In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 57: First Half – Opening the Wrong Door

And they followed. The tunnel at Stade Grimonprez-Jooris wasn't long, but it felt narrow—bricks too close together, ceilings too low. Demien walked out behind the officials, coat folded over one arm, wind hitting just above the collar. The stands were already packed with banners, scarves, and drums. Lille's fans weren't singing yet; they were watching and waiting.

Porato tapped his gloves together at the edge of the box. Rodriguez and Squillaci exchanged a nod. Ibarra pointed to the touchline and said something to Grax that was lost in the roar starting to build behind them.

The whistle blew before Demien reached the dugout. He didn't sit; he just folded the coat over the rail and crossed his arms.

From the first touch, it was wrong. Lille pressed with four—not three—not from the middle, but from the sides, forcing Plašil and Mohellebi into blind turns. Porato's first pass was returned to him within seven seconds, and his clearance barely made it past halfway.

Demien watched, unmoving. Givet tracked a diagonal too slowly, and Ibarra was late covering inside. Lille nearly broke through in the fourth minute—a low cross, a deflection, a corner.

Porato shouted once—not in panic, but louder than usual. Monaco couldn't breathe. El Fakiri tried to slow the rhythm—two touches, hold, reset—but no one moved off the ball. Adebayor dropped too deep to help, and Grax was alone, chasing shadows across a back four that didn't mind passing sideways forever.

In the eighth minute, Mohellebi got caught. His first touch skipped, and the second dragged. Turnover. Lille launched it down the right, splitting Squillaci and Givet with a low-driven ball. Rodriguez came across late, slid, and cleared it into touch.

Still no adjustment. Demien turned to Michel. "They're waiting for us to press first."

Michel didn't respond; he just pulled the clipboard tighter under his arm. Demien stepped toward the sideline.

"Switch sooner," he called. "Don't wait for the trap."

Plašil heard him. Givet adjusted his angle and started playing long diagonals. Ibarra took one down cleanly, bursting into Lille's half, but had no overlap. Maurice-Belay stayed tucked inside. By the time the cross came, Adebayor was behind his marker, and Grax arrived too early.

Reset.

Eleven minutes gone, and still nothing clean. Demien glanced at the Lille bench; their staff was up, barking orders. He turned back just in time to see Mohellebi play an early vertical ball into traffic. Intercepted. Again.

In the thirteenth minute, the first break came. Plašil won the second ball after a poor Lille clearance and immediately zipped it wide to Maurice-Belay. He took one touch inside and spotted Adebayor's run. The pass was late. Adebayor checked back, and the ball rolled harmlessly into the keeper's hands.

Demien didn't move. Behind him, Giuly and Rothen sat on the bench without jackets, watching every moment.

In the sixteenth minute, Grax was fouled near the sideline. Plašil trotted over, reset the ball, and opted for a short pass instead of crossing. A quick triangle formed, and Ibarra swung it in near the near post. Grax got to it but mistimed his leap, glancing it over.

Demien looked up at the clock. Seventeen minutes gone. The crowd wasn't singing; they were sensing that this wasn't Monaco's real team. This was a version—a test, something fragile.

Demien let the thought hang before walking to the edge again. He said nothing. Plašil turned to look anyway, just once.

At twenty minutes, Lille launched a throw into the box, flicked on at the near post. Porato lunged forward—no catch, just a punch. The second ball was cleared.

Still no rhythm. No relief. Not yet.

Twenty-one minutes in, and Lille found their moment. Not from buildup. Not from some masterstroke. Just a bad bounce and a second too late. Porato had just punched clear again when the reset came quickly. Lille didn't hesitate—they dropped it to their right back, who curled it back into the middle. One touch. Turn. Demien saw it as soon as El Fakiri didn't.

The pass cut through Givet and Squillaci—too flat to chase, too fast to intercept. The striker didn't need to finish cleanly—just low and on time. Porato got a hand on it, but only that. The ball skidded under him and kissed the far post on its way in.

1–0.

Demien didn't move. He turned to Michel, who was already looking at him.

"Not too early to learn something," Demien said.

Michel didn't nod; he just marked the time on the clipboard.

The stadium leaned into itself—not an eruption, but a swell. The kind of noise that pressed against your legs when you tried to move forward.

The restart was slow. El Fakiri delayed the touchback, letting his boot hover over the ball before rolling it sideways to Rodriguez. The pace dropped for thirty seconds. Then Lille pressed again.

Demien didn't adjust anything. Let them figure it out.

Mohellebi started playing safer—sideways, not forward. That was the first real sign. Plašil had to drop deeper to reset the shape. El Fakiri took longer with each touch, and when he looked up, he searched for the sideline, not the gap.

But around the 30-minute mark, they started to respond. Adebayor dropped into midfield, took a bump, and didn't fall. He held it and won the foul—twenty-five yards out, right of center. Plašil stepped up. No theatrics.

Demien didn't call anyone over.

Plašil went for power, striking straight into the wall. The rebound fell to El Fakiri, who hit it first time—curling, dipping—but a foot too high. Demien didn't show anything on his face. Not disappointment. Not approval. He just watched.

Rodriguez pulled Grax aside on the jog back, pointing to his angle during the press. It wasn't kind, but Demien didn't stop it. They needed that.

At thirty-six minutes, Lille nearly punished them again. Another cross from the left. Their winger cut inside, dummied the overlap, and floated one to the far post. Squillaci didn't track the runner fast enough. The header came down hard—Porato had to go full stretch and palmed it wide.

Demien took a single step forward.

"Back in faster," he called. "Shape doesn't wait for comfort."

Givet barked the reset. Maurice-Belay jogged wider, while Ibarra stayed tighter.

By the fortieth minute, Monaco looked less stretched, even if they weren't creating. Then came their best moment.

Mohellebi started it—a simple touch and a quick ball to Plašil, who let it run across his body before hitting Ibarra wide with the outside of his boot. It was a first-time cross, low and behind the backline.

No one arrived.

Demien didn't throw his arms up or curse. He just watched Grax turn around late, jogging back with his hands on his hips.

Rodriguez shouted—loud and clear—but Grax didn't reply.

Forty-four minutes in, one more build. Plašil played to Mohellebi, who finally looked forward. Adebayor showed short, then peeled wide. The return ball was clean, and he crossed hard—but it was blocked. Throw-in.

Demien glanced at the bench; Giuly was standing now, not stretching, just watching.

The whistle blew five seconds later. Demien stepped toward the tunnel first, not waiting for the players and not jogging.

Michel met him by the steps.

"Half a second late everywhere."

Demien didn't disagree.

"Then they've seen what it feels like."

And he disappeared into the tunnel.