The youth pitch at Stade Louis II didn't carry the same scent. The cut was shallower, almost ornamental. A field meant for shaping futures, not defining legacies.
Demien slowed at the edge of the fence, clipboard tucked under one arm, the afternoon's senior schedule still half-scribbled in his mind. The chatter was lighter here—coaches in tracksuits pacing with their arms crossed, correcting posture more than pressing lines. Players younger than their ambition, darting around with the manic energy of boys who still mistook speed for purpose.
Then something broke the rhythm.
Not a shout. Not a goal. Just movement—calculated, crisp, quiet.
A figure peeled away from a tight triangle near the far corner, slipping behind a ball-watcher just as the pass was misplayed. One touch. Second burst. A clean switch to the weak side. No flourish. No pause for applause.
Number 27.
Tall, lean frame with growing bones still trying to fill out his stride. Long sleeves pushed to his elbows. Head up. Never frantic. Playing like the pitch owed him answers, not opportunities.
Demien shifted his weight, clipboard forgotten.
A quick reshuffle followed—the ball pinging between two midfielders before clattering loose again. Most players converged with noisy urgency. One didn't.
The same boy. Shadow-footed. Patient. He hovered at the edge of the chaos, reading the trajectory. Then stepped in—not fast, not late—just correct. A single touch lifted the rebound off the ground. The second flicked it off his laces with a side volley that skipped once and buried itself into the far corner netting like it belonged there.
No celebration. Just a quiet jog back toward his mark.
Demien didn't blink.
Not because of the finish. But because of the stillness before it.
The others were loud. Eager. Trying to impress. That boy had already decided the pitch belonged to him.
A youth coach clapped somewhere nearby. "Better. Move it wider now!"
Demien's arms folded slowly across his chest. He didn't speak. Didn't need to.
The next play began, the ball rolled, and the same boy ran again—not hardest, but right. Filling channels nobody else saw. Ghosting in behind fullbacks who hadn't even turned their heads yet. Reading space like a striker who knew what the future was supposed to look like.
And Demien did know. That was the worst part. Or the best.
He'd watched this boy score in the World Cup. He'd seen him lift trophies. Felt the headlines years before they were written. Emmanuel Adebayor wasn't just promising.
He was inevitable.
Demien scanned the sidelines. One of the assistant youth coaches stood closest, half-bent over a notebook, more focused on touch counts than direction.
"Is he new?" Demien asked, nodding toward the red-shirted forward.
The coach straightened. "Adebayor. Came in last week. From Togo—development deal. Still settling in."
"He doesn't look unsettled."
A shrug. "Bit quiet. Bit raw. But… yeah. There's something there."
Demien's gaze tracked another pass—one that skipped past two defenders, met Adebayor's stride in full flow, and was calmly squared back across goal. No ego. Just clean geometry.
There was no point waiting for consensus.
Demien turned slightly, voice low but direct. "Get him a red bib."
The assistant blinked. "Sorry?"
"Senior group. This afternoon."
The hesitation was brief—one of those reflex pauses when a man double-checks if he's allowed to question the obvious. Then he nodded.
"I'll tell him."
Demien didn't wait for follow-up. He was already stepping off the curb of the pitch, mind pivoting back toward the tactics board still waiting near the main dugout. Shapes to draw. Patterns to build.
But one of the slots up front had just been filled.
Baptism Among Wolves
The late afternoon light spilled low across the pitch, flattening shadows, tinting white cones gold. Cleats crunched gravel behind the dugout. Two sets of bibs were tossed onto a bench, still damp from the midday sun.
Demien clicked the cap onto his marker and stepped away from the tactics board. Nothing more needed to be drawn.
The squads were named.Lines were drawn.Now the pitch would decide.
Players jogged out onto the field in casual packs — familiar movements, loose chatter, just enough rhythm to suggest this was still "just training." But the way Giuly rolled his shoulders during warmup, the way Squillaci pulled his socks tighter before stepping across the white line… they knew better.
Rothen caught sight of Adebayor first. Didn't stare. Just watched long enough for the flicker to register. Then turned back toward Evra, murmuring something under his breath that made the corner of the fullback's mouth twitch — but not quite a smile.
Adebayor said nothing.Red bib on. Shirt team.
He slipped into the formation without announcement, jogging to his place on the right side of the forward line. No fuss. No misplaced swagger.
Demien crossed his arms at the edge of the halfway line, lips pressed into a straight line. Michel gave him a short nod as he moved toward the opposite sideline. The rest of the coaching staff drifted out behind the players.
The whistle sounded. The game started.
First ten minutes passed like a quiet exam — questions without answers. Touches. Misreads. Weight too heavy on a through ball. Cutback too late. Players feeling the tempo, listening to the pulse of each other's decisions.
Adebayor stayed inside the flow.
Short passes. One-touch layoffs. Never overreaching, never invisible. Every sprint had a purpose, every pause a calculation.
Demien didn't shout. He never did during these sessions. He just watched, boots anchored in the grass, mind tuning to rhythms others hadn't learned to hear yet.
A corner came and went. No threat. Just motion.
Then it happened.
Bernardi poked a toe in near the halfway arc — a tackle clean as a whisper — and the ball popped loose. Giuly lunged, barely tipping it to his left.
Adebayor moved.
Not straight. Not fast. Just suddenly… gone.
Late enough to be invisible to the centerback. Early enough to be uncatchable by the fullback. Angled into the blind seam between both.
The ball slid through two defenders like it had been waiting all session.
One touch. Controlled without thought.
The second struck before the keeper's stance even dropped.
Top corner. No apology.
Silence pressed down for a beat too long.
Then squinted nods. Quick glances between players. Someone exhaled a soft curse.
Demien's hands didn't leave his chest, but one palm opened just long enough to deliver a sharp, single clap that echoed off the empty seats behind him.
"Never doubt your fire."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.
Adebayor didn't look back. Just jogged toward the center circle, jaw set, shoulders reset. As if scoring like that had always been part of the job description.
The ball rolled again.Tension shifted.
Rothen's next pass was tighter.Evra's cover run came a second earlier.Even Morientes began checking deeper, glancing more.
Something was moving now.It wasn't praise.It was weight — redistributed, recalibrated. They'd seen something they couldn't unsee.
Demien marked the clipboard, clicked the pen shut, and stepped closer to the touchline, voice steady as he called out across the pitch, "Adebayor, rotate right. Pršo's dropping inside."
The young striker glanced back once, nodded, and shifted wide just as the next sequence unfolded — ball in play again, bodies shifting, lines redrawing with every touch.