CHAPTER 90: DAILY RHYTHMS

"Coffee first, then everything else makes sense," Yves said, watching the Monaco harbor come to life.

The first light painted the water silver, and expensive yachts bobbed gently in their slips. But Yves wasn’t focused on them; his gaze was fixed on the horizon where the Mediterranean met the sky, endless and forgiving.

His footsteps echoed off the empty streets. Monaco belonged to him at six in the morning for thirty precious minutes. No cameras, no questions, no tactical boards demanding answers—just the soothing sound of waves against concrete and the rhythm of his own breathing.

The defeat against Lyon weighed heavily on his chest, like a stone. It was not doubt—never doubt—but a sharp reminder that excellence takes time. His methods were sound, his knowledge absolute. Yet building champions meant accepting that some lessons could only be learned through humiliation.

Three-one. It could have been worse. It should have been worse if he were being honest.

He turned down a narrow street away from the main harbor. Tourism guidebooks never mentioned this route. It was a path for local fishermen, early workers heading to hotels, and people who actually lived here instead of just visiting.

The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery already at work. The owner waved through the window—a ritual they had developed over months. No words were needed; some connections exist beyond language.

Café Michel was wedged between a laundromat and a shop selling boat parts. Tourists walked past without noticing, which was perfect.

"The usual?" Henri asked, already reaching for the espresso machine.

"Please."

The coffee machine hissed steam as Henri moved with the efficiency of twenty years behind the counter. His weathered hands knew every button, every timing, and every customer’s preference without asking.

The first sip burned slightly. Good. Real coffee should demand respect.

Yves spread three newspapers across the small table. L’Équipe first—their match report was harsh but fair. Clara’s piece in Nice-Matin was professional and balanced, providing context without making excuses. Her writing remained objective, even when covering his defeats.

He smiled at that. She could separate the personal from the professional better than most men twice her age.

The general news felt distant. Politics, economics, world events—they mattered, but during the season, football consumed everything. His world had narrowed to ninety-minute windows that determined everything.

"Bad match yesterday," Henri commented, refilling his cup without being asked.

"Learning experience."

"Lyon’s been doing this longer."

Yves nodded. Henri understood football like fishermen understood tides—through experience rather than analysis. Sometimes that perspective cuts deeper than tactical expertise.

The door chimed. Clara entered, wearing yesterday’s clothes, her hair slightly messy, carrying her laptop bag. She had stayed at her own apartment last night—a space they both needed after difficult matches.

"Thought I’d find you here," she said, sliding into the opposite chair.

Henri appeared instantly with her café au lait. Some rituals developed naturally.

"Sleep well?" Yves asked.

"Eventually. You?"

"Eventually."

They sat in comfortable silence. Her fingers traced patterns on the table while she read over his shoulder—a professional habit; journalists consumed information constantly.

"The coverage was fair," she said finally.

"You wrote well."

"Had to. The editor wanted blood after that performance."

Clara’s work extended beyond sports. Yesterday, she had interviewed the mayor about harbor development. Next week, she would cover a film festival in Cannes. Football was just one part of her world, while it consumed his entirely.

That balance helped. She brought perspective from outside the tactical bubble that trapped most coaches.

"Grocery shopping?" he asked, finishing his coffee.

"My turn to cook tonight."

They walked to the market together. Clara bought vegetables while Yves selected wine. After years of football consuming everything, domestic tasks felt remarkable—simple choices made without considering tactical implications.

At the fish counter, the vendor recommended fresh sea bass. Clara negotiated the price in rapid French while Yves studied her profile—intelligence, confidence, beauty, and independence that refused to be diminished by association with his success or failure.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, catching his stare.

"How normal this feels."

"Normal is good sometimes."

They carried their bags back through Monaco’s winding streets. The city was fully awake now—tourists emerging from hotels, locals heading to work, the constant hum of luxury that defined this place.

But in their bubble, they were just a couple buying groceries and planning dinner—there were no tactics, pressure, or cameras documenting their every expression.

At his apartment, Clara made coffee while he organized yesterday’s match video files. Not for analysis—that would come later—just filing them away, maintaining the organizational systems that kept his mind clear.

"The press conference was handled well," she said, beside him on the sofa.

"Experience helps."

"Doesn’t make it easier."

She was right. Each defeat felt personal, despite understanding that football was ultimately about margins too small to control completely. The difference between success and failure often came down to inches, split-second decisions, and moments of individual brilliance or error.

Lyon possessed those margins. Monaco was still earning them.

His phone buzzed with messages from Michel about training schedules and from Stone about administrative details. The machine never stopped, even during moments of rest.

Clara read a book about Mediterranean history while he responded to necessary communications—parallel activities that somehow felt connected. Two people pursuing their passions while sharing space.

The afternoon passed slowly. Intentionally slowly.

Yves cooked the sea bass while Clara prepared vegetables. Their kitchen dance had developed over months—who moved where, who handled what, when to speak, and when to work in silence.

"Valenciennes on Tuesday," she mentioned while chopping onions.

"Cup match. Different pressure."

"Lower division opponent. Should be straightforward."

"Should be. Football has its own logic."

Clara understood logic better than most journalists. She had covered enough matches to know that paper predictions meant nothing once the whistle blew. Motivation could overcome talent; preparation could neutralize superior skill.

They ate dinner while watching the sunset paint Monaco’s harbor golden. No television, match replays, no tactical analysis—just food, wine, and the comfortable silence of two people who didn’t need constant conversation.

"The team will respond well," Clara said eventually.

"How do you know?"

"I watch them during interviews. Their body language after difficult results. This group has character."

She was right. Yesterday’s defeat had hurt, but it hadn’t broken them. Adebayor’s late goal proved that. Fighting until the end, even when the result was settled, showed a mentality that couldn’t be coached.

His phone rang—Michel checking on his well-being, a testament to the good people surrounding him, even when football felt overwhelming.

"Tomorrow we resume," Yves said after ending the call.

"Tonight we rest."

Clara’s wisdom often came in simple statements: Rest was productive, recovery was necessary, and even tactical geniuses needed time away from the game that consumed them.

They moved to the bedroom as Monaco’s lights twinkled across the harbor. Through the window, expensive yachts represented the wealth that football success might provide, but Clara’s presence represented a satisfaction that money couldn’t buy.

"Good day," she whispered as they settled into bed.

Perfect day."

Tomorrow would bring training, analysis, and preparation for Valenciennes. The machine would restart, pressure would resume, and tactical challenges would demand solutions.

But tonight belonged to them—an everyday life between the extraordinary moments that defined their professional existence.

Outside, Monaco slept beneath stars that had witnessed countless dreams, victories, defeats, and recoveries. The harbor water reflected lights that would shine long after current events faded into memory.

Some things endure beyond football seasons. Some victories cannot be measured in goals or trophies. Some satisfaction comes from finding balance in a world that demands everything.

Coffee first, then everything else made sense—a simple truth tha