Chapter 45: Second Half – The Opening
The ball rolled again.
Second half. Forty-six minutes. Same sun, same slow shadows creeping along the Louis-II stands. But something sharper now lingered in the heat—an edge, not in the crowd, but in the silence between passes. The kind of quiet that came before the shift, not after.
Monaco moved first.
Bernardi floated into the right channel, pulling his marker just wide enough for Zikos to slot it back in. Giuly took off down the right but checked his run when the ball didn’t come.
Nice didn’t press.
They didn’t need to.
Not yet.
Forty-ninth minute.
Cissé received near the halfway line. Turned sharp on the pivot, body language tense.
Bernardi pointed inside—clear lane.
Cissé ignored it.
One dribble. Then another.
The third dragged the ball too far across his body.
Nice snapped.
Midfielder stepped, intercepted, launched it behind Rodriguez in one pass. Givet cleaned it up with a well-timed slide, but the warning had landed.
Demien said nothing.
Michel stood still on the edge of the technical box, arms crossed, squinting at the sunlight over the scoreboard.
Fifty-four minutes.
Demien moved.
No signal. No gesture.
Just one step back toward the bench, a glance, and a name.
"Andrés."
D’Alessandro stood before the fourth official had even lifted the board.
OFF: Cissé
ON: D’Alessandro
The crowd stirred.
Not loud—just enough for the shift in sound to ripple across the concrete stands like a soft breath.
Stone watched from the tunnel entrance, one hand in his jacket pocket. He didn’t move.
Michel leaned over toward Demien but didn’t speak. Demien didn’t look at him.
The board flashed.
Cissé jogged off with his head down. Didn’t shake a hand. Just passed Demien on the way to the bench.
Andrés stepped on.
No handshake. No instructions. No smile.
Just a quick stretch of the neck. A single bounce on the balls of his feet.
He took position beside Bernardi, then rotated left and dropped behind the ball without fanfare.
His first touch came within thirty seconds.
A sharp pass from Rodriguez, tight and knee-high.
Andrés killed it with the inside of his left foot. Shifted. Switched it diagonally to Evra—clean, clean, clean.
Nice’s shape began to shift—not backward, not panicked. Just unsure.
Sixty-one minutes.
Andrés rotated in and out of the left half-space. Bernardi began to push higher. Giuly found more width. Suddenly, the midfield triangle wasn’t horizontal. It was fluid.
Demien stayed quiet.
Rodriguez started stepping forward now. Zikos stepped left to cover. Everything grew half a second quicker.
Sixty-six minutes.
The breakthrough should’ve come then.
Andrés feinted inside, shoulder dropped, and the fullback bit. One touch to the left, then a disguised vertical split—right between the lines.
Straight to Morientes.
The striker held it up, pivoted.
Bernardi overlapped.
No pass.
Instead, Morientes turned himself, released with the inside of his boot.
Shot.
Blocked.
The stadium rose—not to its feet, but in breath. A murmur. A held moment.
Not a goal.
But a shift.
Andrés didn’t lift his arms. He just jogged back into shape as if it hadn’t happened.
But everyone had felt it.
Nice dropped ten meters.
The air changed.
Seventy-second minute.
Monaco slowed.
Evra took three touches before passing back. Rodriguez waited for Morientes to check.
D’Alessandro drifted deep, scanning.
Bernardi stepped toward him.
Andrés didn’t look. He just lifted his hand once—low, deliberate—and let the ball roll across his body. The pass was already in motion before he finished the turn.
No-look. Inside-foot slip.
Right into Giuly’s run.
The winger didn’t hesitate. Cut inside his man. One step. Shot across his body.
Curler.
Keeper stretched—but not far enough.
Back post.
73’ – GOAL MONACO. 1–0.
The crowd leapt.
Giuly sprinted to the corner flag, fist raised.
Behind him, D’Alessandro followed—finally grinning, arms spread, leaping onto Giuly’s back with the lightness of a player who hadn’t waited for applause, but had earned it anyway.
Demien didn’t smile.
Just looked to Michel and said, flat:
"Now we play."
The scoreboard had barely finished blinking 1–0 before Nice responded.
Seventy-five minutes.
Their manager stood off the bench for the first time all game, both hands gesturing sharply toward his backline. One midfielder pointed upward. Another took off his warm-up top by the dugout. They were switching. Fast.
From the sideline, Demien saw it coming.
Nice shifted to a 4–2–3–1. Their left back pushed higher. The midfield line spread. Two forwards began pressing diagonally, cutting off Rodriguez and Evra on the build. It wasn’t reckless—it was planned.
Demien didn’t react outwardly.
Michel moved forward to the edge of the box. "They’re going for it."
"They have to," Demien murmured.
Nice came hard.
Seventy-seven minutes—quick triangle on the left. Monaco’s midfield got pulled across. Their winger slipped inside, delivered a low cross. Zikos stuck out a leg. Deflected. Loose ball.
Roma dove on it before the striker could react.
Seventy-nine—Nice again. High recovery. Their right back launched a ball over the top. Givet mistimed the header, and their forward burst through—shot from a tight angle.
Roma parried it wide.
Corner.
Demien didn’t flinch.
He stood with his hands behind his back as the ball was whipped in—punched clear by Roma again, but not far.
The second ball dropped near the top of the box.
Bernardi got there first.
Eighty-fourth minute.
No celebration. Just reaction.
Bernardi took a touch out of pressure, saw Giuly free wide. Curled it early—front of the box, Morientes already moving.
It wasn’t a high leap.
Just perfectly timed.
His head met the ball like it had always been coming. No glance. No check.
Just a snap—off the bar and down.
84’ – GOAL MONACO. 2–0.
The home fans finally stood.
The roar wasn’t wild—it was grateful. Like tension draining through applause.
Morientes jogged back with both arms down, only lifting a fist as he passed the halfway line.
Demien turned toward the bench.
"Michel."
Michel nodded. Already grabbing the clipboard.
Eighty-ninth minute—subs.
OUT: Morientes, Giuly
IN: Adebayor, Plašil
Giuly high-fived D’Alessandro on the sideline. Morientes, soaked and wordless, bumped shoulders with Adebayor on the way off.
Demien offered a nod as he passed.
That was it.
Full-time.
The whistle was short, and Nice didn’t protest. They walked off fast, heads down, a few shirts tugged loose, one player kicking the turf as he passed the center circle.
The Monaco bench stood. D’Alessandro remained on the pitch, shaking hands with Plašil, then turning toward the crowd as photographers began to snap him.
Reporters gathered fast—already pushing toward the tunnel entrance.
One called out: "Coach! Thoughts on Andrés?"
Demien didn’t break stride.
"He played forward," he said. "That’s all I ask."
By the dugout, the crowd thickened around D’Alessandro. A translator from the club stood beside him.
A reporter from RMC Sport led the questions.
"How do you feel to be here, Andrés?"
He hesitated. Looked at the translator.
She repeated it in Spanish.
He nodded. "Contento. Es... un inicio." Then slower, "Pero falta mucho."
They asked about the assist.
He smiled once, then shrugged.
"The movement was there. I only passed."
Cameras flashed. Another question. He didn’t answer immediately—he was still watching the grass where the goal had come.
The translator filled the space, repeating the words, shaping them gently.
Demien stepped back into the dugout last.
A few players were still buzzing—Adebayor and Bernardi high-fived; Giuly ruffled D’Alessandro’s hair in passing.
Demien moved through them without raising his voice, congratulating softly, grip on the shoulder, one line at a time.
When he reached Andrés, the players made space.
"Bien hecho," Demien said, voice low.
D’Alessandro blinked once, nodded.
Then the phone in Demien’s pocket buzzed.
He pulled it out without looking.
Clara.
He answered, voice clipped, stepping slightly aside from the group.
"Where are you?" she said. "I’m parked. Come meet me. I’m outside."
Demien looked past the dugout, toward the exit gate.
Then into the phone, he said, "I’m coming."
And he started walking.