The sunlight hit his face too early. Demien rolled away from the window, one arm thrown over his eyes, but the damage was done. Sleep had already fled. He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
6:17 AM.
He hadn't set an alarm. They'd arrived back in Monaco after 2 AM, and he had given the players the morning off. A recovery session scheduled for 2 PM —just enough time to let the victory settle, but not enough to allow complacency to grow.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his phone. Twenty-three notifications awaited him: missed calls from his agent in Paris, six text messages from Michel, mostly about media requests and an email from the club's press officer with links to the morning headlines.
He clicked on the first one.
"MONACO MASSACRE: PSV HUMILIATED BY LAURENT'S TACTICAL MASTERCLASS"
The second was more measured.
"Monaco Makes Champions League Statement with 4-0 Victory"
