In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 56: No One Waits Twice

And who stared.

The wind had picked up by the time training started. Michel had to hold the corner cone down with his foot as Demien walked to the center circle with a folded paper in his back pocket and thirteen pairs of eyes following him from a distance. They knew.

The list was already posted on the board near the tunnel. He hadn't said anything in the locker room—just pointed at it once before stepping out onto the pitch.

Adebayor, Grax, Maurice-Belay, Plašil, El Fakiri, Givet, Rodriguez, Squillaci, Ibarra, and Porato in goal. The two youth midfielders—Mohellebi and Hislen—were included to fill the rotations.

No Giuly. No Rothen. No Morientes. No Bernardi. No D'Alessandro. No Alonso. No Zikos. No Evra. Not yet.

He didn't owe anyone a speech. They'd all played somewhere else the week before—for their countries, for pride, for reputation. But not for Monaco.

The ones here had trained, had run in the heat, reset cones when no one was watching, picked each other off the grass, and still asked for the next drill. That counted.

The ball started moving before Demien gave the signal. Plašil had already lined the grids. Ibarra was clapping his hands, pointing to shift the press. Adebayor had his back to the goal, receiving into traffic with that loose first touch and long reach that made defenders guess.

Rodriguez and Squillaci handled everything in the air; nothing bounced twice. Porato looked older than everyone by a decade, but his shouts were sharp—not hopeful, but commanding.

Demien moved along the sideline, quiet and just watching. Michel jogged over during the water break.

"They're biting. Harder than usual."

"They know it's not charity," Demien said.

Mohellebi misjudged a switch and left space behind. Givet stepped up, intercepted it on the stretch, and pointed to the wing. "Again. Don't drift. No sightseeing."

Demien kept walking. He didn't need to correct much; the work was visible—not polished, not perfect, but earned.

Giuly passed him on the sideline mid-session, walking with his boots slung over his shoulder. Demien didn't stop him. Rothen followed ten minutes later, avoiding eye contact—just a jog and stretch along the far line.

After the final whistle, Demien called no meeting. He walked to the whiteboard and rewrote the eleven in permanent marker.

Starting XI vs Lille:

GK: Porato

DEF: Ibarra, Squillaci, Rodriguez, Givet

MID: El Fakiri, Plašil, Mohellebi

FWD: Maurice-Belay, Adebayor, Grax

No questions. The only sound was studs clapping against the tile as the team walked inside. Those who weren't on the list stayed back to pick up the cones. Giuly reached for one, but Demien tapped his wrist with a rolled-up bib.

"You're not punished," he said. "You're recovered."

Giuly didn't nod. He just looked back once at the posted eleven, then disappeared through the door.

He glanced back once at the posted eleven, then disappeared through the door.

Now it was Saturday. The locker room in Lille had its own kind of quiet—half-tiled walls, steel hangers that clanged when touched, and old radiators humming with no heat behind them. Demien stood with his coat folded over his forearm, scanning the lineup board as if he hadn't written it himself the night before.

Grax sat on the bench, bent forward, retying his boots for the second time. His laces weren't loose; he just needed his hands to stay busy. Adebayor leaned against the lockers, one foot propped up, chewing something without much focus. Maurice-Belay sat silently, upright, with his hands on his thighs.

Plašil sat cross-legged near the far wall, eyes closed. Mohellebi kept glancing over, as if he wanted to ask something but wasn't sure if this was the right moment. ƒreewebɳovel.com

Demien waited until everyone had arrived. No tapping the board. No pulling players aside. He let them sit in it—feel what it meant to start a match with more questions than headlines.

He took the cap off the marker but didn't write anything new; he just looked at what was already there.

"You're not here because someone else isn't," he said. "You're here because the ball moved better when it came off your foot this week."

No response. No nods.

Givet scratched at his shin pad, while El Fakiri tied and untied a wristband.

Demien stepped back and walked along the line of players—not pacing, just scanning them to see who met his eye and who didn't.

"You'll get pressed early," he said. "That's not a problem; that's an invitation."

He looked at Adebayor. "Hold the line. If they come too fast, buy us time."

Then he turned to Plašil. "Control the middle. They'll go long to bypass you. Win what's left."

Mohellebi was still watching the floor. Demien crouched slightly so they were level. "You see two passes ahead. That's good. But today, play the one that's open."

He stood and looked at the far end of the room, where Rodriguez and Squillaci sat side by side. "Lille plays wide to stretch panic. Don't panic."

Squillaci just nodded, while Rodriguez cracked his knuckles. Demien turned toward the door as it clicked open.

Michel entered, earpiece still in, and nodded once. "Tunnel's clear."

From the hallway, studs started clapping against the tile—a low rhythm. Another team. Another room waking up.

Giuly appeared in the doorframe, wearing track pants and a windbreaker with the sleeves rolled up. He didn't speak; he just sat against the wall near the physio bench, watching.

Demien didn't glance back at him. He looked at Grax instead. "First run's yours," he said. "Don't make them wonder what you can do. Make them fix it."

No high fives. No chants.

He walked to the door, turned the handle, and opened it. "Tunnel."

And they followed.