Chapter 55: No One Waits Twice
And who stared.
The wind had picked up by the time training started. Michel had to hold the corner cone down with his foot as Demien walked to the center circle with a folded paper in his back pocket and thirteen pairs of eyes following him from a distance. They knew.
The list was already posted on the board near the tunnel. He hadn’t said anything in the locker room—just pointed at it once before stepping out onto the pitch.
Adebayor, Grax, Maurice-Belay, Plašil, El Fakiri, Givet, Rodriguez, Squillaci, Ibarra, and Porato in goal. The two youth midfielders—Mohellebi and Hislen—were included to fill the rotations.
No Giuly. No Rothen. No Morientes. No Bernardi. No D’Alessandro. No Alonso. No Zikos. No Evra. Not yet.
He didn’t owe anyone a speech. They’d all played somewhere else the week before—for their countries, for pride, for reputation. But not for Monaco.
The ones here had trained, had run in the heat, reset cones when no one was watching, picked each other off the grass, and still asked for the next drill. That counted.
The ball started moving before Demien gave the signal. Plašil had already lined the grids. Ibarra was clapping his hands, pointing to shift the press. Adebayor had his back to the goal, receiving into traffic with that loose first touch and long reach that made defenders guess.
Rodriguez and Squillaci handled everything in the air; nothing bounced twice. Porato looked older than everyone by a decade, but his shouts were sharp—not hopeful, but commanding.
Demien moved along the sideline, quiet and just watching. Michel jogged over during the water break.
"They’re biting. Harder than usual."