In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 67: Derby Day

The morning sky over Monaco was a perfect blue, with not a single cloud daring to intrude on derby day. Demien stood on his balcony, his coffee growing cold in his hand, his eyes fixed on the distant curve of the Stade Louis II’s roof peeking above the city skyline.

His match day routine was unwavering: up at exactly 6:30, a fifteen-minute stretch, a protein-heavy breakfast, and one cup of coffee (never two). He would then review tactics until precisely 10:00. After that, silence. No calls, no distractions—just the mental preparation that had become his ritual.

On the kitchen table, the lineup sheet lay neatly beside his tablet. He had made his decisions two days earlier but reviewed them once more that morning:

- Roma in goal

- Evra, Squillaci, Rodriguez, and Ibarra across the back

- Alonso as the deep playmaker, with Bernardi and D’Alessandro completing the midfield trio

- Rothen and Giuly on the wings

- Morientes leading the line

No surprises. No gambles. Just the right pieces in the right positions.

He checked his watch—9:47. Almost time to shut everything down and embrace the pre-match silence. His phone buzzed on the counter. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Clara.

"Just filed the preview. Made you sound almost human. Good luck today."

A small smile crept onto his face as he typed back: "Almost?"

Her response came quickly: "Couldn’t give away all your secrets."

Demien set the phone down without replying. Some secrets were best left buried.

At precisely 11:30, he pulled his car into the underground parking at Stade Louis II. The stadium staff moved with the heightened energy that accompanied derby matches—security was tighter, conversations more clipped, and everyone felt the weight of local pride.

Stone met him at the entrance to the administrative corridor, tablet in hand. "Full house," he said, falling into step beside Demien. "The supporters arrived early. They’re loud."

"Let them be loud now," Demien replied.

"The team arrived ten minutes ago. All present, all fit."

"The pitch?"

"Perfect. The groundskeeper’s been up since 4 AM."

They turned down the corridor leading to the locker rooms. Through the half-open door, Demien could already hear the pre-match rhythm building—music playing sofly, boots being laced, tactical instructions exchanged between players like mantras.

Outside the press entrance, Clara stood with a small group of journalists, credentials hanging around her neck. Their eyes met briefly as he passed—no smile, no nod, just a professional acknowledgment that felt distant yet necessary.

Inside the locker room, the energy was focused but controlled. Some players sat silently, already in the zone while others moved restlessly, expelling nervous energy through constant motion. Morientes was unusually still, back straight, eyes closed, headphones on.

Michel approached with the final medical checks. "All clear," he said. "Evra’s hip is fine. Rothen’s knee has no issues."

Demien nodded. "The tactical board?"

"Set up just as we discussed."

The board occupied the center of the room, Nice’s formation outlined in red, key players highlighted. Everson’s position in midfield was circled twice—the fulcrum around which their play would rotate. Beside it, the pressing triggers and defensive rotations Monaco had rehearsed all week were listed in precise order.

The stadium noise seeped in through the walls, growing louder as kickoff approached. The Nice supporters’ chants were already distinguishable—rhythmic, provocative, designed to burrow under the skin.

At 2:30 PM, Demien gathered the team.

"They’ll come at us aggressively," he said, voice even and measured. "In the first fifteen minutes, they’ll try to disrupt our rhythm. Let them try." He looked each player in the eye. "Patience. Control. When the spaces appear—and they will—we exploit them without mercy."

He pointed to the gap between Cobos and Pamarot. "This is where the match will be won. Not with force, but with intelligence."

Giuly stepped forward. As captain, the final words were always his. "This isn’t just about three points," he said, his intensity a perfect counterbalance to Demien’s calculated calm. "This is about who owns this city. Let’s show them."

The tunnel was narrow, forcing opposing players to stand almost shoulder to shoulder. Evra exchanged hard stares with Audel while Rothen and Bigné, former teammates at PSG, barely acknowledged each other. The tension was palpable, crackling between red-and-white and red-and-black like static electricity.

The referee signaled and the teams began to move.

Demien was always the last one to emerge. As he stepped onto the touchline, the roar hit him like a physical force—a wall of sound as the Stade Louis II erupted. Monaco’s supporters filled one side while Nice’s occupied the other, the divide as stark as their rivalry.

The match began with the intensity Demien had predicted. Nice pressed high immediately, Laslandes and Audel harrying Monaco’s defenders, giving them no time to settle into their passing rhythm. Meslin dropped deeper than expected, adding an extra body to disrupt Alonso’s distribution.

In the eighth minute, the first real chance came—Evra advanced down the left, quickly combining with Rothen before whipping in a cross that just evaded Morientes at the far post. The crowd surged forward, then fell back in collective disappointment.

Demien remained still, watching, analyzing, processing.

Nice responded with direct play, bypassing midfield to isolate Laslandes against Squillaci. The striker was clever, using his body to shield the ball, drawing fouls in dangerous areas. In the fifteenth minute, a free kick from Everson struck the wall, bounced awkwardly, and nearly caught Roma wrong-footed.

On the sideline, Michel stepped closer to Demien. "They’re more direct than we expected."

"It’s unsustainable," Demien replied. "They can’t maintain that press for ninety minutes."

But Nice continued to disrupt Monaco’s flow. D’Alessandro grew visibly frustrated, dropping deeper to find the ball and leaving gaps between midfield and attack. In the twenty-third minute, he misplaced a pass trying to force a breakthrough, and Nice countered quickly.

The move developed with alarming speed—Audel to Meslin, Meslin finding Laslandes in space. Rodriguez stepped up to challenge, but the striker had already spun away. His shot, low and precise, left Roma no chance.

0-1.

The Nice supporters erupted, a red-and-black wave of delirium. Their players celebrated with pointed gestures toward the Monaco bench, the satisfaction of silencing the home crowd evident in every movement.

Demien’s expression remained unchanged as he watched the replay on the big screen once, noting the exact moment when the defensive shape broke down. He then turned back to the match. Beside him, Michel was already scribbling adjustments on his notepad.

"Too much space between Alonso and the back four," Demien said quietly. "Tell Bernardi to stay deeper when we transition."

Monaco tried to respond immediately, but their passes lacked precision, and their movement was too predictable. Nice settled into a compact defensive shape, content to protect their lead. Cobos and Pamarot closed the gap that Demien had identified in training, their communication improving under the pressure of competition.

Halftime couldn’t come soon enough. Monaco had possession but no penetration, control but no cutting edge. As the whistle blew, Giuly gathered the team in a brief huddle on the pitch. His words inaudible from the sideline but his intensity was unmistakable.

In the locker room, the mood was tense but not defeated. Players sat, breathing hard, waiting for guidance.

Demien didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to.

"They’re overcommitting to the right side," he said, quickly drawing an adjustment on the tactical board. "Rothen, you’ll find more space on the left now. D’Alessandro, stop dropping so deep. Stay between their lines."

He continued with each adjustment—precise, calculated, unemotional. This wasn’t the time for speeches about pride or history; this was surgery, not inspiration.

"Morientes," he said finally, turning to the striker. "Pamarot follows you when you check short. Next time, let him come. Giuly will find the space he leaves."

Morientes nodded, his eyes focused, mind already processing the instruction.

They returned to the pitch with renewed purpose. Monaco’s passing quickly found its rhythm—quicker, more vertical, exploiting the spaces that Nice’s aggressive pressing inevitably left. D’Alessandro stayed higher, operating in the pockets between midfield and defense where his creativity could inflict maximum damage.

In the fifty-third minute, the pattern worked perfectly—Alonso to Bernardi, who found D’Alessandro between the lines. The Argentine turned, drawing Pamarot out of position, and slipped a perfect pass into the channel for Rothen’s overlapping run.

The cross was inch-perfect, arcing to the far post where Morientes had drifted away from Cobos. With one controlled yet powerful touch, the ball hit the net.

1-1.

The Stade Louis II erupted in a roar that seemed to shake its very foundations. Morientes wheeled away, arms spread wide, before being engulfed by his teammates. On the touchline, Michel allowed himself a small fist pump, quickly suppressing it.

Demien merely nodded. One problem solved. Now for the next.

Nice responded by tightening their shape, dropping Everson deeper to screen the defense. The game became a tactical chess match—Monaco probing, Nice countering, both teams aware that the next goal would likely decide the derby.

In the seventieth minute, Demien made his move: Adebayor for Prso, bringing fresh legs and direct running against tiring defenders. The substitution shifted Monaco’s entire attacking dynamic—less structure, more chaos, but the kind that disrupts organized defenses.

The impact was immediate. Adebayor’s first touch was a flick over Abardonado; his second was a driving run that drew a desperate tackle and a yellow card. The free kick came to nothing, but the tone had been set.

The winning goal, when it came in the seventy-eighth minute, perfectly distilled Demien’s philosophy. Seven purpose-driven passes began with Alonso deep in Monaco’s half. The tempo increased with each touch—Bernardi to D’Alessandro, D’Alessandro finding Rothen, Rothen inside to Giuly, and Giuly combining with Adebayor.

The final pass split Nice’s defense as if it weren’t there, and Giuly—the captain, the heartbeat—arrived right on cue to finish with clinical precision.

2-1.

This time, Demien allowed himself a single clap. Not a celebration, just an acknowledgment of execution aligned with design.

In the final minutes, Nice threw everything forward. Laslandes nearly equalized from a corner, his header clipping the post. Squillaci made a last-ditch tackle that had the away fans screaming for a penalty. Alonso controlled what he could, slowing the tempo whenever the ball came his way and relieving pressure with precise switches of play.

When the final whistle blew, the release of tension was almost physical. Players collapsed to their knees, not from exhaustion but from relief. Giuly pumped his fist toward the Monaco ultras, who responded with a wall of sound.

Demien moved onto the pitch, shaking hands with Nice’s manager—professional, respectful, no gloating. The derby had been won, but only just. Another step on the path, not a destination.

As the players headed toward the tunnel, he caught sight of Clara in the press area, phone to her ear, likely dictating her match report on deadline. Their eyes met briefly—no smile, no nod—just that same electric acknowledgment that passed between them when professional and personal overlapped.

D’Alessandro jogged past, slapping hands with Rodriguez. "We made it harder than it needed to be, no?" he said, grinning now that victory was secured.

Demien shrugged slightly. "Derbies are never easy."

But as he followed the team down the tunnel, he knew the truth was more complex. In the original timeline, this match had been a struggle too. But they had won it differently now—with more control, more purpose, and a deeper collective understanding.

The calendar stayed the same. The result stayed the same.

But the path was changing with every match.