Monday morning dawned gray and windless at La Turbie. Demien gazed out from his office window as players trickled onto the training pitch in small groups—some still basking in the satisfaction of Saturday's victory over Auxerre, while others were already focused on the challenge ahead. Deportivo. Champions League. A match that could define their seasons.

He made his way to the tactical room where Michel was setting up the video equipment. Three separate screens displayed highlights of Deportivo's recent matches—their patient possession against Real Sociedad, their swift transitions against Valencia, and their defensive discipline against Barcelona.

"They rarely give the ball away," Michel remarked, fast-forwarding through sequences of Deportivo maintaining possession for long stretches. "Valerón is the linchpin. Everything flows through him."

Demien nodded, analyzing the patterns. "We don't press him directly. We cut his options and force him backward, not sideways."

The session began with physical activation—players engaged in dynamic warm-ups designed to prepare their bodies for the demands ahead. No music today, just focused preparation and the rhythmic sound of boots on wet grass.

When the squad gathered around the tactical board, Demien arranged magnetic pieces to represent Deportivo's expected formation. "They'll line up in a 4-3-2-1. Silva and Duscher will anchor the midfield, with Valerón operating between the lines. Our strategy is straightforward: we don't chase the ball. We control the spaces it wants to occupy."

D'Alessandro raised his hand. "What about their press? They completely shut down Barcelona's midfield last month."

"Different approach," Demien replied. "Barcelona force play through the center. We'll use the wings to stretch them, then exploit the gaps when they're unbalanced."

The drills that followed were specific and demanding. Alonso focused on escaping pressure in tight spaces, while Giuly and Rothen practiced combinations to create overloads against compact defenses. Morientes rehearsed movements designer to draw Deportivo's center-backs out of position.

After an hour of tactical work, Demien gathered the squad for final instructions. "They'll expect us to be nervous—it's our first time hosting Spanish opposition. They'll try to slow the tempo and make us impatient. We won't give them that satisfaction."

As players dispersed to recovery protocols—ice baths, massage, and individual preparation routines—Demien lingered on the pitch, walking the length of the center circle where tomorrow night's crucial moments would unfold.

Stone appeared as Demien approached the building. "Press conference at four. Irureta speaks first, then you. Standard format."

"Who's asking questions?"

"Local media, Spanish correspondents, and some European outlets. Nothing unusual."

The press conference room filled quickly. Deportivo's manager sat comfortably at the table, fielding questions with the easy confidence of someone who had done this countless times. His responses were measured yet revealing—expressing respect for Monaco's progress, acknowledging the tactical challenges, and exuding quiet confidence in his team's experience.

When it was Demien's turn, the questions were predictable but probing.

"Monaco has surprised many with their Champions League start. Do you feel pressure to maintain this level?"

"Pressure comes from within," Demien replied. "We focus on our preparation and performance. External expectations don't change our approach."

A Spanish journalist leaned forward. "Deportivo reached the Champions League semifinal two years ago. Does their European experience concern you?"

"Experience is valuable, but every match starts zero-zero. What happened in the past matters less than what happens tomorrow."

The questions continued—about Deportivo's threats, Monaco's tactical evolution, and the significance of the fixture. Demien answered each with characteristic precision, providing enough substance for their articles without revealing anything about his actual plans.

As the session concluded, he noticed Clara in the back row, her notebook closed and pen capped. Their eyes met briefly—professional acknowledgment, nothing more. Yet something passed between them that transcended the formality of the setting.

Later, as he walked to his car, his phone buzzed.

Done with work questions? her message read.

For today.

Good. Dinner. Eight o'clock. Somewhere with no televisions.

He smiled despite himself. La Piazzetta?

Perfect. And Demien?

Yes?

No tactical analysis during dessert.

The restaurant was tucked away on a narrow street in Monaco's old town, far from the tourist crowds of the harbor. Demien arrived first, choosing a corner table where they could talk without being overheard. The warm, intimate lighting created a cozy atmosphere—candles flickered on checkered tablecloths, and wine bottles lined the brick walls.

Clara appeared five minutes later, wearing a simple black dress that somehow made her look both elegant and approachable. She had left her press credentials behind, shedding the professional armor she wore during work hours.

"You look tired," she said, settling into the chair across from him.

"Champions League preparation."

"I said no football talk." She signaled the waiter. "Red wine, please. Something that pairs well with a conversation that has nothing to do with tactics."

The waiter nodded and returned with a bottle that Clara approved after a quick taste. As their glasses filled, she raised hers. "To topics that don't involve offside rules."

"That eliminates most of my vocabulary."

"Then we'll have to find what's left."

The conversation that followed wandered through unexpected territory. Clara shared stories about her journalism professors, the ones who taught her to look beyond the obvious. Demien found himself reminiscing about places he had traveled as a player—not the stadiums or training grounds, but the quiet moments between matches. Small cafés in German cities, empty beaches along the Spanish coastal towns, and the way morning light looked different in each new country.

"Do you miss it?" she asked, twirling pasta around her fork. "Playing, I mean."

"Sometimes. Not the pressure, but the simplicity. Your responsibility ends when the whistle blows."

"And now?"

"Now it never ends. Every decision echoes forward."

She studied him over her wine glass. "That sounds lonely."

"It can be."

"But not tonight?"

"Not tonight."

The meal progressed without either of them checking their phones or glancing at their watches. Clara shared stories about her early days in journalism—chasing politicians through Monaco's narrow streets and learning to ask uncomfortable questions without losing access. Demien described the strange experience of watching the game from the touchline instead of the pitch—how the patterns became visible when you weren't part of them.

When the check arrived, neither moved to claim it. The restaurant had grown quieter around them, with other diners departing while they remained suspended in their own bubble of conversation.

"Shall we walk?" Clara suggested.

They left the narrow streets of the old town and found themselves on the harbor promenade. The Mediterranean stretched dark beyond the marina lights, yacht masts swaying gently in the evening breeze. Monaco glittered around them—expensive and immaculate, yet somehow more human in the darkness.

"Strange place to build a life," Clara remarked, watching a late-night jogger pass under the streetlights.

"Is that what we're doing? Building lives?"

She stopped walking and turned to face him. "I don't know. Are we?"

The question hung between them like a challenge. Demien felt the familiar weight of calculation—the constant analysis that governed every decision on the pitch extending into this moment. But Clara's expression suggested she would appreciate honesty more than strategy.

"I'm trying to," he finally admitted.

She moved closer, so close that he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. "Good. Because this—whatever this is—it's not just about convenience."

"What is it about?"

Instead of answering, she reached up and kissed him. It was not tentative or questioning, but filled with clear intention. He responded, pulling her closer, feeling the tensions of preparation and performance dissolve into something more immediate.

When they separated, Clara's smile transformed—less guarded, more genuine.

"Your apartment or mine?" she asked.

"Yours is closer."

They walked the remaining distance in comfortable silence, hands linked, the championship and Deportivo feeling suddenly distant. At her building's entrance, Clara fumbled with her keys, her nervous energy finally showing.

Inside her apartment, the familiar space felt different—more intimate. The journalist's notebooks and tactical magazines that usually cluttered the coffee table had been cleared away, replaced by opened wine bottles and soft lighting.

"You planned this," Demien remarked.

"I hoped for it." she replied, a hint of smile playing on her lips.

They moved toward the couch, the evening's careful conversation giving way to something more profound. Clara's fingers found the buttons of his shirt while his traced the delicate line of her neck. The kiss that followed was deeper, more urgent.

Time seemed to suspend itself. The match, the pressure, the constant calculation—all faded away, leaving only the warmth of her skin and the sound of their breathing.

When she pulled back to look at him, her expression was soft yet serious.

"Whatever happens tomorrow," she said, "this is separate. This is ours."

He nodded, understanding. Professional obligations would return with the morning, but this moment belonged solely to them.

She kissed him again, and the lights of the Monaco harbor faded beyond the windows as they lost themselves in each other.

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