Chapter 6: The Match Begins
Boots scraped against short grass, cleats clicking as players divided into two sides. The sun hung lower now, turning the pitch to liquid gold where light still touched it. Shadows stretched across the half-field setup—cones precisely arranged, mini-goals positioned at either end, tension crackling in the air like static before lightning.
Michel walked with clipboard under arm, calling names with military precision.
"Evra. Plasil. Zikos. Nonda. Left bibs." He pointed toward the half already marked with red cones.
"Giuly. Rothen. El Fakiri. Adebayor. Right side."
No protests. His tone permitted none.
Evra tugged the red bib over his chest like armor, adjusting shin pads with practiced hands. Across the pitch, Giuly bounced on his toes, flashing Rothen a grin loaded with predatory anticipation.
Demien remained at the edge, arms folded behind his back. The posture belonged to Yves—calm, silent, watchful. But inside, tension coiled in his chest like a wound spring. His heart beat steady but tight. Ready. He’d never coached at this level. Never guided players whose faces graced magazine covers. Never instructed a defender who would someday captain Manchester United.
He’d been the player once. Forgotten. Now he was the one they glanced at from beneath lowered brows, whispering behind cupped hands.
The ball rolled. Whistle pierced the air. Match began.