In This Life I Became a Coach

The afternoon session focused on defensive structure—containing Laslandes, tracking Everson’s movements, and maintaining shape against Nice’s direct transitions. Demien worked closely with the back four, emphasizing the coordination needed to neutralize Nice’s counter-attacking threat.

"Laslandes drops, then spins," he reminded Rodriguez and Squillaci. "Don’t follow the first movement; track the second."

They nodded, adjusting their positions as the training team mimicked Nice’s attacking patterns. Behind them, Roma organized the defensive line with sharp, precise commands. The goalkeeper had been in outstanding form since the season began, his confidence radiating to the entire defensive unit.

Clara arrived as the session was winding down, standing at the edge of the practice field with a notebook in hand and her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Professional mode. She was not the woman who had texted him late last night about wine and private conversations.

Demien finished his final instructions and made his way toward the main building, not acknowledging Clara—he didn’t need to. She would follow. The dance was familiar now.

In his office, he left the door open as he settled behind the desk. Clara entered a moment later, quietly closing the door behind her.

"I need quotes for the derby preview," she said, remaining standing. "Professional ones."

Demien regarded her steadily. "Is there another kind?"

She sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "You know what I mean. I can’t write, ’Monaco’s enigmatic coach prefers his steaks medium-rare and his wine full-bodied.’"

"That would be quite the preview."

A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth but was quickly suppressed. "Fifteen minutes. On the record." Finally, she sat down, placing her recorder on the desk between them. The red light blinked on.