The sun hit the gravel lot at a cruel angle, high enough to bleach the color out of every surface. Asphalt shimmered. The metal fence rattled faintly in the breeze off the coast. And still, Clara Moreau didn't slow her stride.
She moved like she'd been here before—press pass already hanging from her lanyard, hair tied back in a way that said "fast questions, clean footage, no games." Behind her, Ben lugged the camera bag with the weary pace of a man who knew he wasn't getting lunch until she got her headline.
"Thought this was football, not a military base," he muttered, half to himself, half to the shoulder of her trench coat.
Clara didn't answer. Her eyes were already scanning. Two youth players jogged by in silence, sweat clinging to their backs in damp arcs. Beyond the glass of the main training hall, someone was drawing triangles on a whiteboard. Not tactics—architecture.
She let her gaze drift across the compound—pitch, cones, GPS towers, three staffers adjusting zones with the focus of engineers prepping a flight path. No idle clapping. No jokes. Just a rhythm that hummed under the surface.
"They're wound tight," she said under her breath, more observation than judgment.
Ben grunted, flicking open the tripod legs. "Wound or paranoid?"
Clara ignored him. Flipped open her notepad. Top line from her editor read:
MONACO: What's Changing? Who's Driving It?
The questions weren't hers. Yet. But they would be.
The first interview was already queued.
Rothen stood near the hydration cart, hands on hips, eyes squinting toward the sun. His shirt was half-clung to his frame, red from the midday run. He looked like a man used to reporters—and more used to dodging them.
"You're the journalist," he said, before she asked.
"I am." She smiled just enough to be polite. "Clara. L'Équipe."
Rothen took the mic with a shrug. "Don't make me sound smarter than I am."
"No promises."
She asked about preseason. He rolled his eyes. Said it was "different." When pressed, he added, "Coach likes things clean. But football's messy. We'll see who wins."
Clara jotted it down. Not the words—the way he glanced toward the staff building when he said coach.
Next was Bernardi. Quieter. Measured. Took a second longer between answers, like he was filtering truth through three layers before handing it over.
"There's a system," he said. "A shape. We're inside it now. Some of us are still learning how to move."
"Is it working?" she asked.
He didn't smile. "Ask me in a month."
Then came Adebayor.
He jogged over half-uninvited, grinning like a man who knew where every camera was even when his eyes were closed. Shirt untucked. Tape around his wrists.
"You want the truth?" he said, leaning in like it was a secret.
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Always."
He gestured behind him toward the coaches. "That man doesn't see football. He sees… equations."
She tilted her head. "And you're okay with that?"
Adebayor shrugged. "Depends if the equation wins."
Giuly ducked them politely. Evra gave a short nod—"Maybe next time." His tone said probably not.
Clara looked down at her notes again.
Three players. Three versions of control. None of them media-trained. None of them smiling unless they meant it. Something was happening here—but it wasn't for show.
She stepped back from the pitch, motioned to Ben to get a wide-angle of the drills. The players moved like they'd rehearsed the chaos. Two-touch passes with no room for hesitation. Transition breaks set up from nothing. And through it all, no yelling. No whistle-blasts. Just the sharp rhythm of decisions.
"Feels like a lab, not a locker room," she muttered.
Michel appeared beside her before she noticed him. No clipboard this time. Just a calm nod and hands in his jacket pockets.
"You wanted the coach."
Clara lowered her notepad. "Yes."
He nodded toward the side building. "This way."
The hallway was cooler. Lights dimmer. Concrete walls lined with framed photos of past squads. Wenger. Henry. Barthez. Ghosts of old glories looking down like they hadn't seen enough in years.
Michel walked ahead, measured but brisk.
Clara glanced into one open office they passed—walls covered in pinned training graphs, red strings between player photos, some kind of private web.
Another door shut somewhere down the hall. A muffled voice. Silence.
Finally, they reached a plain black door at the end.
No nameplate. Just a faint scuff where hands touched it too often.
Michel turned to her. "No more than fifteen."
She opened her notebook again. "I only need ten."
He cracked the door, leaned in slightly.
A pause.
Then the faintest reply from inside: "Now's fine."
Michel pulled the door open wider. Stepped aside.
His tone didn't change.
"Coach Laurent will see you now."