In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 65: Derby Preparations I

The Friday morning sky hung low over La Turbie, its grey stretch neither threatening rain nor promising sun, simply watching with an air of quiet anticipation. Demien stood at the center of the tactical room, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed intently on the projection screen where Nice’s formation glowed in sharp white lines against a black backdrop.

"Cobos and Pamarot," he said, his finger pointing to the gap between Nice’s center-backs. "Their lack of communication creates a vulnerability that doesn’t show up on paper." His voice was low and measured, but his words carried a sense of excitement.

The coaching staff sat in a semicircle around him, Michel closest, his notepad balanced on one knee, his pen hovering over a half-filled page. The analyst, Baptiste, clicked to the next slide, revealing heat maps from Nice’s last three matches.

"They defend in zones, not partnerships," Demien continued, his eyes scanning the room to ensure everyone was following. "When Everson drops too deep, the gap between midfield and defense stretches, creating an opportunity for us to exploit." His finger traced the space on the screen, emphasizing the point. "That’s where D’Alessandro needs to operate, using his creativity to find space and create chances."

Michel nodded, his eyes lighting up with understanding. "He’s been asking for more central freedom, and it’s clear he’s earned it."

Demien stepped back, letting the projection illuminate the entire defensive setup. "Echouafni is the weak link," he said, his voice firm but not critical. "He has a tendency to turn his back to the weak side, which could leave Pamarot isolated against Morientes if we shift quickly from right to left."

The meeting continued for another twenty minutes, with the coaching staff pouring over every detail, from set pieces to pressing triggers to transition moments. No pattern was too insignificant, no detail too small. By the time the players arrived at 10:30, Demien had already walked through three different attacking scenarios in his head, his mind racing with possibilities.

The squad gathered on Pitch One, their light training gear a testament to the cool morning air. But despite the Champions League hangover that might have been expected, the players moved with their usual rhythm and professionalism. Giuly led the warm-up, his voice carrying across the turf in short, sharp instructions that left no room for doubt. Rothen and Evra paired off, already discussing angles and overlaps for the left flank, their conversation flowing easily.

Demien walked the perimeter, observing without interfering, his eyes taking in every detail. D’Alessandro and Xabi had found each other, as they increasingly did, the ball moving between them in tight, controlled patterns. Their conversation drifted over in fragments, a testament to the growing understanding between them.

"—if we pull Echouafni wide—"

"—then the channel opens, but only if—"

"—timing, yes, exactly—"

Demien allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a small smile playing on his lips. The two midfielders were forming an understanding that went beyond tactics or training drills, a chemistry that couldn’t be coached. It was the kind of connection that made all the difference on the pitch. freёwebnoѵel.com

He moved closer to the defensive group, where Rodriguez and Squillaci were reviewing footage on a tablet held by the defensive coach. The air was thick with concentration, the players’ faces set in determined lines as they analyzed every detail, every movement.

"Laslandes likes to drop deep and then spin behind," Rodriguez said, tracing the striker’s movement with his finger. "We need to stay connected."

Squillaci nodded. "I’ll track the first movement; you cover the space."

Demien remained silent, observing. His defenders were already doing exactly what he would have instructed—analyzing, adapting, and preparing. This was the hallmark of a special team: players who thought beyond their immediate instructions.

As the session transitioned from warm-up to tactical work, Demien organized the training team into Nice’s 4-3-3 formation, with specific instructions to mimic their rivals’ tendencies. Cobos and Pamarot’s positioning was replicated precisely, with the gap between them measured down to the meter.

"They’ll try to force us wide," Demien explained as the drill began. "Then they’ll collapse inside. We need to play through the middle first to create the wide spaces, not the other way around."

Monaco’s passing patterns flowed like water—short combinations, quick changes of direction, and constant movement off the ball. Tiki-taka, they might have called it elsewhere, in another time. Here, it was simply Demien’s style: three passes to break the first line of pressure, two more to draw the midfield out of shape, and then the killer ball into the space that Echouafni would inevitably leave exposed.

D’Alessandro orchestrated the central movements, his touch so precise it seemed to bend time around the ball. Xabi patrolled deeper, setting the tempo, always available and never rushed. Between them, the space that Nice would try to control simply ceased to exist.

"Quicker, Rothen," Demien called out during a transitional sequence. "If you hesitate on that third pass, their press will recover. One touch there."

Rothen nodded, reset, and executed perfectly on the next attempt. No arguments, no frustration—just adjustment and improvement.

By the time they broke for lunch, the patterns were ingrained, the squad absorbing the game plan as if it were already muscle memory. In the dining hall, conversations continued—players huddled in tactical groups, discussions flowing seamlessly from the training pitch to the table.

Demien ate alone, as he often did, valuing the distance that brought him clarity. From his corner table, he observed the squad dynamics unfold. Giuly held court with the younger players, his captain’s authority both light and unmistakable. Morientes and D’Alessandro were deep in conversation, their Spanish flowing between them in rhythmic bursts. Evra and Rothen engaged in a good-natured argument about some overlapping detail, their hands animatedly illustrating their points.

Stone appeared halfway through the meal, sliding into the seat opposite Demien with a folder tucked under his arm.

"Sold out," he said, opening the folder to reveal ticket reports. "Fastest sellout for a derby in five years."

"Expected after PSV," Demien replied, finishing his water.

"It’s more than that. There’s a buzz around the team—the style, the players." Stone leaned forward. "The manager."

Demien remained silent.

"Media requests have tripled. Everyone wants access, interviews, exclusive angles."

"No."

"Some of them, Demien. The club needs the exposure."

"After the match. Not before."

Stone sighed but didn’t press further. He knew when the wall was too high to climb. "There’s one journalist I promised an answer to."

Demien’s gaze flickered up from his plate. "Clara."

"She wants fifteen minutes for a derby preview piece."

The phone in Demien’s pocket suddenly felt heavier. Their breakfast. Her text from last night. The line between professional and personal blurred with each interaction.

"Tell her after the afternoon session. My office. Ten minutes."

Stone nodded and stood, gathering his materials. "One more thing: the president is hosting a dinner tonight. Team building before the derby. He’d like you there."

"What time?"

"Eight. At Le Pinocchio."

Demien checked his watch. "I’ll be there."