Chapter 8: Football From the Future
The marker squeaked across the whiteboard in short, clipped strokes. Red arrows carved through green dots. A rectangular pitch split into thirds with diagonal lines slashed through the center like a battlefield strategy.
"Standard warm-up, then rondos," Michel said, capping the pen and tucking his clipboard under his arm. "Two-touch. Five-versus-two, tight spaces. Circle compression." His voice carried the confidence of routine. "You know the drill."
The coaching staff nodded, murmurs passing between them like static. Morning sunlight cut through dusty air in golden strips, painting tiger stripes across the locker room wall. The clock above the door ticked to 8:14. First whistle waited fifteen minutes away.
Demien leaned against the far end of the board. Hands tucked in his pockets, one foot hooked casually behind the other. A man with nowhere urgent to be. Composed on the surface.
Inside, he itched.
Yesterday’s rondos played back in his mind. Tight circles. Limited touches. Endless repetition. Good for tempo but narrow. Predictable. Players drilling muscle memory they’d never use in actual matches. In-game transitions didn’t happen in perfect circles. Pressure never arrived from just two directions.
Not wrong. Just outdated. Like watching football from the previous decade.
"Let’s adjust it," Demien said suddenly. His quiet voice landed with unexpected weight.
Michel blinked. "Adjust?"
"Same numbers. Five-on-two." Demien nodded toward the board. "But spread the layout. Create lanes between zones. One floater on each edge. Encourage third-man runs. Get them thinking past the closest pass."
Silence filled the room. A younger coach shifted his feet, eyes darting between Michel and Demien.