Chapter 26: Eyes on the Pitch
The cones were already set when Demien stepped onto the pitch.
He didn’t check the weather—he felt it. The kind of morning where the sun looked soft but stung under pressure. Heat rose slow off the grass, not enough to burn, just enough to tighten the air in your chest.
Cleats scraped behind him—Evra, Giuly, Rothen filing in early. Shirts half-tucked, sleeves rolled. The way they moved told him they were ready. Or pretending to be.
"Four minutes warm-up," he called, voice low but carrying. "Then we lock in."
Michel drifted beside him, arms folded, cap pulled low. He didn’t ask what the plan was. Not anymore.
Demien walked the edge of the pitch with his eyes scanning zones instead of faces. Two full 11s split across the field. Blue bibs, red bibs. A spine forming on instinct—Bernardi at the base, Cissé mid-right, Giuly high and inside. Good. The shape was there.
He glanced toward the far fence.
There, half-hidden by the line of trees, was a shape he hadn’t expected.
Clara.
No camera. No notebook up yet. Just her frame leaned slightly forward, one hand on the chain-link, coffee cup held like an afterthought.
Demien didn’t acknowledge her. Not yet.