Tuesday, July 9th - Day 3
The focus shifted to small-sided gas: five versus five, quick transitions, and high intensity—the real test.
The first challenge ca within ten seconds. Riccardo slid in hard, studs showing just enough to send a clear ssage. Demien anticipated the tackle, jumped to avoid contact, and played the ball quickly to Luca.
"Too slow," Riccardo sneered.
The next ti Demien got the ball, two players closed in imdiately, trying to sandwich him and force a crucial mistake. Andrea Pirlo’s vision activated, and ti seed to slow. He could see Luca’s run before it even started, Felix pulling wide, and the gap opening perfectly between the central defenders. His body shaped for a pass to the right, then he suddenly struck the ball left with the outside of his boot.
The pass split three players precisely, finding Gabriel in space. The Brazilian took one touch and scored.
"Lucky," soone muttered, but it kept happening. Every ti Demien touched the ball, sothing special followed: a through ball that shouldn’t have been possible, a turn that left defenders stumbling, or a fifty-yard pass that dropped perfectly onto a teammate’s foot.
After an hour, Coach Rossi stopped the session.
"Demien, co here."
The field went quiet; being singled out could an anything.
"That last pass, the one to Felix. How did you see that?"
Demien chose his words carefully, stating, "I noticed their left back was tucking in too narrow, Coach, which created a clear space behind him."
"You noticed that while two players were pressing you?"
"Yes, Coach."
Rossi studied him for a long mont. "Good. Very good. Back to work, everyone."
As training resud, Demien caught Riccardo watching him. The hostility was still there, but now it was deeply mixed with concern.
*******
Wednesday, July 10th - Day 4
The main session was an eleven versus eleven practice match, with trialists mixed in with established players. Demien was placed in central midfield for the Blue team, with Riccardo on the opposing Reds—a clearly deliberate choice by Rossi to force a direct competition.
From the whistle, Riccardo marked him tightly. Every ti Demien received the ball, Riccardo was right there, grabbing his shirt, stepping on his heels, and using every dark art learned from his ti in the system.
But Demien had thirty-seven years of David Drinkwater’s experience with shithousery. When Riccardo grabbed his shirt, Demien leaned back into him, using the contact to effectively shield the ball; when Riccardo stepped on his heel, Demien dragged the ball away at the last second, making Riccardo stumble.
Twenty minutes in, Demien received the ball thirty yards from goal, and Riccardo rushed to close him down. Demien shaped to pass left, forcing Riccardo to shift his weight to block, but then Demien dragged the ball right with his sole. Riccardo tried to recover, but it was too late.
The shot was perfect, struck with his right foot, dipping just under the crossbar. The keeper didn’t even move.
"YES!" Luca shouted from the wing.
Coach Rossi imdiately started talking rapidly to his assistant, gesturing at Demien, and the assistant nodded, urgently writing sothing down.
At halfti, Rossi pulled Demien aside.
"You’ll start Saturday against Como."
"Coach?"
"I’ve seen enough. You’re starting. Central midfield, number eight. Don’t let down."
Word spread quickly: a trialist starting after just four days was almost unheard of.
In the cafeteria that evening, the atmosphere had definitively shifted. The established players still weren’t friendly, but the open hostility had faded because Demien had proven he belonged.
Even Riccardo gave him a slight nod when their eyes t.
*******
That night Demien lay in bed scrolling through his phone while Luca slept, training had been exhausting but his mind was too wired to rest.
He opened Twitter, looking for football news: transfer rumors, match highlights, the usual, and then his thumb froze.
A small trending topic in Italian football Twitter read: #1MonthSinceDrinkwater.
He clicked it before he could stop himself.
The first tweet was from a sports journalist: "One month since David Drinkwater’s tragic death at Wembley, the journeyman striker scored the goal that promoted Millwall only to collapse monts later; career retrospective in tomorrow’s edition."
But it was the replies that made Demien’s chest tighten.
"Club whore finally found a ho... in the ground 💀"
"Man played for 17 clubs and died for one, poetic if it wasn’t so pathetic."
"The ultimate journeyman, even death was just another transfer."
Demien’s hands shook slightly, these people were mocking a dead man, mocking him, using the sa cruel words that David had screenshotted and saved for fuel.
Another tweet appeared, this one from Millwall’s official account: "Forever a Lion. David Drinkwater. 1985-2022. 💙"
The contrast was jarring; the club honored him while strangers mocked his mory. A reply below Millwall’s tweet read: "Only club that wanted him was a Championship side, says it all really."
Demien set his phone down carefully, afraid he might throw it if he held it any longer.
David Drinkwater was dead to the world, the "club whore" who’d finally stopped moving, but Demien Walter was rising, about to start for Atalanta’s U23s, his career just beginning.
The cruelty and randomness of it all made him dizzy.
"You okay?" Luca’s voice ca through the darkness.
Demien hadn’t realized he’d made a sound.
"Yeah, just... saw sothing online."
"Don’t read comnts, man, they’re always toxic."
"Yeah, you’re right."
But as Demien lay there in the dark, he couldn’t shake the image of those tweets; David Drinkwater had died a month ago, mocked and dismissed, and Demien Walter would not suffer the sa fate.
A/N
Sorry for the late upload! I realize I’ve kept you waiting—was it two days ago I missed, or was it four? Ti flies when you’re writing!
I promise the wait was worth it for this pivotal Chapter. Thanks for sticking with , and I hope you enjoy Demien’s journey and sorry its too fast, so info i feel they are not just necessary.
Please support with powerstone so people can also see my book.
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