In This Life I Became a Coach

The whiteboard behind him still had the Feyenoord second-half freeze-frame pinned in magnets.

Demien stood at the window. Left hand braced on the sill. Right hand clutched a black pen like it might betray him if he eased his grip. The tip hadn’t clicked once in over two minutes.

Below, the training ground shimmered in low morning mist. A row of hurdles sat untouched near the center circle. Cones lay scattered at the far end like a drill frozen mid-motion.

A knock. Two taps.

Michel entered before Demien spoke.

"You want me with the keepers today or rotations?"

Demien didn’t turn.

"Neither. I need you upstairs."

Michel stopped mid-step. "Upstairs?"

"Tell the general manager I want a defensive coach," Demien said, still facing the glass. "Aggressive. Tough. Someone the backline respects before he speaks."

Michel shifted, uncertain. "You got someone in mind?"