The whistle hadn't blown yet, but Demien was already reading lines.
Feyenoord's midfield three set early. Not deep enough to protect the pivot, not high enough to press clean. Their wide players floated, caught between shadow-marking Monaco's fullbacks and covering the channels. That indecision would cost them.
He stood still, arms at his sides, eyes tracking their posture like it was math. No need for emotion. Just recognition.
Michel said nothing.
The stadium was barely half-full. Local kids pressed against the barriers behind the dugouts. Occasional chants drifted from a pocket of supporters up in the steel stands, but the atmosphere was light. Quiet.
It wouldn't be soon.
The referee's arm lifted. Whistle.
Ball rolled back to Zikos, and the system ignited.
Monaco didn't rush. Zikos played short to Bernardi, who clipped it wide to Evra, already high. A triangle formed and collapsed again. Then again. Possession for ninety seconds—just the back four and Zikos, shifting Feyenoord's front three side to side until their knees dipped a little too far forward.
Then it came.
Zikos held it half a second longer than necessary. Just enough to bait the press—make Feyenoord's left interior bite forward. His shoulders remained squared, eyes down, selling indecision.
One touch to Bernardi.
Return.
Then into Cissé, flat and firm, right into the midline pocket. Cissé pivoted without hesitation—right hip open, shoulders scanning before the ball even arrived. The space had unfolded before Feyenoord saw it collapse.
Vertical. Clean. Short.
Giuly.
He dropped between the lines—not as a decoy, but as an anchor. Off the shoulder of Feyenoord's left interior, just outside their defensive block's vision cone.
The pass kissed the grass once.
Giuly didn't trap it. Didn't check it.
He carried it with his stride—used its weight like a slingshot pulling him inside. One touch moved him into the left channel. Two defenders followed late. The second glanced nervously toward Rothen, too far inside.
Giuly had already seen it.
Outside boot. One flick.
Rothen.
The winger cut from inside to out—drawing his fullback with him like a hooked fish on a tight line. No flourish, no signal. Just rhythm.
Evra saw the trap.
Sprinted past both like a flash flood down a forgotten gutter.
His angle was obvious.
But Rothen ignored it.
Demien's eyes didn't twitch. He waited to see the decision.
Rothen kept it—touched once to settle his balance—then tapped it back, soft and blind, into the path of Cissé who had quietly coasted into the center, unmarked.
Cissé didn't turn. One glance was enough.
Diagonal.
The ball split the defensive midline like a thin blade drawn through wet cloth.
Giuly again.
Unmarked now—space gifted by the momentary overload.
His stride didn't break.
Zone 14.
Demien felt the shift before the shot left the boot.
Morientes had already curved his run in. Started inside, drifted out, then snapped back toward the front post like a spring returning to coil. The Feyenoord center-back followed half a second too late—committed early, caught flat.
Giuly didn't waste it.
No backlift. Just a short cut across the body—inside foot, laced and guided.
Morientes met it on the run.
One-touch finish.
Near post.
The net rippled softly—no thud. Just the sound of silk folding.
0–1, Monaco.
Demien didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He turned a quarter-step toward the bench and spoke low, like he was issuing a reminder to a room already silent:
"Third man movement—again."
Michel's chin dipped. A flick of confirmation.
The assistants behind didn't react. Their hands remained clasped behind their backs. One of them scribbled. Another stood still as if afraid motion would ruin it.
Giuly jogged back past the center circle without so much as a nod. Eyes straight ahead.
Morientes tucked his chin, breathing through the nose. Calm. Unimpressed by his own work.
Rothen—only Rothen—turned toward the sideline and raised his eyebrows slightly, like he wasn't entirely sure how that sequence actually unfolded the way it did.
Demien made a mental note to review the full sequence in training. Slow it frame by frame.
The restart came quickly.
Feyenoord didn't panic.
But they adjusted.
Their right-back stepped higher—pressed tighter onto Evra.
The left winger followed Cissé earlier in the next cycle.
A higher press.
Demien read it instantly.
He didn't flinch. Just raised his voice slightly—barely above wind level.
"Zone two. Pin it."
No call came back. No verbal confirmation.
But Rothen began to drift.
His channel narrowed. No longer hugging touch. He cut inward diagonally—drawing Feyenoord's fullback toward the center.
Evra, wide and silent, didn't move until the fullback shifted inside.
Then he stayed high.
Unmarked.
Demien's eyes stayed on the grass between them—the space that Feyenoord didn't know they had abandoned.
Michel spoke without looking up.
"They just gave it away."
Demien didn't reply.
He was already watching Bernardi receive the next pass from Roma.
That space would open again. It always did.
Next phase—Zikos delayed a beat.
Shoulders angled backward. One stud planted longer than necessary. The Feyenoord forward bit, leaning into the bait. Press activated. Too soon.
Zikos rolled it blindside with surgical touch—never even looking.
Bernardi caught it with his instep already open. A whisper of weight on the pass. Turned it loose in one motion, sending it wide to Evra.
Clean. Perfect. Space.
The ball skipped off the grass with a whisper, kissed the painted line.
Feyenoord's winger spun and chased, but Evra was already gone—cleats chopping, arms steady, head lifted.
Demien's breath didn't change.
No call from the bench. No signal.
Evra didn't cross.
He waited.
Held the line. One bounce. Two.
Rothen jogged slow behind him, hips squared like he wasn't involved.
Then broke.
A jab-step inside. Cut to the edge.
Gone.
Evra saw it without needing a cue. The pass came low and curved—dragged like a leash across the grass, not too fast, not too soft.
Rothen didn't touch it. Let the momentum carry him to the byline.
Head never turned.
He curved the cutback like it was muscle memory—just behind the penalty spot.
Demien's eyes were already inside the box.
Morientes shifted early. Center-back tracked. The six dropped to cover the rebound line.
But no one accounted for the ghost.
Giuly curled late from the right channel, unseen between the lines.
One step.
The ball reached him.
He didn't trap. Didn't overthink.
Right foot inside, angled finish—like swatting a fly mid-air.
The net didn't even snap. Just folded gently.
Inside post. In.
0–2. Monaco.
Demien didn't move.
Michel exhaled behind him, just once.
A few substitutes on the bench clapped softly. Squillaci let out a low, satisfied grunt.
Demien looked down, flipped the page in his notebook, and drew a single X.
Not beside Giuly.
He marked the Feyenoord holding midfielder—the one who failed to track Rothen's curve.
The camera operator behind the dugout murmured, "Pretty football."
Demien didn't respond.
The restart happened quickly. The home team jogged up like they were trying not to show it mattered. But their passes lost rhythm. Two of them called for the same ball. Demien noted the miscommunication.
Monaco didn't back off.
Cissé floated higher into the press, just enough to cut the half-channel.
Rothen recycled clean into Bernardi again—Evra held the width, pinning Feyenoord's fullback against the line like a magnet.
The lanes stayed vertical. Five of them. No drift.
Giuly moved as if on rails, timing his pauses like he was synced to something only Demien could see.
Possession stats climbed. One pass became two. Two became six.
Touch, shift, pass. Repeat.
Feyenoord didn't press. Couldn't press. Each time they stepped forward, someone spun out behind them.
Demien's eyes flicked to Michel's watch.
They had reached minute thirty-six.
Eight shots to one.
And yet—
He focused on off-ball rotations.
Not the ball.
Rothen tracked back one step late after a switch. Demien marked it. Cissé leaned too heavily on his left when receiving under pressure. Another note.
Each touch had to carry a weight.
A purpose.
No flicks. No gambles.
Every movement told the next one where to go.
Demien stood still, arms now crossed. Watching it tick like a mechanism.
He knew what they were doing.
But more importantly—he knew what they were not doing.
They weren't improvising.
Not yet.
Which meant the system held.
But the players hadn't claimed it as their own.
Giuly nearly beat the fullback again in minute forty-three. The ball was sharp. Clean.
Morientes made the correct decoy run, pulling two men wide.
But Rothen hesitated—half-step off the pattern.
The play stalled.
Demien didn't frown.
Just wrote:
R #11 - 43' - paused off cue.
The whistle for halftime echoed across De Kuip.
Monaco left the field with their heads up. No cheering. No show.
Cissé tapped Bernardi once on the hip. Evra jogged shoulder to shoulder with Rothen, saying nothing.
Inside the tunnel, light flickered against metal.
Demien didn't turn toward the tunnel yet.
He kept his eyes on the pitch—still watching the last shape they held before the whistle. The positions they were in. The recovery line.
Every shadow left by the sun told him something.
Every pause mattered.
Then he turned.
As the players disappeared into the concrete below, Michel walked a step behind him and said, "They're starting to believe."
Demien's voice was low. Dry.
"That's when it gets dangerous."
At the whistle, the players moved off the pitch with silent confidence. Morientes jogged last. Zikos didn't look tired. Cissé wiped his face and nodded at Michel.
Inside the tunnel, the lights flickered slightly.
The locker room buzzed faintly from an old overhead fan. Bottles hissed open. Boots kicked off. Rothen joked once. No one laughed.
Demien stood near the tactics board. Didn't flip it.
Just spoke, low.
"Evra. One yard higher. Don't flatten with Rothen."
Evra nodded once. Sweat still clinging to his chin.
"Zikos. Deeper on second-phase retreats."
"Got it."
He paused. Looked across the room.
They sat like students between exams. No tension, but no relaxation either. Focus hung like heat.
Michel stepped beside him. Voice barely a whisper.
"They're starting to believe."
Demien's answer didn't change his expression.
"That's when it gets dangerous."
He didn't say more.
As the players stood and headed toward the tunnel, Demien stayed by the bench.
Didn't look at them.
Just muttered to himself, steady and low:
"Let's see if they remember how they scored."