The door clicked shut behind the last player. Sweat-laced silence followed. Boots scraped tile. Jerseys clung to skin like damp regrets.
Demien didn't sit.
He placed the clipboard on the bench with slow, deliberate precision, letting the sound of it landing fill the vacuum. No shouting. No theatrics. Just presence.
Giuly leaned forward on the far bench, elbows on knees, chest rising too fast. Rothen sat two seats down, legs spread, jaw clenched. Evra rubbed his temples with a towel. The others waited. No one reached for water.
Demien's gaze moved across them one by one—not judging, not accusing—just measuring.
"We're pressing like amateurs," he said.
Three words in, and the silence got heavier.
"Shape first. Pressure second." He pointed at no one, looked at everyone. "If one of you hunts alone, the line breaks. When the line breaks, we drown."
No protest. Just the quiet hiss of Bernardi adjusting his shin pad.
Demien turned slightly, facing Evra. "You're triggering too soon. Don't jump on the first pass—read the second."
Evra gave a shallow nod. Not offended. Just processing.
Next to him, Cissé leaned back and exhaled—ready for the next correction. It came, low and clipped. "Sit deeper. Don't chase shadows. Anchor."
Then, without moving, Demien let his voice carry. "And Rothen."
The winger didn't flinch. Didn't blink either.
"If you're going to cut inside, you better call it loud. Otherwise, our entire press fractures."
A muscle ticked in Rothen's jaw. He nodded once—tight, curt.
Demien left it there.
No diagrams. No long-winded sermon.
Just one last note: "We're up by one. But we're two passes from collapse. Fix the spacing, or they will."
He gave them six seconds of silence to absorb it.
Then turned his back, picked up the clipboard, and walked to the far end of the room to double-check the planned substitutions.
Michel approached quietly. "You want fresh legs now or wait till seventy?"
"Wait. I want to see if they can adjust on their own."
Michel didn't argue. Just scribbled something in his notebook.
When the assistant called for the restart, players shuffled out—no rallying cry, no slaps on the back. Just a collective awareness that the second half would either validate the idea... or rip it open
Stade Louis II – Second Half Kickoff
The pitch hadn't changed, but the game had. The sun was dipping behind the upper rim of the stands, casting streaks of gold across the far corner flag. A new weight hung in the air—not fatigue, not pressure. Something quieter. Thinner.
The kind of silence before something breaks.
Strasbourg's players stepped out like they'd been waiting for halftime to pass them the key to the match. No fire-and-fury team talk. Just a plan—and confidence that it would work.
Demien stood at the edge of the technical area, arms at his sides. No notes in his hand. He didn't need them now. What he'd feared in the final minutes of the first half was already beginning to unspool.
Strasbourg went wide early, dragging Monaco's shape into uncomfortable stretches. Every pass had intention—none wasted. Not looking for gaps. Creating them.
In the 48th minute, Rothen overran a closing press, chasing a shadow he thought was a cue.
It wasn't.
Strasbourg flicked the ball behind him and the whole line tilted wrong. Too high. Too late.
A single through ball cracked open the flank. The winger's acceleration was clean. By the time Roma squared up, the striker had peeled off Rodriguez's back and curled a shot inside the far post.
Net rippled.
The crowd flinched.
But then came the raised flag—offside. Barely.
Demien didn't breathe relief. Just shifted his weight.
His voice followed calmly, "Hold shape. No chasing."
Michel looked over, saying nothing. But his pen stilled in his hand.
The match resumed like it hadn't flinched.
Bernardi dropped deeper now, hesitating before pushing up. Evra gestured but didn't press. Zikos paced along the sideline. Waiting. Watching.
Strasbourg kept chipping away. Each pass stripped a layer of Monaco's tempo. Each flick made their lines blurrier. By the 55th minute, Giuly—usually synced like a heartbeat—pressed early, forcing Bernardi into a stranded recovery run that drew a groan from the bench.
Roma bailed them out again. No applause followed. Just breath held.
The pitch wasn't tilted. It was thin ice, and Demien could hear it cracking with every press mistimed, every second ball lost.
At the 61st, Demien turned to Michel. "Now."
Michel leaned in. "Zikos?"
"Zikos for Cissé. Lanteri for Pršo. Keep Morientes pinned, Lanteri roams. Tell him—press the second ball, not the first."
"Got it."
The board went up. Red and green lights blinked. Cissé jogged off slowly, sweat turning dark down his spine. Zikos clapped his gloves once. Loud, sharp. But no one echoed it.
Lanteri ran out with the energy of someone who thought he could shift the mood by smiling. No one smiled back.
Play restarted. For five minutes, Monaco looked marginally sharper. Then Strasbourg struck again.
One switch, deep from their backline, bypassed everything. Their left-back sprinted onto it like he'd never stopped running. The overlap split Ibarra and Rodriguez wide open. A first-time ball zipped low across the box.
A striker threw himself at it, studs flashing. Missed by centimeters.
Demien didn't flinch.
Roma barked once, loud enough to reach the bench. "Organize!"
By the 75th, the substitutions had settled nothing. Zikos mistimed a trap. Bernardi was caught rotating into space he didn't own. The midfield was open for a moment too long—and that was all Strasbourg needed.
Demien felt it coming.
In the 88th, it arrived.
The ball moved: pass, touch, switch.
Zikos stepped forward.
No one followed.
Strasbourg cut through the opening. Their winger burst into the channel, squared it low and fast. A toe-poke. A deflection. A half-handed save from Roma.
But the rebound dropped.
And it was 1–1.
Not a dramatic goal. A quiet one. The kind that felt preordained.
Giuly swore once and dug the ball out of the net, but his eyes didn't meet anyone's.
Evra turned away from the goal.
Demien didn't speak.
Not because he was unsure.
Because there was nothing to fix in the last two minutes. No time to rebuild a system in the shadow of self-doubt.
The whistle came like a mercy.
No handshakes. No fist bumps. Just players drifting back toward the tunnel like they were returning from somewhere farther than midfield.
Rothen's bib came off first, yanked from his chest and slammed against the wall just outside the tunnel mouth.
"You said this works?" he snapped, not at anyone in particular—but loud enough for the hallway to pause around it.
Demien didn't answer.
Michel caught his gaze, half-expecting an order.
Still nothing.
The squad kept walking.
Evra stayed behind a moment longer, sweat sliding down his temple, jaw locked. Giuly said nothing, eyes forward.
Demien followed the rest into the corridor, clipboard in hand, the weight of the draw balanced evenly between the players' breathing and the echo of boots on tile.
There was no panic in him.
Just clarity.
Because if they were breaking, it meant they were almost ready to be rebuilt.
Tunnel – Post-match
The echo of boots on concrete was the only rhythm left.
Sweat still clung to jerseys. Water bottles rattled in crates. Someone slammed a locker deeper down the corridor.
Demien walked quietly, clipboard under one arm.
Behind him, Rothen's voice broke the silence.
The bib hit the wall with a smack, sliding down like a surrender flag.
"You said this works," Rothen snapped, voice edged with disbelief and fury.
Demien didn't stop.
Didn't look.
Didn't reply.
Not yet