Chapter 58: Recovery and the Question They Always Ask
And he left.
The sound of his footsteps trailed down the tunnel like the tail end of a warning, not quite a threat, not quite done echoing. By the time Demien stepped back into the morning air at La Turbie, Sunday had already started pretending it was calm. No wind. Just the low crack of boot studs on concrete and the hollow clink of water bottles dropped into crates.
He didn’t say anything when he arrived. Didn’t have to. The players knew.
The eleven that started in Lille weren’t stretching yet. They were sitting. Most of them, at least.
Plašil had cones already marked. He pointed out positions without waiting for staff. El Fakiri jogged out last, wrapped up tight at the calf, jaw clenched like he was chewing on the memory of every misplaced touch.
Adebayor arrived walking backwards, laughing with Grax about something no one else could hear. Grax didn’t laugh back. Just nodded once and kept his head low.
Demien leaned against the railing near the edge of the pitch. No coat. Just sleeves rolled to the elbow and hands in his pockets. Michel came up next to him with a clipboard and the faint smell of bitter coffee.
"Physios say two knocks, nothing deep," Michel said.
Demien didn’t ask who.
"They’re playing anyway."
Michel didn’t argue.