In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 60: First Half - The Shape Between the Lines

The Philips Stadion lights burned clean overhead, humming low like something mechanical breathing. Flags waved behind the far goal, red and white stripes bending over drums that didn’t stop even when the teams lined up. PSV’s tunnel was narrow. The kind that forced players to brush shoulders whether they meant to or not.

Demien stood still as Monaco came out, coat folded over his arm. He didn’t walk behind them. Just waited, eyes on the first three steps of the turf like they might give away what was coming.

They wouldn’t. He already knew.

Giuly trotted out first, armband tight. Rothen tapped his wrist three times as he ran past. Xabi scanned the sky like he was checking for cloud cover, not pressure. D’Alessandro bounced on his toes, exhaled hard through his nose, then turned once to glance at Demien.

Demien didn’t nod. Didn’t wink.

Just watched.

The whistle blew sharp. And Monaco touched the ball first.

Not a roar. A steady wave of noise followed. The kind that dared you to slow down.

The first three minutes were PSV’s.

Long diagonal to the right channel. Squillaci didn’t jump soon enough. The header looped, fell behind. Rodriguez tracked the runner but gave too much space. First shot—tight angle—Porato punched it out.

Demien didn’t move.

"Wake the rhythm," Michel muttered behind him.

Demien let the silence hold a second longer. Then: "They’re not out of tempo. Just out of breath."

PSV tried again—left this time. Cutback into the box. Evra got across late but poked it clear. Plašil stabbed at the second ball. Alonso reached it. And then everything started to slow.

The first pass was to D’Alessandro. He didn’t control it with his foot—he let it roll across his body, took it with his left, and turned with space already forming around him. A shoulder drop. A glance. Then it went to Rothen.

Rothen didn’t stop it either. He swept it on—short, inside, quick.

To Xabi.

Demien stepped forward once. Then stopped himself.

"Let them breathe," he said. "Then take the oxygen."

By the ninth minute, Monaco wasn’t just holding possession; they were building pressure. The back four didn’t shift back; they stepped forward. Rodriguez pushed higher, Givet stayed wide, and Xabi filled the gap as if he were born there.

In the eleventh minute, Giuly broke behind the defense. The ball came too late—offside. He didn’t complain; he simply spun around and whispered something to D’Alessandro as he passed.

The next opportunity came quickly.

At fourteen minutes, Plašil intercepted the ball at the halfway line. One touch to Alonso, who clipped it to Rothen. Rothen squared it without looking.

Morientes let it run.

D’Alessandro stepped forward, paused, then slipped it left again, with Rothen already looping.

A low cross.

Seventeenth minute. GOAL MONACO (0–1).

Morientes. Inside foot. One bounce. Net.

The away section didn’t erupt; it jolted. Shock, then chants, then fists pounding on railings. Rothen didn’t celebrate; he just walked back, tapping D’Alessandro once on the back of the head.

Demien turned to Michel.

"He’s still not passing again this half."

Michel grinned. "Would you?"

PSV didn’t drop; they pressed harder.

But Monaco didn’t panic.

Xabi held the ball against pressure as if it were weighted to his boots. He took one step to the right, then switched left without blinking. He didn’t need three touches; he just needed one pass that bent perfectly between them.

Twenty-fourth minute. Another sequence: D’Alessandro to Giuly, Giuly to Plašil. Morientes dropped deeper to link up, then played it wide. Rothen crossed again.

This time, it was cleared.

Demien didn’t clap; he just folded his arms.

"They’re starting to chase ghosts," he said.

In the twenty-ninth minute, PSV attempted their own overload—a high ball toward the right back pocket. Givet didn’t jump; he let it bounce. Ibarra covered, and Squillaci dropped behind them.

Nothing came of it—just a corner, cleared by Xabi with his chest.

Demien scanned the pitch and saw the triangle forming, the next second already beginning.

It started with Alonso. He let the ball come close—too close. PSV’s winger lunged, but Alonso didn’t panic. He let it roll past his lead foot, body low, shape tight, and touched it across to Plašil in stride. No wasted motion, no heroics.

Plašil barely had to look up. He sent it forward to D’Alessandro, who was already shifting off the shoulder of PSV’s midfield line.

Demien stepped once toward the edge of his zone. He didn’t shout or gesture; he just watched.

D’Alessandro slowed at the edge of the final third. Morientes called for it early—too early. Andrés didn’t give it.

One defender stepped up, and the second hesitated, expecting the pass that never came.

That hesitation was enough.

D’Alessandro shifted left and swept the ball into Rothen’s run without a glance. Rothen didn’t break stride; he cut once and snapped it across the box.

Thirty-third minute. GOAL MONACO (0–2).

Morientes. Again. Left foot. No adjustment—just instinct.

Demien smiled, quietly but visibly, as if he’d been waiting for someone to wake up.

Michel said nothing; he didn’t need to.

Morientes jogged back with a hand raised to no one in particular. Giuly ran across to slap him on the shoulder.

Rothen pointed at D’Alessandro.

Andrés didn’t celebrate; he just jogged back toward midfield, already resetting in his head.

PSV’s body language shifted in pieces. First, their keeper barked orders. Then the full-back jogged instead of sprinting. The midfielder began turning his head more before each pass.

Demien saw it before they did.

"They’re chasing," he said to Michel, still calm. "We don’t stop."

The next few minutes were subtle. Giuly floated inward more, while Rothen pulled his marker all the way to the touchline. The spacing shifted—Monaco’s triangle in midfield became a diamond, but not by design; it was just rhythm.

Xabi didn’t yell once; he didn’t need to. He stepped into spaces half a second before PSV’s press landed. One pass, then two, and a triangle broke the line, giving D’Alessandro twenty yards to turn.

It wasn’t domination; it was suffocation.

PSV’s first real chance of the half came in the thirty-eighth minute—a hopeful long ball. Evra slipped on the turn, and their winger cut inside and fired low.

Porato dropped fast, parrying with both hands. The rebound came out, and Squillaci got there first.

Demien didn’t flinch.

"Good. Let them remember the post," he said.

The next transition belonged to Monaco again: Xabi to Plašil to Giuly. Quick, short, inside.

Morientes tried the flick again but missed this time. Demien didn’t react; he just leaned back and let the air settle around him.

"Still not passing?" Michel asked.

Demien smirked. "He’s two for two. Would you?"

In the forty-second minute, Monaco slowed—not by instruction, but by choice. They started passing backward, letting the ball rest in their control. Rothen even dropped as deep as Squillaci once, just to touch it, just to reset. D’Alessandro began walking more between moves.

They weren’t killing time; they were bleeding it.

Forty-five. The fourth official raised the board.

+1.

Giuly took the corner slowly, letting it bounce. No runners—just containment.

The referee checked his watch.

Whistle.

First half.

Demien turned, coat over one shoulder, the other hand pressed to his mouth—not out of tension, but to hide the smile creeping across his face. Only Michel caught it.

As they stepped into the tunnel, Demien turned toward the locker room door and said just loud enough for the players closest to hear, "Next goal wins the group."

Then he disappeared inside.

Halftime – Philips Stadion Visiting Locker Room

The door clicked shut behind them. No steam, no shouting—just boots on tile and the low thud of benches shifting under weight.

Porato dropped his gloves without unstrapping them. Morientes sat forward, elbows on his knees. D’Alessandro peeled off his shirt in one clean motion and hung it on the corner of his locker. Rothen lay flat on his back, eyes closed, breathing shallowly through his nose.

Demien didn’t rush. He took off his coat, folded it once, and placed it on the counter near the whiteboard before turning to the team.

"I’m going to say this once."

The room settled.

"You didn’t dominate that half."

A pause.

"You took it from them."

No praise in his voice—just flat and steady.

He pointed toward the board, making three quick strokes with a marker—two arrows between names, a loop from Xabi to Rothen.

"That triangle? If you do that five more times, we won’t leave here with a win—we’ll leave with silence." ƒreewebɳovel.com

He looked at Morientes.

"You done scoring?"

Morientes didn’t lift his head; he just grinned into his towel.

"To Andrés—" Demien turned toward D’Alessandro without raising his voice—"you’ve got ten seconds too many before you get hit. Use three of them."

D’Alessandro nodded once, his chest still rising.

Demien looked toward Xabi.

"I’m not going to ask you to go faster; I’m going to ask you to go quieter. They’re starting to listen for you."

He stepped toward the door.

"They’ll push now. If you give them the ball for five minutes, they’ll think it’s working. That’s when you kill them."

He didn’t end with a speech; he simply walked to the board, clicked the cap on the marker, and said over his shoulder, "Same eleven. Same rhythm. Next goal wins the group."

Then he left the room before anyone could ask what he meant.