The afternoon session focused on defensive structure—containing Laslandes, tracking Everson’s movents, and maintaining shape against Nice’s direct transitions. Demien worked closely with the back four, emphasizing the coordination needed to neutralize Nice’s counter-attacking threat.
"Laslandes drops, then spins," he reminded Rodriguez and Squillaci. "Don’t follow the first movent; track the second."
They nodded, adjusting their positions as the training team mimicked Nice’s attacking patterns. Behind them, Roma organized the defensive line with sharp, precise commands. The goalkeeper had been in outstanding form since the season began, his confidence radiating to the entire defensive unit.
Clara arrived as the session was winding down, standing at the edge of the practice field with a notebook in hand and her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Professional mode. She was not the woman who had texted him late last night about wine and private conversations.
Demien finished his final instructions and made his way toward the main building, not acknowledging Clara—he didn’t need to. She would follow. The dance was familiar now.
In his office, he left the door open as he settled behind the desk. Clara entered a mont later, quietly closing the door behind her.
"I need quotes for the derby preview," she said, remaining standing. "Professional ones."
Demien regarded her steadily. "Is there another kind?"
She sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "You know what I an. I can’t write, ’Monaco’s enigmatic coach prefers his steaks dium-rare and his wine full-bodied.’"
"That would be quite the preview."
A smile flickered at the corner of her mouth but was quickly suppressed. "Fifteen minutes. On the record." Finally, she sat down, placing her recorder on the desk between them. The red light blinked on.
"Nice has the best defensive record in the league so far," she began. "How do you plan to break them down?"
"With patience," Demien replied. "They defend well because they defend as a unit. We need to move them, create spaces, and then exploit those openings."
"Laslandes has scored in their last three matches. Do you have special plans for him?"
"We prepare for the team, not individuals. But yes, we’re aware of his qualities."
Clara scribbled sothing in her notebook. "After the high of PSV, are you concerned about the players’ focus for a dostic match?"
Demien’s expression remained unchanged. "No."
"That’s it? Just ’no’?"
"Derby matches create their own focus. The players understand what this ga ans to Monaco."
The questions continued—about individual player form, tactical approaches, and the atmosphere expected at Stade Louis II. Demien answered each with asured precision, providing Clara with enough substance for her article without revealing anything significant about Monaco’s actual ga plan.
When the recorder clicked off, the air in the room shifted. Clara’s professional deanor softened, and she closed her notebook.
"You’re different after a win," she observed. "More... contained."
"Winning changes nothing. It just confirms the work."
She stood, gathering her things. "Are you going to the dinner tonight?"
"Yes."
"Team bonding before the derby?"
"Sothing like that."
Clara paused at the door, her hand on the handle. "I have an early start tomorrow. The editor wants the piece by seven."
Demien understood the unspoken ssage: no late-night visit, no wine, and no continuation of whatever had been building between them.
"Good luck with the article," he said.
She left without another word, the door closing softly behind her.
Le Pinocchio was Monaco at its most Monégasque—white tablecloths, crystal glasses, and waiters who moved as if they were born in tuxedos. The private room at the back had been reserved for the team dinner, with tables arranged in a U-shape, the president at the head, Demien to his right, and Stone to his left.
The players arrived in groups—defenders together, midfielders clustered, and strikers bringing up the rear. Giuly’s hair was still damp from a post-training shower, Rothen wore a designer shirt that probably cost more than Demien’s first car, and D’Alessandro looked slightly uncomfortable in formal wear but adapted as he did on the pitch.
The president stood as they gathered, raising his glass. "To the team," he said. "For making Monaco proud in Europe, and for what you will achieve on Saturday."
Glasses clinked, and the first course arrived—sothing delicate and architectural on oversized white plates.
Demien ate chanically, his mind still on the tactical board back at La Turbie. In the original tiline, the Nice match had been difficult—a narrow victory that could easily have been a draw. Small margins that added up over a season.
Across the table, Giuly was telling a story that had Rothen and Evra nearly falling out of their chairs with laughter. Morientes listened with a small smile, while D’Alessandro leaned in to catch every word, his French improving daily.
"Coach," the president said, interrupting Demien’s thoughts. "The team looks different under your guidance. More... unified."
Demien set down his fork. "They’re good players making good decisions."
"It’s more than that. There’s a philosophy now. An identity."
Identity. The word echoed in his mind. In his previous life, Demien had written endlessly about tactical identity in notebooks no one ever read. Now, he was building one in real ti, with players whose careers he had once studied as history.
Later, as dessert was served, Giuly stood and tapped his glass, quieting the room.
"Saturday isn’t just another match," the captain said, his voice taking on an intensity rarely heard off the pitch. "It’s Nice. Our neighbors who think they’re our equals." He smiled, but there was steel behind it. "We need to remind them of the difference."
A murmur of agreent rippled around the table.
"This team, what we’re building," Giuly continued, "is special. We all feel it. But feeling isn’t enough. We need to show it. Every match. Starting with the derby."
He raised his glass. "To Monaco."
"To Monaco," the room echoed.
Demien watched silently. In that mont, he could see the season stretching before them—different from the one he rembered, better in ways he was still discovering. The pieces were aligning, but the picture they ford was increasingly unfamiliar.
As the dinner wound down and players drifted away in small groups, Demien slipped out quietly. The cool night air brushed against his face as he walked the short distance back to his apartnt.
Nice waited. The derby waited.
And the tiline, bending further with each decision, awaited his next move
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