In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 63: Morning Light and Headlines

The sunlight hit his face too early. Demien rolled away from the window, one arm thrown over his eyes, but the damage was done. Sleep had already fled. He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

6:17 AM.

He hadn’t set an alarm. They’d arrived back in Monaco after 2 AM, and he had given the players the morning off. A recovery session scheduled for 2 PM —just enough time to let the victory settle, but not enough to allow complacency to grow.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his phone. Twenty-three notifications awaited him: missed calls from his agent in Paris, six text messages from Michel, mostly about media requests and an email from the club’s press officer with links to the morning headlines.

He clicked on the first one.

"MONACO MASSACRE: PSV HUMILIATED BY LAURENT’S TACTICAL MASTERCLASS"

The second was more measured.

"Monaco Makes Champions League Statement with 4-0 Victory"

The third, from a French outlet, was always more critical of their own.

"One Night or New Era? Monaco’s European Adventure Begins"

Demien set the phone down and walked to the bathroom. The man in the mirror looked back with eyes that knew too much—about tactics that hadn’t been invented yet, about players who would become legends, about matches that hadn’t been played in this timeline.

Sometimes he forgot that he didn’t belong here. The body he inhabited had once belonged to someone else. Yves Laurent had existed before Demien Walter died on that rain-soaked road in France.

He showered quickly, dressed in training gear out of habit, and made his way to the kitchen. The apartment was quiet—modern, minimalist, and devoid of personal touches. He hadn’t bothered to decorate; it wasn’t really his, after all.

The coffee machine hummed as he stared out the window at Monaco’s harbor. Yachts bobbed gently in the morning light, their white hulls gleaming like teeth. It was so different from the cramped apartment he had lived in as a player, when his knees ached constantly and his career was fading before it had even begun.

His phone rang, breaking the stillness. Michel.

"Morning," Demien said, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder as he poured coffee.

"Have you seen the papers?" Michel’s voice was tense with barely contained excitement.

"Some of them."

"They’re going crazy. L’Équipe wants an exclusive, and Canal+ is asking for a tactical breakdown segment. Even the English papers are talking about us."

Demien took a sip of his black, bitter coffee. "It’s just one match, Michel."

"It’s a statement. Four-nil away from home? Against PSV?" He paused. "You’re not surprised, are you?"

"Should I be?"

Michel laughed, but the sound faded quickly. "I don’t know how you do it—stay so calm, like you knew this would happen."

Demien tightened his grip on the mug. "We prepared well. The players executed the plan. That’s all."

"The president called again this morning. He’s already talking about extending your contract."

"We’ve barely started the season."

"After last night, everyone wants to lock you down before the bigger clubs come calling."

Demien moved back to the window. In the distance, a ferry was making its way toward Nice, leaving a white trail across the blue water.

"Tell him we’ll talk after the group stage," he said. "I’m focused on the next match."

"Speaking of which," Michel said, "Nice is going to be a different challenge. Derby atmosphere. They’ll want to bring us back to earth."

"I know." Demien set his cup down. "Let’s give the players this morning off, then we can refocus this afternoon."

After hanging up, he reached for his laptop. The Nice match wasn’t just the next fixture; it was a potential turning point. In the original timeline—the one he had read about but not lived—Monaco had drawn this match, dropping points that ultimately cost them in the title race against Lyon.

Not this time.

He opened a new document and began typing: formation, pressing triggers, set-piece adjustments.

His phone buzzed again. Clara.

"Breakfast?" her message read. "I need quotes for my PSV reaction piece. The editor’s going crazy for insider details."

Demien glanced at the clock again: 7:08 AM.

"La Terrasse in 30," he replied. "I’ll bring the insider details if you bring coffee."

Her response came with a smile emoji. "Deal! I’ll even throw in a croissant if you give me something exclusive."

He stood and closed the laptop. The tactical plan for Nice could wait an hour; some parts of this new timeline were worth savoring slowly.

La Terrasse was quiet at this hour, with just a few early-morning tourists and businesspeople scattered across the small tables. Demien arrived first, choosing a corner spot with a view of the harbor. He sat with his back to the wall—an old habit in a new body.

Clara appeared five minutes later, two takeaway cups in hand and a leather messenger bag slung across her body. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wore no makeup, looking as if she had barely slept.

"Congratulations," she said, sliding one of the cups toward him. "You’ve officially arrived in Europe."

Demien took the coffee. "I’ve been in Europe my whole life."

She rolled her eyes as she settled into the chair opposite him. "You know what I mean. Four-nil against PSV? People are talking. My editor called at 5 AM demanding a follow-up piece."

"Hence the breakfast interrogation."

"It’s not an interrogation if there’s pastry involved." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small paper sack. "Croissant. As promised."

Demien accepted it with a nod of thanks. "What does your editor want to know?"

Clara pulled out a small recorder and placed it between them. "Mind if I use this? My typing can’t keep up with you when you get tactical."

"Go ahead."

She pressed record. "Let’s start with the formation. You played differently than you have in the league. Was that specific to PSV, or a European approach?"

Demien took a sip of coffee before answering. "We adjust to every opponent. PSV has strengths we needed to respect and weaknesses we wanted to exploit."

"That midfield triangle—Alonso, D’Alessandro, and Plašil—was that something you’d planned, or did it develop in training?"

"Both. Players show you what they’re capable of. The system adapts to that.

Clara leaned forward. "But it’s not a traditional French system. It looked more... I don’t know, Spanish? Italian? Even a bit like what’s happening at Arsenal under Wenger, but with different personnel."

Demien smiled faintly. She was sharp, noticing patterns that others missed. In another life, he had studied those same systems, drawn from the same influences she was hinting at.

"Football doesn’t have a nationality," he said. "Good ideas are good ideas."

She made a note on her pad. "Morientes looked like a player reborn last night. Two goals. A complete performance. What’s changed for him since Madrid?"

"Nothing’s changed. He’s always been this player; he just needed the right structure around him."

"And Xabi Alonso? That was quite a debut in the Champions League."

"Xabi understands space. That’s rare. Most players see where the ball is; he sees where it’s going to be."

Clara took a bite of her croissant, chewing thoughtfully. "There’s something different about this Monaco team," she said after swallowing. "Not just the tactics or the personnel. There’s a... certainty. Like they’re playing without doubt."

Demien met her gaze. "That comes from preparation."

"Does it?" She tilted her head. "Or does it come from the man in charge?"

He didn’t answer, just took another sip of coffee.

Clara’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it and grimaced. "Editor again. Wants to know if I can get exclusive quotes about the Nice derby." She looked up. "Speaking of which, how do you refocus after a night like last night? Local rivalry after a European high—that’s a classic trap game."

"There’s no such thing as a trap game," Demien said. "Only poor preparation."

"You’re very quotable when you want to be, you know that?" She turned off the recorder and slipped it back into her bag. "Want to continue this conversation somewhere more private? Tonight, maybe?"

Demien felt something shift in his chest. Not uncertainty—he had left that behind when he died and woke up here—but a kind of recognition. Clara was becoming more than just a journalist, more than just a companion in this strange new timeline.

"My place," he said. "Eight o’clock. I’ll cook.

Her eyebrow arched. "You cook?"

"I contain multitudes."

She laughed, standing and gathering her things. "Eight it is. I’ll bring wine." She hesitated, then leaned down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Congratulations again. It was quite a night.

He watched her walk away, her figure silhouetted against the morning sun reflecting off the harbor. There were things he couldn’t tell her—about who he really was, what he knew, and the future he was trying to reshape.

But there were also things he could share: moments like this, small victories.

He finished his coffee and stood up. Nice was waiting. The tactical plan was waiting. The next step in rewriting history was waiting.

For the first time in a long while, Demien found himself looking forward to it all.