In This Life I Became a Coach-Chapter 60: The Match He’s Already Lived

He walked past the changing stalls, the office glass, the physio wing, until La Turbie's turf opened up in front of him again. Same wind off the coast. Same sky hanging low like it knew something. Demien slowed only when he reached the chalkboard already set beside the cones.

The eleven were written down.

Alonso. D'Alessandro. Plašil.

No hesitation.

He stood in front of it but didn't speak. Not yet.

Michel came up behind him, holding the squad sheets in one hand and a thermos cup he hadn't touched in the other.

"You're not changing it?"

"No."

Michel looked at the shape. "That midfield's brave."

Demien traced the chalk with his fingertip. The arc between Alonso and D'Alessandro. The gap just behind Morientes.

"It's what they need."

"What we need?" Michel asked.

Demien didn't answer.

He already knew how the match ended. He could still see the goal. The timing. The touch. But he couldn't tell them that. Couldn't say he'd seen the ball roll in before it was even kicked.

Because nobody knew.

And nobody would believe him.

Plašil led warmups. The team was already scattered across the pitch in staggered lines. Alonso jogged slow, back straight, eyes always scanning—not out of nervousness, just habit. D'Alessandro bounced his heel off his glutes with each step like he was saving his sharpness. Rothen tied and retied his laces twice. Adebayor was trying to meg Squillaci before the session had even started.

Demien clapped once.

No speech. Just clapping.

Giuly passed close by him. "You sure you don't want to say something?"

Demien raised an eyebrow. "I'm saving my voice."

"For Tuesday?"

"For when it matters."

Giuly nodded and jogged back into the rondo circle.

The drills weren't fast. But they were clean.

D'Alessandro's first touch sent Rothen into space—no shout, just instinct. Alonso broke a press line with the outside of his boot. Even Ibarra overlapped three times in five minutes. It was the kind of morning session that said more in silence than any clipboard could.

And Demien knew it.

Still, he didn't smile.

Because knowing what was coming didn't make it easier.

It made every misstep feel like betrayal. Like the timeline was slipping.

Givet misjudged a switch pass. Demien stepped forward.

"No more guessing," he said. "We don't borrow space. We build it."

Givet nodded. No excuse.

At 11:40, Michel checked his watch.

"Coach, transport's ready in ten."

Demien turned toward the entrance, already reaching for his coat. He waited until everyone had cleared the pitch. The last one out was Porato, dragging a bag of bibs like it had stolen something.

The bus ride to Nice Airport was quiet. Not tense—just still. Players leaned back. Some had headphones. Others watched the coast roll past without blinking. Stone handed out the PSV brief but didn't read from it. Giuly passed his to Rothen. Rothen tucked it into the seat pocket without unfolding it.

Demien sat beside the aisle. Michel by the window.

"You think they feel it yet?" Michel asked.

"They will," Demien said.

"You really believe we take this one?"

Demien looked out the window. The ocean sat calm. The kind of calm that made you wonder how deep it really was.

"I know we do."

Michel turned, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

Demien didn't give it.

Because if he did, he'd have to explain why he already knew the goal came from Morientes in the 34th minute. Why he knew how Xabi would track back like he'd been here before. Why he'd already felt the cold off the PSV stands before stepping into them.

And there was no way to explain that.

The plane touched down in Eindhoven at 5:12 p.m. Cloud cover. Sharp wind. Demien stepped off first, hands still in his pockets. The Dutch press weren't there yet. Just a club intern holding a laminated welcome sign.

Demien didn't look at it. freёweɓnovel.com

He walked straight past.

Because the game had already started—in his head, in his chest, in the version of himself that had already lived this match once.

He just had to make sure the rest of them caught up in time.

____

The conference room smelled like old carpet and hotel coffee—PSV banners stapled to the back wall, microphone wires tangled under the folding table. A young Dutch PR rep clicked his pen three times too many before finally saying, "We'll begin in one minute."

Demien sat first, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled once, no blazer. Stone followed, then Giuly—who leaned back like this wasn't his first time answering dumb questions on short rest.

Cameras clicked. One popped too close. Demien didn't flinch.

The moderator cleared his throat. "Questions for AS Monaco's coach or captain."

First hand went up—Dutch journalist, front row, neat notepad.

"Coach Laurent, first time coaching in the Champions League. Are you nervous?"

Demien didn't blink. "Not about kickoff. Just about what happens when the lights go off."

Stone wrote something, probably for the post-match quotes. Giuly smirked beside him, half-impressed.

A second voice chimed in, French accent from the back.

"Will Alonso and D'Alessandro both start tomorrow?"

Demien scratched once at the edge of the mic stand. "We'll see who remembers the tempo we trained at. I'm not selecting names—I'm selecting rhythm."

The third question came faster.

"Your last match in Lille wasn't convincing. Is this system change a reaction to that?"

He turned a little, facing the man properly. "You don't rebuild an idea after one rainstorm. Lille was wet ground. Tomorrow is something else."

A reporter from NOS leaned in, voice smooth, deliberate.

"Is a draw enough here?"

Demien held the pause this time. Let it settle.

"I don't travel to hold back. If you see eleven players playing for a point, call me a liar after full-time."

Giuly nodded faintly. His way of agreeing without endorsing.

Another hand, another question.

"PSV has a strong home record in Europe. How do you counter their physicality?"

Demien's mouth twitched at the corner. Not a smile, exactly.

"We bring a ball. And we don't give it back."

Laughter. Half of it caught the joke. The rest wrote it down like it wasn't one.

The moderator was about to close it, but one more hand went up. French journalist, tall, too polite.

"Coach, what defines a good Champions League debut?"

Demien leaned forward.

"Silence at full-time."

He stood up as the words landed, chair pushed back with no scrape. Stone gathered the folders. Giuly stayed seated a second longer, then followed.

As they exited, one of the Dutch reporters called out behind them.

"Coach—are you always this direct?"

Demien turned slightly, walking.

"Only when I know the answer."

And he didn't wait for the laugh. Just walked into the corridor with the match already forming in his head—not as a strategy.

As memory.