"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.
