In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 68: Pride and Points

The locker room hummed with a subdued sense of victory—not the wild celebration of a season-defining moment, but the satisfied buzz of professionals who had overcome a tough challenge. Players peeled off sweaty jerseys, comparing bruises and reliving key moments in quiet conversations.

Squillaci winced as the physio pressed an ice pack to his thigh. "Laslandes doesn’t jump; he climbs," he said to Rodriguez, who was examining a nasty scratch on his forearm.

Across the room, Giuly sat with his captain’s armband still on, watching everything with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. His goal—the derby winner—had been clinical, but it was his leadership throughout that had steadied Monaco during the challenging first half.

Demien moved through the space methodically, exchanging brief words with each player. No grand speeches, no performative praise—just specific observations and personal adjustments, the kind of targeted feedback that built trust over time.

To Alonso: "Your control in the last fifteen minutes changed the game."

To Adebayor: "The movement for the second goal was exactly what we needed."

To Evra: "Next time, trust the cover sooner. Rothen was there."

Each player received these words differently—Alonso with a respectful nod, Adebayor with a wide grin, Evra with focused attention. Different personalities, different approaches, but a collective understanding of the standard being built.

Stone appeared at the doorway, beckoning Demien. "The media’s waiting in the press room. And the president wants a word before that."

The president was already in the corridor, his expensive suit somehow unwrinkled despite ninety minutes in the directors’ box. He extended his hand, a wide smile on his face. "A proper derby win," he said, clapping Demien on the shoulder. "The board is delighted."

"It was closer than it needed to be," Demien replied.

"But that’s what makes it sweeter, no? The nerves, the tension, then the release." The president glanced toward the locker room. "The players are responding to your methods. The football is... different. More sophisticated."

Demien said nothing. The president studied him for a moment before continuing.

"Stone tells me we should discuss your contract situation soon. The club wants to secure your future here."

"After the Champions League group stage would be better," Demien said. "Let’s see where we stand then."

"Of course, of course. No rush." The president straightened his tie. "I should greet our sponsors. They’re very excited about the direction we’re taking."

Once alone, Demien took a moment to center himself before facing the press. The match had unfolded almost exactly as he’d expected—the difficult start, the tactical adjustments, and the eventual breakthrough. But the second goal, that seven-pass move culminating in Giuly’s finish, was something new. It was a creation, not a memory—something that hadn’t happened in the timeline he remembered.

The press room was packed with local journalists, national outlets, and even a few international correspondents drawn by Monaco’s Champions League performance. Cameras flashed as Demien took his seat at the table, Giuly beside him, both still in their match gear.

The questions came in predictable waves—about the slow start, the tactical switch, and the significance of a derby victory. Demien answered each with measured precision, providing usable quotes without revealing anything substantial.

"Was there a moment when you worried the match was slipping away?" one reporter asked.

"No," Demien replied. "The players understood the plan and executed it when it mattered."

"That second goal—seven passes from defense to finish. Is that the ’Monaco style’ we’re seeing develop?"

Demien allowed a small nod. "It’s one expression of our approach: control, patience, then precision."

From the back row, Clara raised her hand, and the press officer pointed to her.

"The substitution of Adebayor changed the dynamic completely," she said. "Was that a planned tactical shift or a reaction to how the match was developing?"

Their eyes met briefly—professional Clara, sharp and analytical, always looking for the angle others missed.

"Both," Demien answered. "We knew Nice’s defenders would tire. Adebayor’s directness is most effective against legs that are already heavy."

Giuly added his perspective on the match—the captain’s voice was important for the local supporters—before the press officer finally called time. The media filed out, already composing headlines and angles, transforming the derby from an event into a story.

Outside the press room, players drifted toward the exit. Some had family waiting—Morientes’ wife with their young children, Rothen’s girlfriend scrolling on her phone, and Rodriguez’s parents beaming with pride despite their son’s bandaged arm.

Bernardi and D’Alessandro walked together, deep in conversation about a restaurant in the old town where they were meeting teammates for dinner. Alonso politely declined their invitation, explaining that he had promised to call his father after the match to analyze his performance—a ritual from his days at Real Sociedad.

The human side of the machine, Demien thought. Lives that continued when the final whistle blew.

Stone approached again, jacket slung over his shoulder, looking more relaxed now that the official duties were complete.

"Good result," he said. "Not our best performance, but derby wins are about the points, not the performance."

"It’s both," Demien replied. "Always both."

"The scouting report for the next Champions League match arrived. Athens is in good form."

"We’ll start preparations Monday. Let them enjoy this weekend."

Stone nodded, glancing toward the exit where players were still departing. "They’ve earned it. Six points clear of Nice now. Lyon drew today, so we’re level at the top."

Demien had known about Lyon’s result before Stone mentioned it. In the original timeline, they had won that match, creating an early gap in the title race. Another small change, another ripple spreading outward.

"Marseille next weekend," Stone continued. "Then Athens midweek. The schedule gets congested from here."

"We’ll manage," Demien said. "The squad is deep enough."

Clara was waiting near the administrative exit, notepad closed and recorder already packed away. Her professional duties were done for the night, but she lingered, watching him approach.

"Nice match report?" he asked.

"Filed ten minutes ago." She fell into step beside him as they walked toward the parking area. "The editor wanted ’derby drama’ in the headline. I gave him ’tactical triumph’ instead."

"Controversial."

"I might have mentioned the seven-pass move and called it a ’glimpse of Monaco’s evolving identity’ or something equally pompous."

Demien’s mouth twitched at the corner. "Very poetic."

They reached his car, the lot now mostly empty. No cameras, no other journalists—just the quiet intimacy of a moment between public obligations.

"Dinner?" he asked.

Clara glanced at her watch. "I should finish my analysis piece for tomorrow’s edition."

"Afterward, then."

She studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. "Your place. Ten o’clock. I’ll bring the wine this time."

"Red?"

"After a derby? Definitely red."

She turned and walked toward her own car, the click of her heels against the concrete fading into the night air.

Demien drove slowly through Monaco’s evening streets, the city alive with post-match energy. Restaurant patios filled with supporters in red and white celebrated the derby victory with food, drink, and endless replays of Giuly’s winning goal.

At La Rascasse, he caught a glimpse of a group of his players through the window—Giuly and Rothen at the center of a large table, Adebayor animatedly telling a story that had everyone laughing, while D’Alessandro soaked it all in with a bemused expression, still adjusting to a new culture.

Team chemistry was forming in ways it hadn’t in the original timeline. Bonds were strengthening earlier and deeper. Another change, another improvement.

He continued past without stopping. The night was theirs to enjoy. Tomorrow would bring video analysis, recovery sessions, and preparations for Marseille. The cycle never stopped; the rhythm never faltered.

But for now, there was satisfaction in the three points earned, in the derby victory secured, and in the small adjustments gradually bending this timeline away from the one he remembered.

And there was Clara, coming at ten with red wine, sharp observations, and that look that saw past his defenses.

Demien turned onto the quiet street leading to his apartment, the lights of Monaco harbor glittering below like scattered stars. The Nice derby was won, and the next challenge awaited.

The path between them continued to change with each passing day.