The locker room door creaked open on tired hinges.
Muted footsteps dragged across the floor, damp soles smacking tile, cleats thudding against lockers as players filed in, each carrying the weight of a match they didn't quite understand.
Bottles cracked open, hissing briefly before the silence swallowed them.
Sweat pooled at the base of benches. Jerseys stuck half-peeled to tired shoulders. No music played. No laughter floated. Only the shallow breathing of men still carrying adrenaline without knowing where to put it.
Giuly collapsed onto a bench near the center, toweling off his face with slow, deliberate movements. Across from him, Evra slid his shinguards out one at a time, setting them carefully beside his boots as if handling glass.
A few glances flickered through the room. Not many words.
The scrape of Velcro, the low squeak of skin against leather, the constant drip-drip of showerheads just out of reach — these filled the space where conversation normally lived.
Then Rothen's voice cut through it, sharp, carrying more than just frustration.
"We looked stupid out there."
The words hung for a beat too long, bouncing off the walls, skidding across wet floors.
Someone chuckled — short, bitter. Another joined in, almost involuntarily.
Not true laughter.
The kind of sound men make when anger doesn't know where else to land.
Bernardi adjusted his socks with quick, aggressive tugs, saying nothing. Zikos busied himself retaping a shin. Even Morientes, who usually broke tension with jokes, just stared at the floor, towel draped around his neck like a surrender flag.
Giuly shifted, dropping the towel beside him.
His voice, when it came, was low but firm.
"It's preseason. We're learning."
He looked across the room, letting his words find Rothen directly.
"Different doesn't mean wrong."
The chuckle that answered sounded more like a scoff.
"Learning?" Rothen muttered, loud enough for the corners of the room to catch it. "Sure didn't look like it."
No one answered.
No one corrected him.
Evra's gaze flickered up from beneath his fringe, sharp and assessing.
Not at Rothen.
At Demien.
Waiting.
The air thickened — the moment teetering on the edge of real fracture.
Boots scraped the floor as a few players shifted uneasily, stealing glances between their captain, their teammates, and the man standing near the wall, silent so far.
Demien moved.
Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just a single step forward, enough for the entire locker room to feel the shift before they realized they'd fallen quiet.
He didn't need to clear his throat.
He didn't need to shout.
The weight of his gaze was enough.
It landed squarely on Rothen, sharp and unblinking, cutting through the tension like a blade drawn across taut rope.
Conversations died mid-breath.
Water bottles stopped halfway to mouths.
Even Giuly leaned back slightly, as if ceding space without meaning to.
Demien didn't speak immediately.
Demien let the silence stretch a second longer, feeling it thicken between the walls, wrapping itself around every player still stripping sweat-soaked jerseys from their shoulders.
No shouting.
No frantic pacing.
He moved to the center of the locker room without hurrying, boots tapping quietly across the tiles. His hands stayed loose at his sides. No clipboard. No tactics sheet. Just presence.
Eyes lifted as he passed.
Giuly straightened unconsciously, towel forgotten on the bench. Bernardi's hands froze mid-motion, a boot half unlaced. Even Evra, who rarely showed nerves, adjusted his seated posture, gaze locked forward.
Demien stopped where the captain would normally stand.
Turned slowly.
Looked each player in the eye — not lingering, not judging.
Just making sure every man there knew he was seen.
"You're right," he said finally, voice low, steady.
"It was messy."
A shift rippled through the room — someone exhaling through their nose, tension uncoiling from shoulders too used to waiting for blame.
"It was uncomfortable."
Demien's gaze found Rothen across the room. Held it for a beat longer than the others.
"That's what change feels like."
No reaction at first. No brave nods. Just a dozen bodies sitting heavy on the edge of belief.
He gave them no space to sink back into doubt.
"Winning ugly in preseason…" — he let the words land like stones dropped into a still lake — "is better than losing pretty when it matters."
A few players tilted their heads slightly, expressions unreadable.
No open defiance.
No open acceptance either.
Only the crackling hum of minds turning, weighing.
Demien walked a slow half-circle around the benches, steps deliberate, letting his words build momentum against the battered silence.
"You think this feels wrong because it's not easy anymore."
Short sentences. No wasted breath.
"You think the struggle means failure."
He paused, a half-second, feeling them leaning in whether they realized it or not.
"It doesn't."
Another step.
"This—"
He made a small gesture at the wet, tired bodies around him.
"—this is what building looks like."
Someone shifted a boot noisily against the floor. No one else moved.
"You want the old Monaco?" Demien asked, voice softer now, almost conversational.
"Stay angry. Stay behind."
Giuly's jaw tightened. Rothen glanced away.
"You want something bigger?" Demien said, planting the next words firmly into the dead center of the room.
"Learn faster."
Silence fell heavier than before — no longer brittle, but solid, weighing every chest down.
Demien stopped walking. Let the weight press into their bones.
He didn't need to explain more.
He didn't need to paint dreams or threaten punishments.
They either felt it by now—or they would be left behind.
The message didn't need another word.
A sharp breath escaped from somewhere near the showers.
Giuly gave a small nod, almost invisible if you weren't looking.
Bernardi finished unlacing his boot and set it aside with slow, careful hands.
Evra leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching without blinking.
Even Rothen, defiance still clinging to his skin like sweat, dropped his gaze toward the floor eventually, the smallest shift of posture giving Demien more than any argument would have.
Demien stepped back slightly, loosening the tension in his own shoulders, letting the atmosphere settle into a new shape.
Not completely won.
Not completely convinced.
But no one challenged him now.
The players began rising — slower, heavier than usual — gathering towels, muttering quiet words about showers, massages, ice baths.
The natural rhythm of the locker room, broken and reformed around something harder.
Demien didn't move from his spot until the first splash of running water echoed from the showers.
As he turned to leave, Rothen's voice drifted low across the room, half-buried under the shuffle of recovery.
"Hope he knows what he's doing."
Not shouted.
Not spat.
Just muttered.
A final, lingering echo of the old resistance.
Demien caught it.
Didn't pause.
Didn't answer.
He let the comment hang in the air like steam rising off wet skin, ignored, but not unheard.
His boots tapped once against the tile as he moved toward the exit.
The next session would come.
The next match would come.
And by then — the real Monaco would start taking shape, whether the doubters liked it or not.