In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 64: Recovery Day

The training complex at La Turbie loomed above Monaco like a fortress—its modern glass façade and perfectly manicured pitches contrasting with the endless blue of the Mediterranean in the distance. At 1:30 PM, players began arriving in sleek, expensive cars with tinted windows, designer bags slung over their shoulders, and sunglasses shielding eyes still heavy from celebration, sleep, or perhaps a mix of both.

Demien watched from his office window as they gathered near the entrance. Giuly was the first to arrive, ever punctual and setting the standard as captain. Rothen and Evra followed, laughing about something only they understood. Morientes pulled up in a modest sedan that belied his star status. One by one, the architects of last night’s victory assembled, the atmosphere light yet focused.

They all knew what lay ahead. The rhythm of football allowed no time for prolonged celebration.

Michel knocked once before entering, a stack of printouts tucked under his arm. "Medical reports," he said, dropping them on Demien’s desk. "Everyone’s clear. A few normal fatigue markers, but nothing concerning."

Demien nodded, scanning the first page. "What about Rothen’s knee?"

"Just impact bruising. He’s good to train."

"And Evra’s hip flexor?"

Michel raised an eyebrow. "How did you know about that? He didn’t mention it after the match."

Demien looked up, realizing he had slipped. He couldn’t tell Michel that he had seen Evra favoring that hip in the next match of the original timeline. "He was stretching it during cooldown," he improvised. "Looked uncomfortable."

"Well, the scans are clear. But we’ll keep an eye on it."

The door swung open again, and Stone entered without knocking—a sure sign of agitation.

"The president is coming to training," he announced, his voice taut. "He’s bringing two sponsors. They want to see the Champions League heroes up close."

Demien stood, feeling a mix of frustration and resolve. "We’re in recovery mode today. Light session. Nothing spectacular."

"I know. I told him that. But after last night..." Stone shrugged. "He’s excited. Everyone is."

"Fine. But they stay by the sideline. No interruptions. No photo sessions until we’re done."

Stone nodded. "I’ll handle it." He hesitated, then added, "There’s something else. Broadcast rights holders want access for the Nice derby—behind-the-scenes footage. Pre-match, post-match, maybe even halftime."

Demien shook his head firmly. "No."

"Demien, the club needs this. The exposure, the revenue—"

"No cameras in my technical area," Demien interrupted. "No microphones in the dressing room. They can film arrivals, warm-ups, and celebrations if we win. Nothing else."

Stone opened his mouth to argue but then closed it again. "I’ll negotiate something workable," he finally said.

After they left, Demien took a moment to center himself. The success was creating complications—attention, distractions, and heightened expectations. In the original timeline, Monaco hadn’t faced this level of scrutiny until much later in their Champions League run. freewёbnoνel.com

He was accelerating things, changing the rhythm.

Outside, the players were gathering on Pitch Two, dressed in training gear, some still wearing recovery compression sleeves from their morning sessions with the physios. Demien made his way down, clipboard in hand more out of habit than necessity.

D’Alessandro and Xabi were already passing a ball between them, engaged in an improvised rondo with Giuly and Plašil joining in. No instructions were needed—just the natural rhythm and instinctive understanding of space that elite players shared.

"Light session today," Demien announced as he approached. "Recovery circuit first, then some tactical walk-throughs for Nice. Nothing above seventy percent intensity."

The players nodded and split into their usual groups. Demien watched as they moved through the recovery circuit—mobility exercises, light jogging, and dynamic stretching. Morientes and D’Alessandro paired up, conversing in Spanish as they worked.

Evra caught Demien’s eye and jogged over. "Coach, quick question about the Nice setup."

"What’s on your mind?"

"Their attacking midfielder, Everson. He’s quick but doesn’t track back. If I overlap early..."

"We’ll discuss it in the tactical session," Demien replied. "But yes, we want to exploit that side."

Evra grinned. "Just checking we’re on the same page." He turned to rejoin the group but paused. "Last night was special, coach. The way we played... it felt like we’d been doing it for years, not weeks."

Demien nodded, wishing Evra knew the truth.

The president arrived with a small entourage just as the players transitioned to the tactical walk-through. Demien acknowledged them with a brief wave but kept his focus on the session. He arranged the mannequins in Nice’s expected formation and walked the players through specific patterns of play.

"They’ll press high on our right side," he explained, pointing to the spaces. "Rothen, you’ll have more time than usual. Giuly, they’ll double-team you early. We can use that to our advantage."

He continued through the setup, highlighting pressure triggers, defensive rotations, and set-piece alignments. The players absorbed it all with quiet focus, occasionally asking questions but mostly processing the information.

This was the difference between good teams and great ones—the ability to absorb tactical information and translate it to the pitch. This group had that capacity in abundance.

After the session, the president insisted on meeting with the players briefly. Handshakes, congratulations, and a few photos for the club’s media channels followed. The sponsors beamed beside Morientes and Giuly, while D’Alessandro smiled politely, clearly wanting to be elsewhere.

Demien hung back, letting Stone manage the interactions. When the president finally approached him, he offered a respectful nod.

"Remarkable performance, Laurent," the president said, extending his hand. "The board is absolutely delighted."

"Thank you, sir. The players executed perfectly."

"Stone tells me we should discuss your contract situation soon—extending and improving the terms."

Demien kept his expression neutral. "Perhaps after the group stage. I’m focused on Nice right now."

"Of course, of course. One match at a time, as they say." The president clapped him on the shoulder. "But know that we recognize what you’re building here. Special things are happening."

When they finally left, Demien sat alone in the empty stands overlooking the training pitch. The players had departed for recovery shakes, ice baths, and massage sessions. Only the groundskeepers remained, tending to the turf with meticulous care.

His phone buzzed with a message from Clara.

Still on for tonight? I found a Bordeaux that pairs well with whatever multitudes you’re cooking.

He smiled despite himself. Still on. Don’t be late. Multitudes wait for no one.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and gazed out over the empty pitch. In the distance, the Mediterranean glittered under the afternoon sun—endless and unchanging while everything else transformed around it.

Three-nil against PSV.

Nice awaits this weekend.

A Champions League journey just beginning.

A timeline diverging further with each decision.

And Clara.

Demien stood, gathering his notes. The past was set—both the one he had lived and the one he had inherited in this strange second life. But the future? That remained unwritten.

And he had dinner to prepare.