Monaco vs Lorient End

At the Louis II Stadium, the match teetered on a knife's edge as Monaco pushed forward with urgency. When Meriem received a well-placed pass from Šimić in the middle of the final third, he quickly spotted an opportunity and sent a perfectly weighted ball toward the right edge of the penalty area. 

Adu sprinted into position, facing Lorient's right-back Christophe Jallet. The American forward, brimming with confidence, tried to dazzle with a flashy dribble and cut inside, but Jallet anticipated his move. With perfect timing, the full-back stretched out his leg and dispossessed Adu cleanly. 

On the touchline, Situ Yunbing shook his head, visibly frustrated. 

"Adu... Adu," he muttered to himself. "You're trying to do too much. There's a team behind you." 

He replayed the scene in his mind. If Adu had just laid the ball off to Šimić and then moved inside, he could've gotten the ball back in a much better position. But no, he had to try and do it all himself. This isn't Barcelona, and you're not Messi. 

Jallet wasted no time after the interception, delivering a quick diagonal pass to Ayew, who was already making a darting run down Lorient's left flank. Ayew's burst of pace was too much for the aging Šimić, who turned in pursuit but looked like a man running through sand—every step slower than the last. The sight of Ayew sprinting down the wing made Situ Yunbing's heart race. His pulse quickened, and a wave of tension gripped him. 

Ayew carried the ball effortlessly into Monaco's half as Diego Pérez rushed across to provide cover. But Monaco's defense had been pushed up high, a consequence of their increased attacking tempo in the second half, leaving gaping spaces in behind. 

Before Pérez could close him down, Ayew lifted his head and unleashed a cross-field pass, a high, looping ball that arced gracefully through the air toward the right side of Monaco's penalty area. The pass was pinpoint, and as Muller tracked back to intercept, Lorient striker Rafik Saïfi beat him to the ball with a perfect touch. 

Muller spun around, scrambling to recover, but by the time he repositioned himself, Saïfi had already moved into a prime shooting position on the right side of the box. 

On the sidelines, Situ Yunbing clenched his fists, his knuckles white. His voice was barely audible, a mix of desperation and hope. "Don't let him shoot... Please, don't let him shoot." 

Modesto, Monaco's other center-back, rushed in to cut off Saïfi's shooting angle, but the Lorient striker remained composed. Instead of forcing a shot, he calmly played the ball across the box to the left side, where Kevin Gameiro had slipped in unmarked. Nigerian midfielder Lukman Haruna chased back valiantly, but he was too late to prevent Gameiro from meeting the pass. 

The ball rolled toward Gameiro's feet, and with one smooth motion, he struck it with the inside of his right foot, aiming low for the bottom left corner of the goal. The ball skimmed across the turf, its trajectory precise and deadly. 

Goalkeeper Stéphane Ruffier reacted instantly, diving to his left, stretching as far as he could. But it wasn't enough. The ball slipped past his fingertips and nestled into the back of the net. 

Monaco had been undone. 

As the Lorient players erupted in celebration, with Gameiro running toward the corner flag, arms raised triumphantly, Situ Yunbing stood frozen on the touchline. It felt as though a punch had landed squarely in his chest, knocking the wind out of him. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he felt as if he couldn't breathe. It took every ounce of willpower not to collapse under the weight of it all. 

On the field, the Monaco players were crestfallen. Müller, visibly angry, waved his arms at his teammates, shouting in frustration. His words were unintelligible, but the message was clear—he was furious, and the midfielders were the target of his ire. They hadn't tracked back quickly enough, leaving the defense exposed. Modesto slumped in defeat, while Haruna looked regretful, knowing he had been just a step too slow. 

Situ Yunbing exhaled sharply, trying to regain his composure. It was his first real blow as Monaco's coach, and it stung deeply. But there was no time to wallow in frustration. The game was still on, and he had to think of a way to turn it around. 

... 

... 

The commentator's voice echoed through the stadium speakers, filled with both excitement and skepticism. 

"Gameiro scores! The young striker who joined Lorient in the summer continues his fine form, delivering yet another crucial goal for his team! 

Although Monaco showed more intensity in the second half, it's Lorient who have struck first. You have to wonder if Situ Yunbing will be able to live up to his pre-match promises. So far, we've seen little evidence of the 'new Monaco' he talked about. 

Monaco's passing in the midfield is plentiful, but it feels stagnant, like they're just keeping possession for the sake of it—there's no penetration, no cutting edge in their attacks. It's as if they're simply running down the clock rather than trying to create anything meaningful. Park Chu-young hasn't been able to make an impact, while Yannick Sagbo and Freddy Adu have been off the pace. Their errors have been more memorable than their contributions to the game. If we had to compile a highlight reel of their mistakes, it would surely last longer than any exciting moments from Monaco's attack. 

As things stand, Monaco is trailing Lorient 0-1 here at the Louis II Stadium. It's hard to see how Situ Yunbing will react to this setback. His team is struggling, and time is running out." 

... 

... 

Old Gourcuff remained calm and composed on the bench, even as his team took the lead through Gameiro's goal. A subtle smile crossed his face, and he offered polite applause, but there was no exuberant celebration. The veteran coach had seen it all before. He knew there was still work to be done. 

In truth, Lorient had played cautiously in the first half, almost holding back, as if wary of what Monaco might do under their new coach. But to Gourcuff's pleasant surprise, the first 45 minutes revealed little to be concerned about. Situ Yunbing's Monaco, despite the pre-match talk of rejuvenation, looked even less threatening than they had in previous games. 

While Monaco dominated possession, constantly moving the ball around the midfield, they posed no real danger. Lorient's defense had hardly been tested, and Monaco's forwards rarely made an impression. In terms of creating genuine threats, the home side offered nothing to trouble Lorient. 

This allowed Gourcuff to settle into the second half with more confidence. His team had weathered Monaco's midfield passing game without much effort, and now, with a goal to their name, they could play even more freely. Lorient, having paced themselves through the opening 45 minutes, were now perfectly poised to capitalize on Monaco's disjointed attack and maintain control of the match. 

In the stands, however, Monaco's supporters were growing restless. Whispers of frustration turned into murmurs of complaint as fans exchanged displeased glances. The lack of energy and creativity in their team's play was becoming more apparent with each passing minute. Trailing 0-1 at home, they had hoped for some sign of progress under Situ Yunbing, but the disappointment was palpable. 

Complaints rippled through the crowd, and though their voices hadn't yet risen into outright jeers, the dissatisfaction with Monaco's performance was clear. 

... 

De Bontin, sitting in the royal box, felt his face burning with embarrassment. His cheeks flushed red as he avoided making eye contact with Prince Albert. The reality of the situation had hit him hard. He had taken a risk, firing Gomes and bringing in Situ Yunbing, hoping for a turnaround. Instead, Monaco seemed to be spiraling further into chaos, accelerating toward disaster. 

Meanwhile, on the sidelines, Situ Yunbing's face turned a deep shade of blue with frustration. A wave of negative emotions surged through him, but he fought to regain composure. His mind raced, but he knew he couldn't afford to lose control. He clapped his hands, trying to rally the players, urging them to shake off their nerves and find an equalizer. 

But the players, already burdened by the weight of their three-match winless streak, were crumbling under the pressure. Conceding first at home against Lorient had broken their fragile resolve. They grew increasingly frantic, mistakes piling up as their confidence drained away. The structure that Situ Yunbing had tried to instill disappeared, replaced by erratic, disorganized play. 

In the 71st minute, Lorient struck again. A simple passing sequence between Jérémy Morel and Ayew on the left cut through Monaco's disjointed defense with ease. Monaco's backline, stretched thin by their attempts to press forward, was too slow to react. Morel delivered a perfect cross, and Kevin Gameiro, unmarked in the box, rose to meet it. His header was precise, beating Ruffier once more. The ball slammed into the back of the net. 

2-0 to Lorient. 

Situ Yunbing stood frozen, panic creeping into his mind. He glanced over at the bench—players and coaches alike stared back at him with blank expressions. There was no spark, no fight left. No one had the answers. 

He was alone in this moment, stranded by the collapse of the team and his own uncertainty. 

The helplessness on Situ Yunbing's face was obvious to everyone. Even those watching from afar felt a pang of pity for him. The pressure had overwhelmed him. His ideas, his plans—they had all crumbled before his eyes, and now he stood at the edge of the abyss, unable to find a way back. 

The final 20 minutes were a nightmare. Lorient, brimming with confidence, looked sharper and more organized with every passing minute, while Monaco disintegrated into chaos. 

In the 85th minute, Lorient delivered the final blow. Saifi sent a well-timed pass to Fabrice Abriel, who glided into Monaco's penalty area unmarked. Abriel coolly slotted the ball into the far corner of the net, leaving Ruffier rooted to the spot. 

0-3. 

The Louis II Stadium, which had been eerily quiet for much of the match, erupted in angry boos. The Monaco fans had reached their breaking point. They directed their fury at the team, but especially at Situ Yunbing. Shouts of "Go home!" and "Get out!" filled the air, with many fans standing and gesturing angrily toward the dugout. 

As the final whistle blew, Monaco's defeat was sealed—an embarrassing 0-3 loss at home. 

Situ Yunbing remained on the touchline, dazed, his mind a blur. He didn't move, didn't react, as if rooted to the spot. It wasn't until Lorient's coach, Christian Gourcuff, approached to shake his hand that he snapped out of his trance. Gourcuff gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder before walking away, leaving Situ Yunbing to face the venom of the crowd alone. 

The stadium was filled with cursing, Monaco's supporters united in their anger. The boos rained down from every corner, and though only 5,000 fans remained, their collective outrage was deafening. It felt as though they wanted to tear the team—and their coach—apart. 

As Situ Yunbing made his way down the tunnel, he was fully aware that the storm was just beginning. 

... 

... 

Situ Yunbing walked back to the locker room, his mind in a haze. The silence was deafening, and the weight of the team's eyes upon him was unbearable. Every player, every coach—all of them were staring, their expressions a mix of anger, disappointment, and disbelief. 

Summoning what little energy he had left, Situ Yunbing stood up straight, ready to address the team. Their gazes felt like swords poised to strike, but he knew he had to speak, to try to take responsibility and protect the players from further collapse. 

"This loss is not your responsibility," he began, his voice shaky and dry. "It's all on me." 

His intention had been to reassure them, to prevent the defeat from destroying the team's already fragile morale. But he barely got the words out before he was cut off. 

Defender Patrick Müller, bare-chested and seething with anger, raised his chin and shouted at him, his voice echoing through the locker room. 

"Of course it's not our responsibility! Your ridiculous tactical ideas are suicidal! And now we're the ones left to pay for it!" 

Müller's words struck Situ Yunbing like a physical blow. He felt his chest tighten, his face pale as he staggered back a step. Müller, who had come to Monaco from Lyon after failing to secure a starting spot there, had the confidence of someone who believed he could dominate this locker room. And now, in the aftermath of a humiliating defeat, he was claiming that role—loudly and angrily. 

His words spoke to what many of the players had been thinking but hadn't yet voiced. 

Up until now, the team had silently accepted Situ Yunbing's tactics, going along with his ideas in hopes that something would change. But the result was clear: a 0-3 defeat at home to a side they should have competed with. And worse, many felt that the loss had been utterly pointless. 

Yannick Sagbo chimed in next, his frustration bubbling over. "I don't even understand what the midfield is doing out there! It's like they think we're invisible up front! Do you really believe that passing the ball around midfield is going to get us goals? Have you even played football before?" 

Freddy Adu, who had struggled throughout the game, shook his head in exasperation. "Is this how football is played in China?" 

Park Chu-young, his anger barely concealed, began speaking rapidly in Korean. His translator, face tight with frustration, echoed his sentiments with a cold edge: "We surrendered without even putting up a fight. It's a disgrace to lose at home like this! Completely pathetic!" 

Even young Lukman Haruna, eager to distance himself from the failure, spoke up, though his words carried a note of uncertainty. "I just don't think this style is working. We're not putting any pressure on our opponents. They're able to counterattack easily." 

The room continued to spiral out of control as Müller, now fully emboldened, threw his sneakers on the ground and stood up, his voice icy as he directed his anger at Situ Yunbing. 

"You should resign right now! Take your childish tactics and go back to China where they belong!" 

Situ Yunbing stepped back, again and again, until his back hit the door of the locker room. His eyes darted around the room, scanning the faces of his players. Some looked at him with sympathy, others with disdain, and many with outright hostility. 

His head spun. It was as though he had fallen into some nightmarish version of reality. The locker room had transformed into a scene of torment, and every player before him looked like a demon in disguise, here to tear him apart. 

He could take no more. Without saying another word, he turned, opened the door, and fled the locker room, desperation in his every step. 

Behind him, the locker room descended into a disjointed mess. Some players headed straight to the showers, while others stormed out without a word. The coaches, left standing in the aftermath, exchanged uneasy glances. 

Markle sighed heavily. "He really can't handle this." 

Klett, never one to mince words, nodded grimly. "I said from the start, he's got no experience, no qualifications. Of course he can't do it." 

Bendomi, the eldest of the coaching staff at 61, remained more composed. "What's the point in saying that now? He can't manage the team, sure. But who's going to do it if not him? We have to focus on our jobs and do what we can to make Monaco better." 

Petit, also a veteran of the staff, agreed. "Exactly. This is a difficult moment, but if we don't stay united, the situation will only get worse. The players are acting out of line, and the last thing we need is to add fuel to that fire." 

The other coaches fell silent, though many of them privately felt that Situ Yunbing's appointment had been a farce from the beginning, a joke that had gone on too long. In their minds, it was time to put an end to it. 

Later, De Bontin rushed to the locker room in a panic, hoping to salvage something from the disaster. But Situ Yunbing was nowhere to be found. Instead, he found a locker room full of simmering discontent, with players openly calling for the coach's dismissal. 

Leading the charge was Müller, along with as many as eight other players who put immediate pressure on De Bontin to fire Situ Yunbing and bring an end to what they saw as an untenable situation. 

... 

... 

Monaco was still brightly lit, alive with its famous nightlife—the casinos, hot spring baths, and hotels were buzzing. But just two kilometers to the southwest in Capd'Ail, everything was quiet. The town, a stark contrast to Monaco's decadence, was calm, with most people already in their apartments, preparing for the next day's work. 

In a small seaside tavern, only a handful of patrons remained, nursing their drinks in silence. At a table by the window, facing the dark expanse of the Mediterranean, sat Situ Yunbing. In front of him were two bottles of some foreign liquor he hadn't bothered to identify. He had emptied his remaining 130 euros at the bar—his last bit of money. In return, he received the two bottles, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. 

This was all he had left. His only companions on this miserable night, as he tried to drown his sorrow. 

The sea gently ebbed and flowed, the moon hanging low in the clear sky, casting a faint glow across the water. Situ Yunbing drank, one glass after another, his mind numb from the relentless defeat that played on a loop in his head. He smoked aimlessly, exhaling clouds of smoke into the air. He had been a smoker before, but after arriving in France, he'd abandoned the habit, throwing himself entirely into his work. And what had he gained from it? 

His eyes were glassy, unfocused as he murmured to himself in bitterness, the words half-formed like a distant echo of his thoughts. 

"Damn game... Damn game..." 

In his left hand, a glass of liquor; in his right, a cigarette. The alcohol and nicotine did nothing to erase the images that haunted him. The faces of his players, the harsh, cold words in the locker room; the jeers and insults from Monaco fans on the street as he walked away from the Louis II Stadium like a condemned man. 

Monaco, the glamorous paradise, felt like hell. 

Situ Yunbing laughed bitterly, a hollow sound, almost a mockery of himself. Even though he wasn't 22 in truth, still young by any football coach's standards, he wondered what he had been thinking. What had he really hoped to achieve by taking the reins of a Ligue 1 team, completely inexperienced? 

The rhythmic sound of the waves seemed like a death knell, tolling for his career. 

His hand trembled slightly as he poured another glass, smiling through the tears that threatened to form in the corners of his eyes. 

"It's all a joke… A cruel joke." 

One bottle down, and yet, despite the slight dizziness, he wasn't drunk. Not even close. He stared at the empty bottle, wondering if the liquor was fake. How could he still feel so clear-headed when all he wanted was to forget? 

But he resisted the urge to call out to the bartender, resisting the need for confrontation. What would be the point? There was no escape from the crushing weight of failure. Better to finish the second bottle and let it all pass quietly. 

As he reached for his second bottle, ready to pour another glass, he fumbled for the lighter on the table, searching for it to light a fresh cigarette. Just as he was about to look under the table, someone held a lighter in front of him, igniting it with a soft flick. 

Surprised, Situ Yunbing inhaled deeply before turning to see who had lit his cigarette. The smoke blurred his vision slightly, but through the haze, he saw a young man's face, one that seemed vaguely familiar. 

He squinted, trying to place the face. 

The young man smiled warmly, setting the lighter on the table. "Coach Situ, hello. I'm Jerome Alonzo. This is our second meeting." 

Situ Yunbing blinked, his thoughts sluggish from the alcohol. Jerome Alonzo. The name triggered a faint memory, and it clicked—this was the young man he had met outside the club almost a week ago. 

But his mind was too clouded with frustration to care. He turned his gaze back to the sea and muttered, "I don't want to be disturbed right now. I made that clear last time." 

Alonzo smiled again, unfazed by the cold reception. "I know this may not be the best time, but I hope you'll reconsider. I really want to work for Monaco, to be part of your coaching staff. I believe I can help." 

He placed a stack of documents on the table in front of Situ Yunbing, then stood up to leave. 

"These are some analyses I've prepared. Take a look when you get the chance." 

With that, Alonzo walked away, leaving Situ Yunbing to his drink and his cigarette. 

Situ Yunbing stared blankly at the documents for a moment before returning to his drink. But after a few more minutes of brooding, his curiosity got the better of him. He grabbed the stack and opened it idly, only to find the word "Lorient" written at the top of the first page. 

Suddenly, he was awake—his interest piqued. He flipped through the pages, growing more focused as he read. It wasn't a random collection of notes. Alonzo had meticulously analyzed the playing styles, strategies, and key players of every Ligue 1 team. There were observations about each club's formation tendencies, the coaches' tactical preferences, and the strengths and weaknesses of individual players. 

For Lorient, Alonzo had written: "Balanced and defensive." He'd highlighted that their most dangerous players were left-back Jérémy Morel, left midfielder André Ayew, and striker Kevin Gameiro. He also noted a vulnerability on Lorient's right flank, where they were weaker defensively due to Sylvain Marchal playing out of position. 

Situ Yunbing's heart sank as he realized how valuable this information could have been—if only he'd read it before the match. This wasn't some hastily thrown-together analysis. Alonzo had clearly put in the work, probably after reviewing the first few rounds of the season. 

The reality hit hard. If Situ had just taken the time to consider Alonzo's offer and read through these documents a week ago, maybe—just maybe—the game against Lorient could have gone differently. 

Frustration and regret surged through him. He looked up, half-expecting Alonzo to be gone. But when he called out, "Alonzo!" he was surprised to hear a response. 

"Coach Situ, I'm still here." 

Situ Yunbing turned, astonished to see Alonzo sitting quietly at the bar, watching him from a distance. The young man had waited, patient and persistent. 

Situ Yunbing stared at him, a mixture of surprise and admiration in his eyes. This young man wasn't giving up, not on him, and not on Monaco.