In This Life I Became a Coach

The training complex at La Turbie loomed above Monaco like a fortress—its modern glass façade and perfectly manicured pitches contrasting with the endless blue of the Mediterranean in the distance. At 1:30 PM, players began arriving in sleek, expensive cars with tinted windows, designer bags slung over their shoulders, and sunglasses shielding eyes still heavy from celebration, sleep, or perhaps a mix of both.

Demien watched from his office window as they gathered near the entrance. Giuly was the first to arrive, ever punctual and setting the standard as captain. Rothen and Evra followed, laughing about something only they understood. Morientes pulled up in a modest sedan that belied his star status. One by one, the architects of last night’s victory assembled, the atmosphere light yet focused.

They all knew what lay ahead. The rhythm of football allowed no time for prolonged celebration.

Michel knocked once before entering, a stack of printouts tucked under his arm. "Medical reports," he said, dropping them on Demien’s desk. "Everyone’s clear. A few normal fatigue markers, but nothing concerning."

Demien nodded, scanning the first page. "What about Rothen’s knee?"

"Just impact bruising. He’s good to train."

"And Evra’s hip flexor?"

Michel raised an eyebrow. "How did you know about that? He didn’t mention it after the match."

Demien looked up, realizing he had slipped. He couldn’t tell Michel that he had seen Evra favoring that hip in the next match of the original timeline. "He was stretching it during cooldown," he improvised. "Looked uncomfortable."

"Well, the scans are clear. But we’ll keep an eye on it."

The door swung open again, and Stone entered without knocking—a sure sign of agitation.