Chapter 13: The Press Pounce
The locker room door clicked shut behind him, muffling the fading echoes of celebration and confusion alike.
Demien walked the narrow hallway alone, a towel draped around his shoulders, matchday gear neat despite the sweat still drying against his skin. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed with a constant, sterile hum.
The press conference room waited at the end of the hall — a box of stale air, folding chairs packed too close, bodies even closer.
He didn’t slow.
Two media officials stood by the door, murmuring between themselves. They straightened instinctively as he approached, but Demien didn’t spare them a glance. No handler. No PR shield. Just him.
As he stepped inside, a dozen heads swiveled. Cameras clicked softly. Reporters shifted in their chairs, notebooks perched, recorders poised on thin plastic tables.
Bright lights flooded the room, too harsh, too clinical. Heat clung to the air, a reminder that outside, Monaco was still bleeding summer.
Demien crossed to the table without breaking stride.Took his seat.Adjusted the mic once with two fingers.
Silence throbbed for a beat too long, before the first question darted out.
"Coach Laurent," an older journalist near the aisle started, voice brisk. "Your reaction to the result?"
Demien leaned back slightly in his chair, fingertips tapping once against the wood before answering.