The marker squeaked across the whiteboard in short, clipped strokes. Red arrows. Green dots. A rectangle split into thirds, diagonals slashed through the middle like a war plan.
"Standard warm-up, then rondos," Michel said, capping the pen with one hand, flipping the clipboard under his arm with the other. "Two-touch. Five-versus-two, tight spaces. Circle compression. You know the drill."
The coaches nodded, murmurs of agreement passing like static between them. Early sunlight spilled across the locker room walls in golden stripes, catching dust in midair. A clock above the door ticked over to 08:14. The first whistle was fifteen minutes away.
Demien leaned against the far end of the board. Quiet. Hands in his pockets, one foot hooked behind the other like a man with nowhere urgent to be. On the surface, nothing out of place. Calm, composed.
Inside, the itch had already started.
He'd watched yesterday's rondos. Tight circles. Limited touches. Good for tempo—but narrow. Predictable. Players were training muscle memory they'd never use in real shape. In-game transitions didn't happen in a circle. Pressure didn't arrive from only two directions.
It wasn't wrong. Just outdated.
"Let's adjust it," Demien said suddenly, voice quiet but landing like a dropped weight.
Michel blinked once. "Adjust?"
Demien nodded toward the board. "Same numbers. Five-on-two. But spread the layout. Create lanes between zones. One floater on each edge. Encourage third-man runs. Get them thinking past the closest pass."
A beat of silence.
A younger coach shifted on his feet.
Michel tilted his head. "That's not what we've been running."
"No," Demien said. "But it should be."
He didn't wait for the follow-up. Just pushed off the wall, grabbed the magnetic pieces from the ledge, and began re-arranging the board. Player chips drifted wider. Triangles stretched diagonally instead of hugging tight circles. The lines between them sharpened like crossing wires. Michel watched. Said nothing.
But the room's rhythm shifted.
The pitch glowed faintly in the morning light, blades of dew-heavy grass catching the sun like mirrors. Players filtered out one by one, adjusting bibs, jogging lightly. Staff hauled cones and poles across the sideline.
"Setup three zones," Demien called to the nearest assistant. "Use the half-space markers and push them wide."
The man hesitated—but moved.
Whistles chirped. Players stretched and loosened their joints, but their eyes started wandering toward the setup. It didn't look like usual.
Rothen tilted his head. "What's that?"
"New warm-up," Michel said under his breath. "Just roll with it."
Demien stood midfield, hands behind his back, watching the layout finalize. Three long rectangles. Two neutrals floating on either edge. The pressers stood in the central corridor, trapped between fast, pulsing movement.
"Start slow," he said. "Two-touch max. Communicate early."
The first ball rolled in.
Confusion showed immediately.
Evra passed diagonally into open space—no one moved. Lefebvre hesitated between zones. Giuly darted too far ahead of the ball, killing the triangle. The pressing pair looked at each other, then at Demien, then reset without a word.
It wasn't wrong. Just unfamiliar.
The second rep saw three broken passes and a collision at the edge line.
Snickers from the sideline.
Rothen muttered something in French and tapped his temple with one finger.
Demien didn't correct.
He walked the edge of the grid instead, slow and unbothered. Let them feel the chaos first. Then—softly, as he passed Giuly—"Half-turn earlier."
To Evra, "Check your blind shoulder."
To Plasil, "Don't chase the pass. Shape it."
Another pass. Then another.
Movement started to click. The rhythm found its edge. Giuly delayed half a second—drew the presser wide—slipped a cutback into Lefebvre's feet. Two quick passes later, the ball was out the far side. Crisp. Intentional. Light applause sparked from the bench.
Demien gave nothing back.
Only paced further, eyes narrow.
Another rep.
Rothen over-committed. Evra let it happen—absorbed the press, slipped through the third man on the wing.
Demien stopped.
"Good," he said, not loud, just enough.
The players didn't break stride—but the energy changed. Heads lifted. Shoulders straightened. There was frustration, but now it had somewhere to go.
Michel stood beside the second assistant, arms crossed.
"This your session?" the assistant asked quietly.
Michel didn't answer at first.
Then leaned in—voice lower, just audible.
"That's not in our manual…"
Demien heard it.
Didn't turn.
Didn't react.
But a slow smile curved at the edge of his mouth. The kind that doesn't reach the eyes. The kind that meant something had just shifted.
Not for them.
For him.