The team bus departed Centro Bortolotti at two PM with the squad dressed in travel suits and carrying overnight bags, and the journey south toward Florence would take approximately three hours through Emilia-Romagna and into Tuscany.
Before boarding, several teammates had approached him in the parking lot while he loaded his bag into the cargo hold.
De Roon clapped him on the shoulder once. "Happy birthday, Walter. Nineteen, yeah?"
"Yeah," Demien confird.
"Good age," De Roon said. "Enjoy it. Everything gets more complicated after twenty."
Lookman appeared next with a grin. "Birthday boy. Saw the social dia post—comnts section is going ntal. Two thousand already."
"Too many," Demien replied.
"Better than nobody caring," Lookman countered. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks."
Koopiners gave him a nod while passing. "Happy birthday. Buy us dinner when we get back to Bergamo."
"Maybe," Demien said.
"Definitely," Koopiners shot back.
Gasperini was the last before boarding, and the manager’s expression was neutral but his tone carried sothing closer to warmth than usual. "Buon compleanno. Nineteen is young to be playing at this level. Make the most of it."
"Thank you, Mister."
"Focus on Saturday. Birthdays can be celebrated after three points."
"Yes, Mister."
Demien sat near the middle beside Koopiners who had already settled in with headphones around his neck and a book open on his lap, and the Dutch midfielder was reading sothing in English that Demien couldn’t identify from the cover.
The bus moved through Bergamo’s streets before reaching the highway, and once the city was behind them the landscape opened into rolling hills and farmland that would gradually transform into Tuscany’s terrain.
Most players either dozed lightly or scrolled through phones while the vehicle’s steady motion and quiet hum encouraged rest rather than activity, and conversations were brief when they occurred because everyone understood that energy conservation mattered as much as tactical preparation.
Demien pulled out his phone during the journey and scrolled through more birthday ssages that had accumulated—teammates from the U23 squad, people from the academy days, random followers on social dia sending well wishes through direct ssages.
One ssage stood out from the rest.
Adriano:Happy birthday mate. 19 looks good on you. See you Saturday on the pitch. Let’s make it a good match.
Demien:Thanks. Looking forward to it.
Adriano:Sa. Bring your best.
Demien:Always do.
Soone toward the front was watching sothing on their phone with headphones in and occasional laughter broke the silence, but the sound was isolated and the overall mood remained quiet.
The highway stretched ahead through afternoon light that would fade into evening by the ti they reached Florence, and as the hours passed the Apennine foothills appeared in the distance before gradually surrounding them.
Around four-thirty the bus entered Tuscany and the terrain shifted—hills beca more pronounced, cypress trees appeared along roadways, the light took on the warm quality that characterized the region—and the changes were noticeable to anyone familiar with Italian geography.
At five-fifteen the bus began descending into Florence and the city’s outline appeared between buildings and hills, and the Artemio Franchi’s tower beca visible in the distance standing taller than surrounding structures.
Demien saw it and thought about Saturday’s match—facing Adriano properly for the first ti since they’d reconciled, playing in front of thousands, then going to his mother’s house afterward for birthday dinner.
The bus turned off the main road toward the team hotel and traffic thickened as they entered a more populated district, and through the tinted windows Demien could see people on sidewalks going about their evening routines without awareness that thirty-one Atalanta players were passing through their neighborhood.
When the bus finally pulled up to the hotel entrance—a modern building in a quiet area away from the city center—a small crowd had already gathered behind barriers that security staff had positioned along the sidewalk.
Cara flashes started imdiately as the bus doors opened.
"ATALANTA! ATALANTA!" soone shouted from behind the barriers, and voices overlapped while phones were raised to capture the squad’s arrival.
Demien stepped off the bus after Koopiners and the noise increased while several people in the crowd called out player nas, and he kept his head down and moved toward the hotel entrance without acknowledging the attention because engaging would only prolong the mont.
A photographer wearing a press credential around his neck was positioned near the entrance with a professional cara, and the shutter clicked rapidly as players filed past while he captured their arrivals for whatever publication had sent him.
Inside the hotel lobby the atmosphere shifted from public to private as the doors closed behind them and the noise from outside beca muted, and hotel staff waited near the reception desk to handle check-in logistics while the squad gathered in a loose group.
Gasperini spoke briefly to the team manager about room assignnts and al timing before turning toward the squad, and his voice carried clearly across the lobby.
"Rooms first, then dinner at seven in the conference space downstairs," Gasperini said while gesturing toward the elevators, "and after that you’re free for the evening but curfew is eleven because tomorrow’s session starts at nine."
Players began moving toward the elevators with bags while conversations stayed low, and Demien waited his turn before stepping into an elevator with five other players and riding up to the fourth floor where his room was located.
The hallway was quiet and the carpet muffled footsteps as he found his door—room 412—and the keycard worked on the first attempt while the lock clicked open.
Inside the room was standard hotel configuration with a double bed, desk, television mounted on the wall, bathroom visible through an open door, and a window that overlooked Florence’s northern sections where residential buildings stretched toward the hills beyond.
Demien dropped his bag on the bed and moved to the window, and the stadium wasn’t visible from this angle but he knew where it sat relative to his current position.
His phone buzzed again and he pulled it from his pocket to see another ssage from his mother.
Isabella:What ti do you think you’ll arrive after the match on Saturday? I want to have everything ready.
Demien:Probably around 8 or 9 PM. Depends on when we finish.
Isabella:Perfect. I’ll have dinner waiting. Can’t wait to see you tesoro.
He locked his phone and set it on the desk, and when he looked back out the window the evening light had shifted slightly as the sun moved lower toward the horizon.
Nineteen years old, playing Serie A football, birthday dinner waiting after Saturday’s match, and ninety minutes against Fiorentina where Adriano would be across the pitch as a friend and rival rather than an enemy.
Demien turned away from the window and began unpacking his bag, and the only thing that mattered now was preparing properly for what ca next.
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