In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 58: Second Half – Where They Break or Don’t

And he disappeared into the tunnel.

No speech. No tactical map. Just a five-word line in the dressing room.

"Same eleven. Ten sharper passes."

He didn't look at anyone when he said it. Didn't wait for questions. He walked back out before the players had even finished retaping.

When they re-emerged, the Lille fans were already whistling. Not a wall of noise—just constant, sharp bursts that followed every Monaco touch. Squillaci nodded to Rodriguez. Porato clapped twice behind them. Givet cracked his neck and looked toward the corner flag like he wasn't listening to any of it.

Demien stood with his arms crossed. Michel leaned in.

"You want five minutes or ten?"

"Ten."

Lille started fast again. Their fullbacks pushed higher now, stretching Monaco's second line. At forty-eight, a quick ball over the top pulled Givet wide. The cutback came fast—Rodriguez missed it by a foot.

Porato got down fast.

Saved with his forearm. No bounce. He rolled and held it.

Demien exhaled once, just through the nose.

They survived.

The shape wasn't perfect—Mohellebi still hesitated on his rotations—but it held. Plašil adjusted half a step deeper, dragging El Fakiri with him. It wasn't flowing, but it was denying. That was enough.

At fifty-four, Adebayor dropped between lines again, this time turning off a one-touch from Grax. He drove ten yards, pulled a defender with him, then laid it off—El Fakiri took the foul. Card.

Demien called nothing.

Plašil jogged to the spot. No show. Just planted it and stepped back.

And he disappeared into the tunnel. No speech. No tactical map. Just a five-word line in the dressing room: "Same eleven. Ten sharper passes." He didn't look at anyone when he said it and didn't wait for questions. He walked back out before the players had even finished retaping.

When they re-emerged, the Lille fans were already whistling. Not a wall of noise—just constant, sharp bursts that followed every Monaco touch. Squillaci nodded to Rodriguez, and Porato clapped twice behind them. Givet cracked his neck and looked toward the corner flag, as if he weren't listening to any of it.

Demien stood with his arms crossed. Michel leaned in.

"You want five minutes or ten?"

"Ten."

Lille started fast again. Their fullbacks pushed higher, stretching Monaco's second line. At forty-eight minutes, a quick ball over the top pulled Givet wide. The cutback came fast—Rodriguez missed it by a foot.

Porato got down quickly, saving with his forearm. No bounce. He rolled and held it.

Demien exhaled once, just through his nose. They survived.

The shape wasn't perfect—Mohellebi still hesitated on his rotations—but it held. Plašil adjusted half a step deeper, dragging El Fakiri with him. It wasn't flowing, but it was denying. That was enough.

At fifty-four minutes, Adebayor dropped between the lines again, this time turning off a one-touch from Grax. He drove ten yards, pulled a defender with him, then laid it off—El Fakiri took the foul.

Card.

Demien called nothing.

Plašil jogged to the spot. No show—just planted it and stepped back.

Maurice-Belay peeled off the wall on the run. He faked a move, but Plašil ignored it and played square to Ibarra instead. The cross came but was too far and cleared.

Reset.

Demien didn't turn around or check the bench. Michel didn't say anything.

At fifty-seven minutes, the moment came. Plašil won the ball in traffic—pure footwork—and slid it through to Maurice-Belay down the left. A first-time ball across.

Grax caught it cleanly. Half-volley, low, to the far post. The keeper went full stretch and tipped it just wide.

The crowd buzzed. Giuly stood behind the dugout now, arms folded. Demien didn't look at him; he just pointed once at the midfield line.

"Hold the press. Don't chase anything."

Ibarra adjusted, and Squillaci stepped five yards higher. Mohellebi finally read it and cut the next passing lane in time.

Lille slowed—not much, but enough.

At sixty-three minutes, they flipped their shape—left winger tucked inside, fullback overlapping. Givet adjusted late, and El Fakiri lunged.

Too tired. Cramped. He stayed down for a beat too long.

Demien turned to Michel.

"Ten."

Michel moved, tapping the clipboard once. But Demien didn't call anyone yet. They had one more test in them and ten minutes left to prove it.

Lille pushed for the kill—not with elegance, but with speed, weight, and repetition. Their left winger—legs still fresh, shirtsleeves wet from a water break—kept testing Ibarra's side with overlaps. Every five seconds, another run, another angled ball into that same low channel near the corner flag.

Demien didn't shout; he just took a step forward and let his arms rest by his sides. Squillaci adjusted the line himself, while Rodriguez barked at Givet to tuck in five yards tighter.

Seventy-one minutes in, a cross skipped through untouched, but it pulled Plašil deep. The second ball bounced up for a volley—Porato had to stretch wide again.

Palm. Corner.

Demien pointed to the bench. Three hands were already in the air: Giuly, Alonso, and Rothen. Mohellebi and Maurice-Belay came off without protest. El Fakiri tried to wave off the signal, but Michel was already walking with the clipboard.

Xabi's first touch came before the whistle blew to restart play. It wasn't a long ball or a switch—just a trap, pivot, and a five-yard pass to set the tempo.

Demien didn't blink.

At seventy-four minutes, Lille pressed again. This time, Xabi took the ball from Squillaci, let the forward commit, then cut the pass between two red shirts.

Giuly didn't run wide; he cut inside early, and it worked. Plašil spotted it and lifted one over. Giuly brought it down on the run and squared it.

Adebayor let it roll. Grax didn't.

Seventy-six minutes in, a right-foot finish—first touch, first time he didn't hesitate.

1–1.

No celebration—just a look from Grax to the bench as he jogged back. Not pride—just confirmation.

Demien didn't respond; he looked at the clock, then back to Xabi.

Still fifteen minutes to go.

Now the tempo flipped. Lille grew impatient. Ball after ball slammed forward with no delay. Squillaci stepped up to intercept, while Rodriguez flattened his shoulder into their number nine and earned a foul. Rothen slowed everything down on the left, kept the ball, drew contact, and reset.

At eighty-one minutes, Monaco's press triggered higher. Giuly darted in, Rothen pinched, and Xabi swept behind them to collect the clearance. Lille's midfield tried to adjust, but it was too late.

Demien didn't touch his coat; he just watched the shape fold and flex.

At eighty-four minutes, Giuly snapped a shot just wide from the edge after a Rothen cutback. The keeper didn't move.

At eighty-seven minutes, another switch to Ibarra resulted in a low cross that missed everyone.

At ninety minutes, Lille won a throw near Monaco's box. Rodriguez headed clear. Xabi brought it down, turned, and lifted it first-time.

Demien called one word: "Go."

Adebayor chased the ball, using his chest for control as a one-on-one formed.

The ref blew the whistle.

Full-time.

No cheers—just boos from Lille's end and silence from Monaco's bench. Demien turned without glancing at the pitch.

Tunnel.

Inside, the locker room wasn't quiet; it was tense. El Fakiri kicked off his boots too hard and missed the basket. Grax pulled off his shirt with the sleeves inside out. Porato stood with a towel over his shoulders, dripping.

Demien didn't pace or speak until everyone had sat down. Then he kicked the bin near the wall.

Plastic cracked, and bottles spilled out.

"You think one goal makes a match?"

No one answered. His voice didn't rise; it cut.

"You think fighting back makes up for playing scared?"

Plašil looked down. Adebayor started untying his laces but stopped halfway.

Demien walked to the lineup board, where the names were still written in his handwriting. He pointed at it.

"Thirteen players sat this week. Watched. Earned rest."

He looked at the starters.

"You had legs. You had the week. You still let them dictate the tempo for seventy-five minutes."

He faced the room again.

"You want to play on Tuesdays?"

Now the silence came.

"You show me in minute one, not seventy-six."

He picked up the marker from the tray and snapped the cap back on.

"Monday: recovery at ten, film at noon."

He opened the door to find Michel standing in the hallway.

"They showed up late," Demien said.

Michel started to reply, but Demien cut him off.

"I don't reward late."

And he left.