In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 61: Second Half - The Third Goal They Didn’t See Coming

The second half began in silence on the bench. No shouts, no sudden instructions—just the low echo of cleats against the Philips Stadion track as the team fell back into rhythm, as if the game had never been interrupted.

Demien remained seated, hands folded, left leg crossed over right, eyes fixed on the pitch.

Michel leaned in from the side. "No changes?"

"Not yet."

"They’re expecting pressure."

"That’s why we won’t give it to them.

On the field, PSV charged forward as if they had been instructed to resolve everything in five minutes. One midfielder lunged at Alonso, but Xabi remained still, absorbing the pressure before spinning away as if the match had never paused. He passed to Plašil, who let the ball run before rolling it back.

Tempo. Tight. Deliberate.

Plašil took two touches—one to draw the defender, one to bait him—then passed short to D’Alessandro, who received it on the half-turn. The moment he touched the ball, Giuly sprinted forward. D’Alessandro didn’t hesitate; he clipped it ahead.

Giuly reached it—not cleanly, but just enough.

Demien didn’t budge.

Let them play as if the second goal hadn’t happened. Let them forget.

The crowd began to shout for PSV to push higher, their impatience palpable even from the touchline. One of their center-backs stepped forward, disrupting their shape. Xabi didn’t call for the ball; he simply moved into the space they had left behind.

Morientes dropped deep, laid the ball back, then peeled off. Plašil swept it across the middle. Rothen waited just long enough before releasing it wide, and now Giuly was free again.

Fifty-first minute.

Demien stood.

Not fast—just one fluid motion.

Giuly squared the ball into the box. D’Alessandro let it run again, taking one touch to Rothen, who slowed it down, allowing the full-back to crash into his shadow before tapping it backward.

Xabi was arriving late.

And he never stopped.

He rose early, above the midfield line, and headed it down with force.

Fifty-fourth minute. GOAL MONACO (0–3).

The net rippled. No celebration.

Xabi jogged backward, his face blank, raising one hand to acknowledge the away section.

Morientes clapped once.

Rothen nodded toward the bench but, Demien hadn’t moved.

Michel leaned in. "You sound disappointed."

"I’m not," Demien replied, watching Xabi return to the halfway line as if already planning the next formation. "I just wanted to see him shoot once."

After that, they didn’t need to press. So they didn’t.

Monaco held the ball, making short passes, cutting angles, resetting through Squillaci, and switching to Evra, letting the clock run down without stalling.

Porato didn’t touch the ball for twelve minutes.

When PSV finally got it, they rushed. One long shot. One cross. Both cleared. One cutback into traffic—smothered by Ibarra.

Demien finally turned to the bench.

Sixty-ninth minute.

Michel anticipated it before he spoke.

"Fresh legs?"

"Fresh instincts," Demien replied.

He looked at Adebayor.

"Go warm up."

The kid blinked as if he hadn’t heard correctly, then sprinted toward the far sideline. Giuly approached with a smirk.

"He’s going to shoot from everywhere."

"That’s fine," Demien replied. "Just make sure it’s not from our box."

The substitution card went up.

Seventieth minute: OFF – Morientes. ON – Adebayor.

Morientes jogged off slowly. Exchanging a handshake with Demien. No words—just a pat on the back and a shared smirk.

Demien turned again, his gaze fixeed on the pitch.

The third goal hadn’t stunned them; it had silenced them.

And they weren’t finished yet.

Adebayor’s first touch was a chest trap under pressure. He held it for half a second, let the defender bounce off him, then shifted left and carried it thirty yards. Not elegant. Not clean butt the crowd rose anyway, sensing the chaos.

Demien stood, one hand gripping the top of the dugout. He didn’t shout or instruct; he let the kid run.

Seventy-three minutes. Adebayor squared the ball for Rothen, who attempted to flick it inside. Blocked. PSV won a throw-in but had no plan beyond midfield. They simply looked up and sent it long again.

Squillaci met it early, heading it down to Xabi. Alonso didn’t even glance; he swept it back to Porato in one smooth motion.

Demien checked his watch—not for the time, but to see if it still worked.

Because nothing needed fixing.

For the next stretch, Monaco played slowly.

Not passively—intentionally.

Rothen stayed wide while D’Alessandro shifted closer to Alonso. Plašil played one-twos in the shadows, and Evra only overlapped when he had five yards of daylight. They weren’t chasing a fourth goal; they were protecting the third from being undone.

Seventy-seven minutes in, PSV finally found some space—a midfielder split the line, and one striker spun off Rodríguez. The ball slipped in behind.

But it was too slow.

Porato was already off his line. One touch, and he claimed it.

Demien clapped once.

Not in celebration, but as confirmation.

They were still in shape.

The ball went short, then long, then back to feet—twenty passes, then another.

At eighty-three minutes, they earned a corner after Plašil’s disguised diagonal found Adebayor on the bounce. The defender slid in late, and the ball deflected off his heel and out.

The corner was taken short.

Xabi passed to D’Alessandro, who turned without haste, drawing the press before sliding it to Rothen on the edge.

Rothen stopped it dead and struck it cleanly.

No backlift—just a whip.

It didn’t need to dip; it just bent.

It hit the top of the bar and glanced down.

Eighty-fourth minute. GOAL MONACO (0–4) — then ruled offside.

Demien didn’t react, not even when the linesman’s flag went up. He already knew.

Not about the goal, but about the silence that followed.

The stadium didn’t boo or whistle.

It just stayed still.

It was as if everyone inside knew the match was over, but no one had been told to leave.

From eighty-seven to ninety-one minutes, Adebayor dropped into midfield. Alonso called for a pass, and they reset, then did it again—twenty-seven passes in a row, moving from sideline to sideline, cross to backline: Evra to Ibarra, Ibarra to Giuly.

Giuly aimed for no one—a corner.

The away section clapped anyway.

Demien watched the fourth official lift the board: +3.

He didn’t call for any more substitutions. He didn’t sit.

Michel tapped him lightly. "Satisfied?"

Demien didn’t look at him. "They’re earning the walk."

The final whistle didn’t explode; it simply happened.

Porato raised one glove. Rothen pointed to Xabi. Adebayor high-fived Grax near the tunnel entrance. Giuly walked straight to the PSV captain and shook his hand.

D’Alessandro picked up the ball before the officials could, then dropped it back down.

Demien stepped onto the pitch, coat draped over one arm, the other hand loose by his side. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t hiding anything either.

Stone approached from behind. "Are you going to say something post-match?"

"Not to them."

The press was already calling, reporters leaning over the LED boards, one microphone thrust forward.

Demien didn’t stop.

He kept walking, coat over his shoulder, passing Michel.

"You’ve got too many options now," Michel said under his breath.

Demien didn’t break stride.

"That’s the idea."

Post-Match Locker Room – Philips Stadion, Eindhoven

The floor tiles were the first to speak—boot after boot clicking against the concrete as the players filed in, some louder than others. No one shouted or cheered; just quiet movements: shin pads dropped, gloves peeled off, laces untied by tired hands.

Porato sat on the edge of the bench, jersey still on, arms resting on his thighs as if he hadn’t decided whether to undress or let the moment linger a little longer.

Morientes leaned back against his locker, eyes on the ceiling, sweat still beading along his brow. No grin—just stillness.

Xabi removed his armband without ceremony and tucked it neatly into his sock, looking as if he could go again.

Giuly grabbed two waters from the cooler and tossed one to Plašil without looking.

D’Alessandro hadn’t sat down yet; he stood at the hook near the corner, towel draped over his neck, the match ball still in his hand from where he’d scooped it off the grass.

Demien walked in last.

He didn’t wait for them to quiet down; they already were.

He stopped in the middle of the room, hands on hips, and looked around the circle before speaking.

"You didn’t win because you had more talent," he said, his voice steady and low.

"You didn’t win because they were worse. You won because you controlled what they wanted before they even knew how to ask for it."

He pointed at the space between them—not at a person, just the space.

"This shape here? You kept it. From the first minute to the last."

No one moved.

Demien looked at Morientes.

"You didn’t touch it often, but when you did—"

Morientes cut him off. "It stayed touched."

A few soft laughs broke out, and even Porato cracked a grin.

Demien didn’t smile, but he let it ride.

To Xabi: "You’ve got two gears left. Don’t show them until we need them."

Xabi nodded once. "Next time?"

"Maybe."

He turned to D’Alessandro.

"You played faster when you stopped rushing."

D’Alessandro didn’t answer; he just rolled the ball across his foot and then caught it again.

Demien paused.

"Rest day tomorrow. Not because you earned it, but because we need you hungry for the next one."

He started toward the door, then stopped.

"Andrés."

D’Alessandro looked up.

Demien tilted his head.

"You can keep the ball. Just don’t get used to it."

He left without waiting for a reply.

Behind him, someone cracked open a water bottle—the first sound since the whistle.