The breeze off the Riviera didn't carry inside Stade Louis II. The pitch shimmered under the weight of the late summer sun, and though the stands were far from full, the few hundred supporters scattered across the bleachers buzzed with low, anticipatory energy. Preseason or not, every pass would be judged.
Demien stood just inside the technical area, arms loosely behind his back. Polo tucked sharp, collar flattened. He didn't shift his weight. Didn't pace. His eyes tracked movement—nothing more.
Michel handed him the clipboard. Demien didn't need it.
The referee's whistle sliced the stillness, high and crisp.
Kickoff.
Monaco's press unfolded like muscle memory. The 4-2-2-2 block they'd drilled all week braced into shape. Giuly and Morientes pressed in tandem, cutting off lanes between Strasbourg's defenders and their pivot. Behind them, Bernardi and Cissé mirrored the movements—pressuring the moment the second pass moved central.
Demien watched for rhythm, not results.
"Delay the second trigger," he called, his voice carrying but unforced. "Don't rush the collapse."
Strasbourg B barely reached halfway in the first ten minutes. One forced error, two sideways recoveries, and a blind backpass nearly turned into a chance for Pršo. Giuly's interception in the 12th was textbook—reading the half-space, pressing on the third touch, nicking the ball clean. His resulting shot sizzled just wide of the post.
Evra overlapped like clockwork, dragging two defenders with him every time Rothen cut inside. Demien allowed himself a slow nod. Structure was holding. Patterns were emerging.
But something inside him stayed taut.
Strasbourg shifted their backline slightly, dropping their fullbacks deeper. Subtle. A silent adjustment meant to tempt Monaco higher, pull apart the vertical compactness.
Demien narrowed his eyes.
The 20th minute brought another press trap, almost too perfect. Monaco flooded forward off a midfield turnover—but the second ball broke loose, and Strasbourg's keeper launched long.
One bounce. Then a second.
Their winger outran Rothen and Givet. One touch to set. Another to shoot.
Roma saved it—just barely. Kicked out a trailing leg and smothered the rebound before the striker could pounce.
Demien didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just blinked once, filing the sequence deep into memory.
Rothen had been too narrow again. Givet too slow to shift cover.
The press had been beaten.
"Michel," Demien murmured without looking away, "mark Rothen's line. He's tucking too early."
Michel nodded, scribbling a line across his pad, one brow twitching upward.
The next five minutes saw Strasbourg grow bolder. Diagonal balls skipped across the pitch—never frantic, just deliberate attempts to exploit the width Monaco offered freely. Each time they did, Demien measured not the success, but the reaction.
Giuly shouted once at Bernardi. Cissé gestured for Evra to drop sooner. Signals of effort—yes—but also of hesitation.
"Anchor the shape," Demien said, sharper now. "Trust your zone."
Bernardi gave a half-nod, eyes already tracking the ball before the words finished leaving Demien's mouth.
By minute 33, it was clear Strasbourg had smelled the imbalance.
They stopped trying to play through Monaco.
They were playing over them.
A cross-field switch led to a wide overlap. Rothen scrambled. Givet rotated late. Another shot, this one rising, but wide.
The murmurs in the stands grew audible. A few claps when Roma booted the goal kick long. No chants. No rhythm from the crowd. Just tension.
And sweat.
Not just from the players. Even the staff wiping their brows on the sidelines seemed more focused now.
Demien kept his voice level when he spoke.
"Bernardi—don't chase. Sit deeper on rest defense."
Cissé glanced back toward him. Rothen didn't.
At minute 38, another long ball created panic. Squillaci lunged early. A toe-poke sent the ball rolling toward the edge of the area. Roma hesitated—then pounced, clearing it just as the Strasbourg striker closed in.
"Watch the gaps," Michel muttered.
Demien didn't reply. He'd already seen enough.
Rothen jogged back up the pitch slowly, head tilted, muttering to himself. Givet said nothing. Evra barked something toward the midfield, frustration slicing the air.
The press shape still stood.
But only on the surface.
Inside, the timing was slipping.
The collective trust that made pressing work—that allowed one player to jump because three others would shift behind him—was fraying.
The 44th minute brought a flicker of unraveling.
Giuly threw both arms wide, voice sharp enough to carry even above the midfield shouts. "Check the rotation!" he snapped, eyes pinned on Morientes, who was two steps behind the play again. No reply came—just the frustrated shake of a head and the telltale drop in tempo that screamed fatigue. Or doubt.
Cissé clapped once—short, abrupt, like a slap across silence. Trying to rally them. Trying to remind them.
Demien didn't speak. Didn't move. His gaze slid along the spine of the formation like a scalpel tracing weakness—center backs locked into reactive shape, midfield late to second balls, wide channels leaking pressure.
Then he saw it.
A crack.
It wasn't tactical. It wasn't on the clipboard or between the lines.
It was in the space between one player's glance and another's silence. In the way Rothen no longer tucked in when Evra surged forward. In the half-second Bernardi waited before pressing. In the doubt lingering in Cissé's eyes as he watched the gap behind him widen again.
The crack ran down the team's spine—not across positions, but belief.
Demien's jaw flexed, barely. No instruction left his lips.
A minute later, the whistle blew. Shrill. Flat. And merciful.
1–0.
And hollow.
There was no cheer, no high-fives. No clap on the back. The players peeled away from the pitch like fragments drifting from impact.
Giuly jogged first, no expression on his face, sweat streaking through the collar of his shirt. Morientes followed, boots dragging slightly. Evra didn't speak. His chin was low, his eyes forward, like someone trying not to let frustration leak into stride.
Rothen yanked his armband off without breaking pace and tossed it toward the bench. It hit the cooler with a dull thud and slid down beside a crate of bottled water.
No one retrieved it.
Bernardi leaned toward Cissé just before they disappeared into the tunnel. His lips moved, words tight and sharp, but the stadium noise swallowed them whole. Whatever he said, it wasn't encouragement.
Demien stayed still a beat longer, then turned.
Michel fell into step behind him.
The tunnel swallowed the light, replaced it with concrete still warm from the afternoon sun. Shadows stretched long beneath the overhead fluorescents. Every footstep echoed louder here—more final.
The clipboard shifted in Demien's fingers. The laminated surface was dry and cool despite the air thickening around them. His thumb rubbed the corner once, a subconscious motion.
He didn't slow down. Didn't look back.
"Two passes from collapse," he said flatly, almost under his breath.
Michel inhaled to reply—then stopped. No words. Just the sound of a quiet exhale through his nose, the page of his notepad fluttering with his step.
Demien didn't notice.
He was already seeing the locker room in his mind. Already dissecting the shape. Already choosing the words.
Not to inspire.
To recalibrate.
The mistake wasn't pressing too high.
It was thinking they were ready to.
And they had ten minutes to remember why they weren't.
Demien crossed into the inner corridor. A water bottle bounced behind a player's heel. Someone cursed in French. Somewhere deeper inside, the low hiss of a shower starting.
He didn't follow it.
Just walked forward—straight, steady, clipboard at his side, as the tunnel swallowed his silhouette whole.