The cones were already set when Demien stepped onto the pitch.
He didn't check the weather—he felt it. The kind of morning where the sun looked soft but stung under pressure. Heat rose slow off the grass, not enough to burn, just enough to tighten the air in your chest.
Cleats scraped behind him—Evra, Giuly, Rothen filing in early. Shirts half-tucked, sleeves rolled. The way they moved told him they were ready. Or pretending to be.
"Four minutes warm-up," he called, voice low but carrying. "Then we lock in."
Michel drifted beside him, arms folded, cap pulled low. He didn't ask what the plan was. Not anymore.
Demien walked the edge of the pitch with his eyes scanning zones instead of faces. Two full 11s split across the field. Blue bibs, red bibs. A spine forming on instinct—Bernardi at the base, Cissé mid-right, Giuly high and inside. Good. The shape was there.
He glanced toward the far fence.
There, half-hidden by the line of trees, was a shape he hadn't expected.
Clara.
No camera. No notebook up yet. Just her frame leaned slightly forward, one hand on the chain-link, coffee cup held like an afterthought.
Demien didn't acknowledge her. Not yet.
He turned.
"Compact start. Ball doesn't leave the central corridor for the first three sequences."
One of the assistants, Julien, stepped forward with the whistle. Demien shook his head.
"I've got it."
Julien stepped back.
The first whistle sliced through the air.
The drill began. Not a scrimmage. A test.
Red in possession. Blue pressing in sync. No shouting, no swarming. Just angles. Delay. Cut off the second pass.
Giuly received in the pocket, too early. Pressed. Lost.
Demien's hands stayed by his sides.
He waited.
Next cycle—Giuly timed it late, hung back half a second longer.
Third cycle—Bernardi found him with a skip-pass into the half-space. Movement locked. Rothen streaked wide. Cissé underlapped. One-touch. Forward.
Now they were moving.
Demien stepped forward into the zone. Not to stop play. Just enough to let them know he'd seen.
"Again," he said. "Same shape. Rotate the pivot."
No reaction from the players—just adjustment. Quiet shuffle, shift in depth.
Behind him, Michel murmured, "Rothen's a step slow in the scan."
Demien nodded once. "He'll feel it next cycle."
They ran the sequence again. And again. Each pass clicked a little sharper. Adebayor's dummy opened a central lane on the sixth run. Shot skimmed wide, but Demien didn't flinch.
Training wasn't about the finish.
It was about the system folding into muscle.
He walked the sideline slowly, gaze never still. One assistant moved cones to tighten the outside zones. Another reset the backline spacing.
Demien said nothing to them.
His mouth opened only when it mattered.
"Rothen. Count the second man behind you next time."
Rothen didn't respond. But on the next loop, he scanned early. Picked up the third run. Intercepted clean.
Michel checked his clipboard. "You're rewiring their instincts."
"They never needed instincts," Demien said, almost under his breath. "They needed rhythm."
Another pass-line. Another triangle formed without verbal cue. Three players rotating out of one corridor into the next, ball zipping clean across the five-lane grid.
Midfield moved like gears now. Not pretty. Precise.
On the edge of the final third, Adebayor paused his press, forced a retreat, then nodded to Cissé—who shifted right a second early.
Demien called out just loud enough: "Don't guess. React to the pass angle."
The line held.
The players weren't following a script. They were beginning to calculate.
He stepped back again.
Let them breathe into it.
Let the system cook.
And then—he looked back toward the fence.
She was still there.
Notebook now in hand. Coffee untouched. Eyes narrowed, mouth half-set, tracking the flow like a second coach in disguise. She didn't speak. Didn't record. Just watched.
Demien met her eyes through the mesh.
For a second, the session slowed behind him. The rhythm didn't stop—but he felt its weight shift. The control of it. The silence. The burden.
He nodded once.
A small movement.
She didn't return it. Just wrote something.
Demien turned back to the pitch.
"Final two cycles," he called out. "Keep the distances. Two seconds max. No dribbling."
They reset the ball at halfway.
He didn't need to glance back again.
He knew she was still watching.
Grass stuck to Demien's ankles. Clippings clung to the edge of his sock line, damp from the last rotation drill. He didn't wipe them off. Let the sweat dry slow under his collar. The whistle had blown twelve minutes ago, but the players were still filtering out—some jogging light laps, others in silent pairs peeling off toward the side gates.
Rothen sat cross-legged on the edge of the bench, jersey pulled over his head. Giuly was already halfway through a water bottle, sweat dripping from his chin. No one laughed. No music. No soundtrack to ease the silence. Just boots thudding against grass and the scrape of metal crates wheeled toward the shed.
Demien stood near the center circle with Michel, the clipboard between them tilted toward the light. Not discussing—just verifying.
"Cissé's step-back timing needs tightening," Michel muttered, eyes scanning the column of heat maps.
"Let him solve it first," Demien replied, thumb tapping once against the corner. "He'll see it on replay."
Michel nodded, then folded the paper clean and tucked it under his arm.
Demien turned, wordlessly dismissing him.
He walked with purpose—but not fast. Not eager.
She was still there, near the media line. Leaned against the rail now, one foot crossed behind the other, notebook closed, pen lodged under her thumb. No camera crew. No recorder.
Just her.
Her blouse was slightly wrinkled at the elbow. Dust clung to the knee of her jeans where she'd crouched earlier. Her coffee cup had long since been abandoned on the grass. She didn't look up until he was five feet away.
Demien stopped just short of the boundary chalk.
Didn't ask why she'd stayed. Didn't mention the notebook. Just watched her.
"Are you free this weekend?"
No buildup. No preamble. His voice was steady, almost casual.
Clara blinked once. Brow twitching—not frowning, just recalibrating. "For…?"
Demien tilted his head slightly. Just enough to break the straight line between them. No smile. No lean.
"A real conversation," he said. "Outside of microphones and notebooks."
Her weight shifted subtly to her other hip. Arms still crossed. Not defensive—just balancing.
"Are you always this direct?"
"Only when the window's open."
She didn't answer immediately. Let the silence stretch half a second longer than most would tolerate. Then she uncrossed her arms, brushing a faint streak of dried grass from her sleeve with the back of her hand.
"And if I say yes?"
Demien's hands were still at his sides.
"Then I'll pick the place. You pick the time."
The smallest pause before her reply.
"Alright," she said. "Saturday night."
He nodded once. Not slow. Not rehearsed. Just enough.
Then turned.
Didn't linger. Didn't look back.
Boots silent on the soft earth, collar fluttering faintly as he passed the row of crates and training hurdles. Michel stood near the dugout, waiting with a fresh set of printouts, but Demien raised a hand once to wave him off. Another time.
Behind him, the wind shifted.
He didn't stop.
Didn't need to.
And at the edge of the field, Clara flipped her notebook open again.
Jotted something low in the margin—quick, small strokes.
Three words.
Pressed firm into the paper.
Not just football.