In This Life I Became a Coach

Whistle.

Not a sprint. No triumphant jog. Just controlled strides toward the tunnel, boots ticking softly across the turf.

Giuly’s head was down, but not from shame. Focus. Breath slow. Cissé wiped his wrist across his jaw. Evra pointed once at his own feet, murmuring something to Rothen behind him—timing detail, likely. Quiet talk.

Demien came last. Clipboard pressed under his left arm. Eyes scanning—not the scoreboard.

The movement.

The rhythm.

Michel was already posted by the tunnel, shoulder propped on the doorway, nodding at nothing.

"They look good," he said, like a placeholder thought.

Demien didn’t even glance.

"They’ll need to look better."

Then he disappeared through the door.