His phone buzzed once on the nightstand and he picked it up to see a ssage from Sophia.
**Sophia:** *Kill it tonight. I’ll be watching every minute. Love you ❤️*
He typed back quickly.
**Demien:** *Thank you. Love you too.*
Another ssage ca through from Isabella.
**Isabella:** *Tesoro, I’m in my seat already. Section 23. I’ll be cheering for you the whole match. Go show them what you can do. Ti amo.*
**Demien:** *Ti amo mamma. See you after.*
He set the phone down and finished dressing—trousers, belt, jacket, shoes—and when everything was on properly he checked the mirror one final ti before sitting on the edge of the bed to wait.
Outside the window the afternoon was moving toward evening and shadows were lengthening across Florence’s buildings, and sowhere the Artemio Franchi was filling with supporters arriving hours early to secure their spots and build atmosphere.
Demien’s hands rested on his knees and his breathing stayed controlled while his mind stayed quiet because there was nothing left to think through, and now the only thing remaining was playing the match itself.
**Team Hotel, Florence**
**5:14 PM**
The squad assembled in the lobby precisely at five-fifteen with everyone dressed in their travel suits and carrying small bags containing personal items, and Gasperini appeared last wearing a dark overcoat with his arms crossed while scanning the group to confirm everyone was present.
"Bus is outside," he said simply. "Police escort is ready. Let’s go."
The double doors opened and the squad filed out into early evening air that was cooling properly as sunset approached, and the team bus sat idling at the curb with its engine running quietly and the Atalanta logo displayed prominently on its side.
Police motorcycles were positioned at the front and rear of the bus creating a security corridor, and officers stood along the sidewalk keeping the area clear while photographers captured the departure for their respective outlets.
Players boarded in quiet order and took their usual seats—so by windows, others on the aisle, pairs sitting together while others sat alone—and within ninety seconds everyone was seated while Gasperini took his spot at the front beside the coaching staff.
The doors closed with a hydraulic hiss and the bus pulled away from the curb while police escorts activated their lights without sirens, and the convoy began moving through Florence’s streets toward the Artemio Franchi.
Inside the bus the atmosphere was heavy without being oppressive, and conversations happened in low tones between seat partners while most players sat in silence watching the city pass outside their windows.
Demien sat alone near the middle of the bus with his forehead resting against the window while his eyes tracked Florence’s architecture passing by—Renaissance buildings, narrow streets, early evening light casting everything in amber tones.
Purple shirts appeared everywhere as the bus moved deeper into the city center—supporters walking in groups toward the stadium, flags hanging from apartnt windows, scarves displayed across shoulders—and the closer they got to the Artemio Franchi the more concentrated the colors beca.
Traffic slowed as they approached the stadium area because streets were packed with fans moving in the sa direction, and police motorcycles had to navigate carefully through crowds that pressed against barriers along the route.
The broadcast played softly on the bus’s screens mounted near the ceiling, and comntators were already discussing the table standings, Fiorentina’s ho form, how tight the Champions League race had beco.
"...Atalanta need points tonight to maintain their cushion over Milan and Roma," one comntator said. "But Fiorentina haven’t lost at ho since September. This is their fortress, and the crowd will be absolutely electric."
"Demien Walter returns to Florence for the first ti since Fiorentina released him from their academy," his colleague added. "Interesting narrative there—rejected prospect coming back as a key player for a team competing for Champions League qualification."
Demien didn’t look at the screen and his expression didn’t change because he’d already processed that narrative weeks ago, and hearing it spoken aloud by comntators didn’t add anything new to his understanding of the situation.
The bus turned a final corner and suddenly the Artemio Franchi ca fully into view—a massive bowl of concrete and steel with floodlights already blazing against the darkening sky, and supporters were streaming through entrance gates while the stadium’s exterior was lit purple to match the ho team’s colors.
Police barriers created a clear path to the players’ entrance and officers stood in formation keeping fans at distance, but the noise was imdiate and sustained—whistles, shouts, chants directed at the approaching bus with hostile intensity.
The bus doors opened and the wall of sound hit harder because now there was no glass barrier separating them from it, and cara flashes erupted from the gathered dia while fans pressed against barriers shouting nas and insults in Italian that Demien didn’t bother trying to translate.
Gasperini stepped off first and walked straight toward the entrance without acknowledging the noise, and players followed in order while keeping their heads forward and their expressions neutral.
Demien descended the steps and his shoes hit pavent while noise crashed around him from all directions—"DEMIEN!" and "TRADITORE!" and other words he couldn’t distinguish—and he walked straight toward the entrance ten yards away without looking up or acknowledging anyone.
The security door closed behind him and suddenly the noise was muffled properly again, and the corridor inside was quiet and institutional with concrete walls and bright overhead lighting, and Atalanta’s squad continued walking in formation toward the away dressing room.
Artemio Franchi Stadium**
**Away Dressing Room**
**5:43 PM**
The away dressing room was clean and professional with wooden benches arranged in orderly rows, individual hooks for each player marked with numbers, showers and dical areas separated by privacy walls.
Demien’s kit hung on hook 28—black and blue shirt, matching shorts, socks—and his na and number were visible on the back, and everything was laid out exactly as it should be.
The sll of linint filled the air as dical staff prepared treatnt tables and players began changing in silence, and so sat on benches retying their dress shoes while others stood near their lockers removing jackets and hanging them carefully.
Nobody played music.
Nobody joked or laughed.
The atmosphere was complete focus without forced intensity, and everyone understood that words weren’t necessary because they’d all done this enough tis to know what matchday preparation required.
Demien pulled off his dress shirt and hung it on the hook beside his kit before sitting down to remove his shoes, and beside him Koopiners was doing the sa thing while his face showed the sa neutral concentration it always carried before matches.
Gasperini entered five minutes later after most players had changed, and he walked to the center of the room while everyone who wasn’t already sitting found their seats, and when the room went completely quiet he spoke without raising his voice.
"You know what we’re facing tonight," Gasperini said. "Hostile crowd. Strong opponent. Pressure on both sides. They need to win at ho to keep pace with European qualification. We need points to maintain our position."
He paused while his eyes scanned the room once.
"Structure over emotion. Discipline over individual brilliance. If we stay compact in the first twenty minutes and don’t give them montum, this match opens up in our favor. If we panic and start forcing passes that aren’t there, they’ll punish us on the counter."
His hand gestured once toward the door leading to the tunnel.
"Ninety minutes. Do your jobs. Trust the system. We leave here with points."
That was it.
No extended speech. No emotional appeals. Just clear instruction delivered professionally.
Heads nodded in acknowledgnt and Gasperini walked back toward his office space while players resud their preparation, and the room stayed quiet except for the sound of tape being applied to ankles and boots being laced tight.
Demien pulled on his match shirt and felt the fabric settle properly across his shoulders, and the number 28 on his back felt heavier tonight than usual because this was Florence and the Artemio Franchi and Fiorentina, and the weight carried aning even if he didn’t acknowledge it verbally.
He sat back down and began tightening his boots carefully—right foot first, pulling the laces through each eyelet with deliberate pressure—and when they felt secure he loosened them slightly before retying them properly because too tight created discomfort and too loose created instability.
Left boot received the sa treatnt.
When both were finished he stood and tested his weight distribution, and everything felt correct.
**Artemio Franchi Stadium**
**Tunnel**
**7:52 PM**
The tunnel was loud with footsteps echoing off concrete walls and the muffled roar from the stadium filtering down through the ceiling, and Atalanta’s squad lined up in their designated formation while Fiorentina’s players assembled opposite them wearing their ho purple kits.
Demien stood in his position among the starters with his hands at his sides and his eyes forward, and across the narrow space separating the two lines he could see Adriano standing in Fiorentina’s formation wearing number 10 with his hair pushed back and his expression showing the sa focused intensity everyone carried.
Their eyes t briefly across five yards of space and neither showed anything beyond professional acknowledgnt—no nods, no gestures, just the recognition that they were both here and both understood what was about to happen.
The referee and his assistants appeared between the two lines holding the match ball, and stadium officials began coordinating the walk-out sequence while the noise from above intensified as fifty-five thousand fans sensed the teams were about to erge.
Demien’s breathing was controlled and his heart rate was elevated properly without being excessive, and his hands hung loosely at his sides while his legs felt light and ready.
The tunnel official raised his hand and the signal rippled down both lines, and players adjusted their shirts one final ti while children mascots took their positions between the teams.
The roar from the stadium beca deafening even through concrete walls.
The referee checked his watch once.
Then he nodded toward the tunnel exit.
Both teams stepped forward together into the light and the noise.
**Artemio Franchi Stadium**
**Pitch**
**7:55 PM**
The sound hit them like a physical force as they erged onto the pitch—fifty-five thousand voices creating walls of noise that pressed from all directions—and purple smoke from flares drifted across sections of the crowd while banners waved in coordinated patterns.
Demien walked beside his teammates toward the center circle while his eyes scanned the stadium taking in the Artemio Franchi at capacity, and the stands were steep and close creating an amphitheater effect that amplified everything.
Sowhere in Section 23 his mother sat with her Atalanta scarf, and the knowledge settled sothing in his chest without requiring visual confirmation.
The teams reached their positions while children mascots dispersed toward the sidelines, and the referee gathered both captains at midfield for the coin toss while caras captured the ritual from multiple angles.
**Comntary Booth**
"Welco to the Artemio Franchi here in Florence for what promises to be a crucial encounter in the race for European qualification," the lead comntator said. "Fiorentina host Atalanta on this Saturday evening, and the atmosphere is absolutely electric."
"Both teams arrive in strong form," his colleague added. "Fiorentina unbeaten at ho all season—five wins, two draws from seven matches here. Atalanta sitting third in the table with genuine Champions League aspirations. This is a six-pointer in terms of positioning."
The coin toss completed and both captains returned to their teams, and the referee moved to his starting position at the center circle while checking his watch one final ti.
Atalanta arranged themselves in their familiar 4-2-3-1—Musso in goal, back three of Tolói-Djimsiti-Demiral, wing-backs Hateboer and Mæhle, double pivot De Roon and Koopiners, attacking trio of Lookman-Demien-Malinovskyi behind
Fiorentina lined up in their 4-3-3 with Terracciano in goal, back four of Dodô-Milenkovic-Martínez Quarta-Biraghi, midfield trio of Bonaventura-Amrabat-Mandragora, and front three of González-Jović-Kouamé with Adriano operating just behind the striker.
Demien stood in his assigned space between the lines and his legs felt light while his breathing stayed controlled, and when he glanced once toward Fiorentina’s half he saw Adriano positioned similarly with identical focus written across his face.
Academy product versus academy reject.
Two nineteen-year-olds.
One stage.
Ninety minutes.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips while his eyes scanned both teams one final ti.
The stadium held its breath.
The whistle was seconds away.
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