bottle again without asking, and he poured this time. No one touched the wine—not yet.

And the chair scraped quietly back under the table.

They ended up on the balcony, not because it was warm—Monaco nights in September had cooled—but because she left the door open as she walked through it, and Demien followed. No coats. No glasses. Just the half-empty bottle dangling from her fingers.

She leaned against the railing, her hair untied now. She hadn't noticed him watching her undo it in the kitchen—or maybe she had. He stood beside her, arms resting lightly on the cold metal rail, close enough to hear her breath catch when the wind shifted.

Clara turned to face him, her eyes half-lidded but steady. "You always look like you're holding something in," she said, no edge in her voice—just observation.

He didn't answer. She stepped in, just a half-step, her chest almost brushing his. She was still barefoot. He could hear the shift of her balance and the creak of the boards beneath her heels.

"I don't want you to coach right now."

"I'm not."

"You are."

She reached up and slid her fingers behind his neck. It wasn't a pull—just contact. Her forehead rested against his for a second.

The kiss wasn't slow or rough; it just happened, like the only way to stop avoiding something was to remove the space entirely.

His hand found her waist, while hers pressed lightly against his chest before sliding down.

When they pulled apart, neither of them said anything. Her eyes searched his face, not asking a question—just marking the moment.

He leaned back against the rail. She stepped between his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way until the streetlight below buzzed twice and finally held steady.

Inside, the kitchen lights were still on. The bottle sat forgotten but not untouched. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Friday morning came with the blinds drawn. Demien left quietly, coat in hand, leaving a folded note beside her alarm clock. No signature—just the words: "Still figuring it out."

Back at La Turbie, the silence didn't feel as heavy anymore. He reviewed tape, sat with Michel to build three variations of the Lille setup, and ran sessions with players who hadn't touched a match in over two weeks. No one asked where he'd been that night; no one needed to.

Plašil earned his place on the squad list with every drill. El Fakiri stopped hesitating in his duels, and Grax started finishing cleanly. Demien didn't say much—just circled names, one at a time.

Xabi returned first on Tuesday night, followed by Morientes and Giuly on Wednesday morning. Clara didn't text again, but she didn't need to.

By Thursday, the full squad was back—legs heavy, minds scattered. Demien didn't call a meeting; he called a session. Real time. No tactics. Just decisions.

The board for Lille went up. Thirteen names weren't on it. He watched who looked, who didn't, and who stared.