Chapter 10: Tactical Roundtable
The conference room at Stade Louis II carried the lingering scents of old coffee, dry-erase markers, and worn leather. Morning light cut through narrow window slits, casting harsh stripes across the tactical board dominating the wall. A heavy oak table stretched through the center, bearing shallow scars from half a dozen coaches’ failures – rings from coffee cups, gouges from pens pressed too hard during moments of frustration, silent witnesses to seasons past.
Demien stood with one hand resting loosely against the table edge, the other tucked in his jacket pocket. His reflection fragmented across the glass whiteboard behind him, distorted and incomplete. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t pace. Just waited, measuring the seconds.
The staff filtered in with practiced familiarity. Michel arrived first, clipboard pressed against his ribs like armor, eyes scanning the room before settling. Bertrand, the fitness coach, followed – wiry, compact, perpetually tense. Pascal, the goalkeeping coach, dragged a chair noisily across the floor, wincing at his own disruption. The analyst – Baptiste, fresh-faced and eager – fumbled his stack of papers before sliding awkwardly into the last seat.
Muttered greetings filled the air. Chairs scraped. Bottles thudded against wood. Routines playing out like they had hundreds of times before.
Demien remained silent throughout.
Michel cleared his throat, flipping open his clipboard with practiced efficiency. His voice carried the crisp, rehearsed quality of a man who prepared his words beforehand.
"Player loads are stable post-warm-up. No flagged red zones on the GPS data. Evra limited to seventy percent workload until next week. Nonda’s groin tightness still being monitored. Travel arrangements confirmed for the friendly against Lens."
Heads nodded in unison, a choreographed acknowledgment.
Efficient. Routine. Expected.
Demien let silence stretch a breath longer than comfortable after Michel finished, just enough for eyes to start flickering in his direction. The smallest power move – making them wait.
He stepped forward, movements casual but deliberate, and pulled a marker from the ledge beneath the board. The cap snapped off with a soft pop that punctuated the quiet.