In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 62: The Silence After Victory

The Philips Stadion had fallen silent. Not the respectful hush that follows an anthem, but the hollow emptiness that lingers after an unexpected turn of events. Four-nil. Four goals that sliced through PSV’s defense as if it were nonexistent. Four moments that had shifted the narrative.

Demien walked the corridor beneath the stadium, his steps steady and unhurried. No smile—just determination. The echo of his shoes against the concrete matched the rhythm of his thoughts. He had witnessed this before, or something akin to it, in another time, another life.

Behind him, the players’ voices rose and fell like waves—D’Alessandro speaking rapid Spanish to Morientes, Giuly’s laughter cutting through the chatter, Xabi responding thoughtfully to questions no one else had yet considered. They had earned this moment, though none truly grasped the significance of their achievement.

They had altered the course of history.

At the corridor’s end, Adebayor’s distinctive voice rose above the rest, his laughter infectious. "Did you see their faces after the third goal? Like they’d seen a ghost!" He mimicked a shocked expression, eyes wide and mouth agape. Plašil chuckled, his usually reserved demeanor momentarily forgotten in the afterglow of victory.

Rothen nudged Evra with his elbow. "That cross you made in the seventy-fourth minute? Pure silk." He mimed the movement, his arm swinging gracefully. "That’s going in the highlight reel."

Evra shrugged, but his smile betrayed his pride. "Just doing my job. Ask the coach—he’s the one who told me to attack that space."

Stone waited at the corner, phone pressed to his ear, his expression carefully composed. When he spotted Demien, he ended the call with a quick, "I’ll call back."

"The president sends his congratulations," Stone said, falling into step beside him. "Four goals. Away from home. In the Champions League." He let out a low whistle. "The papers are already calling it a statement."

Demien didn’t break stride. "It’s just one match."

"It’s more than that, and you know it." Stone glanced sideways. "Monaco hasn’t started a European campaign like this in... well, maybe ever."

Through an open door, Demien caught a glimpse of the PSV manager sitting alone, head in his hands. A pang of empathy flickered within him. He recognized that feeling—the hollow ache of tactical failure, of watching a carefully constructed plan unravel in real-time. In his previous life, he had experienced it too often as his playing career faded into mediocrity. In this life, he was determined to inflict that pain on others instead.

They reached the door to the press conference room. Demien paused, hand on the handle, and finally turned to Stone.

"Tell the president I appreciate his call," he said, "but we haven’t won anything yet."

Inside, the room was packed with Dutch journalists wearing sullen expressions and French correspondents scribbling notes before the first question had even been asked. Two television cameras pointed directly at the table, where microphones stood like sentinels.

Demien sat without adjusting his chair. Giuly took the spot beside him, his armband still on his sleeve and hair damp from a quick shower. Their captain—reliable, intelligent, and fiery when needed—was a player who understood the moment without needing it explained.

The questions came fast—about tactics, the goals, and the message Monaco had sent to Europe.

Demien answered each with a measured tone. No flourishes. No metaphors.

"We played the way we trained."

"We took our chances."

"PSV is a good team. We had a good night."

A journalist from L’Équipe leaned forward, recorder extended. "This was your Champions League debut as a coach. Did it feel different than you expected?"

Demien’s expression remained unchanged. "Football is football," he said. "The grass is the same length. The goals are the same height. We focus on the details we can control."

He scanned the back row, half-expecting to see Clara. She wasn’t there. Probably still back in Monaco, waiting for the wire reports and crafting tomorrow’s narrative with her clever fingers and sharper mind. The thought warmed something in him that he hadn’t expected to feel again.

The press officer signaled for the final question. A young Dutch reporter stood, notepad already open.

"Your team played with unusual tactical sophistication. Where did this approach come from? It’s not traditional French football."

For a moment, Demien almost smiled. If only they knew about the hours he had spent in another life studying systems that hadn’t yet been invented, tactical approaches years ahead of their time—knowledge he had carried across death itself.

"I don’t believe in traditional anything," he said. "The game evolves. We try to stay ahead of that evolution."

Outside, the team bus hummed in the chilly night air. Players filed on one by one, some already dozing, others still riding the high of victory. Morientes sat near the front, eyes closed, head back against the seat. Two goals. A perfect European night. The striker, once discarded by Real Madrid, was finding redemption in Monaco’s red and white.

Squillaci and Rodriguez bumped fists as they settled into their seats, forming the center-back partnership that had nullified every PSV attack. Bernardi scrolled through his phone, likely already watching match highlights—the studious midfielder who never stopped analyzing.

Demien took his usual spot in the third row, alone, with the window to his right. As the bus pulled away from the Philips Stadion, he watched the lights of Eindhoven slide past like memories he hadn’t yet made.

A few rows ahead, D’Alessandro was showing something to Xabi on his phone—probably messages from home, family and friends celebrating from across oceans. The Argentine had adapted seamlessly, as if the team had been built around him rather than him joining a system already in motion. That was the mark of true talent—adjusting without appearing to adjust at all.

The bus turned onto the highway to Eindhoven Airport (EIN), and conversation gradually faded as fatigue set in. The adrenaline of match night gave way to a bone-deep weariness that followed ninety minutes of elite performance.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Clara.

"Silence at full-time" , her message read. "Just like you wanted".

This time, he smiled.

Watching from afar? he replied.

The response came quickly. "Front row seat at the Monaco press room feed. You looked good. The team looked better."

Demien glanced out the window again at the dark highway stretching ahead. Tomorrow would bring new challenges: the Nice derby, media circling like sharks smelling blood, and players’ confidence needing to be maintained without tipping into arrogance.

"We’re just getting started", he typed.

He put the phone away and closed his eyes. Three–nil. In the original timeline, it hadn’t happened like this. PSV had drawn with Monaco, or maybe even won. He couldn’t remember exactly—that lifetime felt so distant now. But he knew this: he was rewriting history, one pass at a time.

And no one could know. Not Stone. Not Michel. Not Clara.

Especially not Clara.