Bright sunlight poured over the pitch like floodlights from the gods—merciless and high. Grass, immaculately trimmed, blazed green beneath the midday sky. The Stade Louis II training ground had the precision of a military drill site, and the silence before the whistle blew carried an almost sacred tension.
Demien stepped out into the open with Michel a stride ahead, but he didn't rush to catch up. His legs moved under him with natural rhythm, the body knowing how to walk this walk even if the man inside it didn't.
To the left, rows of cones curved into half-moons across the turf. Staffers in red-and-black kits adjusted tripod-mounted GPS receivers along the sidelines. The smell of sun-warmed rubber and clipped grass lingered in the breeze. Boots clacked softly in the distance. Players in light red training tops jogged in staggered lines, circling the width of the pitch in a tempo that didn't require instruction. They already knew the drill.
Eyes turned.
Only some tried to hide it.
Evra passed closest, light on his feet, gait sharp and economical. His head didn't dip in deference. Just a single nod. Tight. Acknowledging a superior, or a man he had to pretend was one.
No smile.
Demien gave nothing back. Not yet.
Giuly stood farther out near the edge of the second group, chatting with Rothen as they walked their warm-up lap. His laugh came too loud. The kind that wanted to be overheard. His eyes, though, kept flicking sideways—each time they passed the halfway line, they checked. Measured. Judged.
Demien kept moving.
Hands slid behind his back, fingers locking loosely. He let his pace slow as he walked the sideline—precisely the way Yves had in one of those memory flashes. Calm. Detached. Watching, not speaking.
His stomach felt tight, though his face remained a mask.
Too many eyes. Too much history I don't remember living.
He stopped beside the table where hydration charts and heart rate printouts had been clipped in preparation. A young analyst in a Monaco windbreaker jogged up, clipboard in hand, sweat already building around his temples.
"Coach?" he asked, offering the clipboard like a litmus test.
Demien took it without a word. Pages flipped with quiet efficiency.
Top row—Giuly: 91% peak fitness.Evra: 88%—expected. They were monitoring tendon strain, Yves had written.Zikos: 95%, but erratic match form.Rothen: 93%. Aggression rating spiked in last three sessions. Noted, but not addressed.
His thumb paused on that one.
He gave a low, thoughtful hum. Not approval. Not critique.
Just enough.
The kid nodded, relieved, and retreated without another word.
Demien moved again. Past the hydration crates. Along the edge of the 18-yard box, where a set of mini-goals stood unused. His eyes stayed scanning, tracing movement across the pitch.
Evra's run pattern: aggressive on the diagonal, reset fast, scanning after every third step. High football IQ.
Giuly was too quick to break—timing vertical bursts before the midfield shifted shape. Classic winger instinct, but vulnerable to offside traps. Could be corrected.Rothen lingered wide, disinterested off the ball. Didn't press. Didn't check back. A problem.
It was happening again—his brain building, adjusting. A thousand coaching instincts flicking into alignment. And he hadn't even opened his mouth.
Two players exchanged glances as he passed. One whispered. The other grinned but didn't laugh.
Demien didn't turn to catch what was said. He didn't need to.
You're being watched. Every twitch. Every silence.
At the far end, a metal equipment chest sat beside the trainer's bench—steel surface dulled from wear. As he walked by, something caught his eye.
His reflection.
A blur. A ripple across the metal.
He paused.
It wasn't Yves' reflection anymore. Not exactly. And it wasn't his. It was something in between. A face that carried expectation. Pressure. Years of authority layered over the frame of a man still learning to carry it.
"You're supposed to own this," he muttered under his breath. "Stop hesitating."
The sharp blast of a whistle cut across the pitch. Water break.
A staffer called out names as bottles were passed around. Shade shifted. Players peeled toward the sideline, sweat glistening under collarbones and damp sleeves.
Giuly peeled off from the group early, walking toward Demien with the ease of someone testing a boundary.
He didn't jog. He drifted—as if the line between casual and confrontational didn't exist for him.
"Coach."
Demien turned, eyebrows raised—not high, not welcoming. Just enough to say speak.
Giuly sipped from his water bottle, eyes scanning the pitch like nothing was serious.
"You alright?" he asked, tone light, but the cadence sharp beneath it.
Demien blinked. "Why?"
Giuly shrugged with one shoulder, bottle still in hand.
"You seem…" He let the pause stretch just long enough. Then smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "...different."
Silence settled between them.
Demien held his gaze. Just long enough to let it grow uncomfortable.
Then smiled.
Not Yves' smile.
Not yet.
But something close.
Giuly didn't return it.
He took another sip of water and turned away, blending back into the group before the next whistle blew.