Chapter 21: Monaco vs Strasbourg B: Second Half
The door clicked shut behind the last player. Sweat-laced silence followed. Boots scraped tile. Jerseys clung to skin like damp regrets.
Demien didn’t sit.
He placed the clipboard on the bench with slow, deliberate precision, letting the sound of it landing fill the vacuum. No shouting. No theatrics. Just presence.
Giuly leaned forward on the far bench, elbows on knees, chest rising too fast. Rothen sat two seats down, legs spread, jaw clenched. Evra rubbed his temples with a towel. The others waited. No one reached for water.
Demien’s gaze moved across them one by one—not judging, not accusing—just measuring.
"We’re pressing like amateurs," he said.
Three words in, and the silence got heavier.
"Shape first. Pressure second." He pointed at no one, looked at everyone. "If one of you hunts alone, the line breaks. When the line breaks, we drown."
No protest. Just the quiet hiss of Bernardi adjusting his shin pad.
Demien turned slightly, facing Evra. "You’re triggering too soon. Don’t jump on the first pass—read the second."
Evra gave a shallow nod. Not offended. Just processing.