Team Hotel
Lobby
5:00 PM
At five the squad gathers in the hotel lobby and players arrive in small groups wearing casual clothes with bags slung over shoulders, and the atmosphere is quieter than morning because the hours between breakfast and departure have been spent in rooms resting or watching television or trying to distract minds that keep returning to kickoff.
Demien stands near the entrance with his headphones around his neck and his bag containing his iPad and charger resting against his leg, and through the glass doors the team bus idles at the curb while exhaust drifts faintly in the afternoon heat.
Security holds back a small group of Atalanta supporters who sohow discovered the hotel’s location and now stand behind barriers waving scarves and holding phones to record the squad’s departure, and when the first players erge the volu increases imdiately with voices calling nas and encouragent.
Koopiners walks out first and raises one hand briefly toward the supporters without stopping, and caras on phones track his movent while several voices shout "Forza Atalanta!" in unison.
De Roon follows and his wave is more deliberate with eye contact held for a mont before he continues toward the bus, and the supporters’ energy builds with each player who appears because their presence confirms the final is real and approaching rather than existing as distant anticipation.
Demien steps through the doors and the afternoon sun hits his face while voices call his na from behind the barriers, and he glances toward them briefly before nodding once in acknowledgnt without breaking stride toward the bus.
"Demien! Grande!" soone shouts, and another voice follows imdiately with "Porta la coppa a casa!" which translates to bring the cup ho, and the belief in their voices carries weight that settles sowhere in his chest.
He climbs the bus steps and moves down the center aisle toward the back where empty seats still remain, and through the tinted windows the supporters continue waving while the rest of the squad boards behind him.
The bus pulls away from the curb at 5:07 PM and the supporters recede in the rear window until they’re no longer visible, and Ro’s early evening traffic surrounds them imdiately with cars and scooters and pedestrians filling every available space on streets that never seem to empty.
Police motorcycles appear ahead of the bus and behind it while their lights flash without sirens, and the escort clears intersections by positioning officers at each corner who stop cross-traffic until the bus passes through safely.
The drive to Stadio Olimpico takes twenty-three minutes through routes that bypass the heaviest congestion, and as they approach the stadium area the streets beco increasingly packed with supporters moving in the sa direction.
Red and black on the left side of the road where Milan fans gather in groups wearing jerseys and scarves while smoke from flares drifts above their sections creating hazy clouds that catch the late afternoon light.
Blue and black on the right side where Atalanta supporters mirror their opponents with flags stretched between poles and chants building in volu as more people arrive and rge into the existing crowds.
The bus slows as it approaches the final turn toward the stadium entrance and both sides press against barriers trying to see which players are visible through the tinted windows, and security personnel form corridors that keep the path clear while photographers position themselves along the walkway leading to the doors.
Stadio Olimpico
5:34 PM
The stadium rises ahead massive and imposing with its curved exterior walls and the Olympic rings still visible from when this venue hosted the 1960 Sumr Gas, and the bus circles toward a side entrance reserved for teams where security waits behind tal barriers that separate the approach from the public areas.
Players step off one by one and a few stadium staff wait near the doors wearing official credentials and holding clipboards, and they gesture toward the entrance without speaking because the routine is familiar and doesn’t require verbal guidance.
The squad is led through a tunnel that runs beneath the stands and the walls are lined with Coppa Italia branding showing trophy images and past winners engraved on plaques, and as they walk the concrete corridor opens suddenly into daylight where the pitch spreads before them.
The Stadio Olimpico is empty and seats stretch endlessly in every direction rising in tiers that seem to touch the sky, and the pitch is pristine with grass cut to exact specifications and lines painted sharp and white without any imperfection.
Demien steps onto the grass and his boots sink slightly into the surface that’s been watered recently, and he looks around at the empty stadium while silence hangs heavy because in hours this place will be deafening with sixty thousand voices screaming for ninety minutes.
Players walk the pitch slowly and so jog lightly to test how their legs respond to the surface while others stretch near the touchlines, and Gasperini stands at the center circle with his coaching staff pointing toward different zones while discussing sothing that doesn’t carry far enough to hear.
Demien walks from the center circle toward the penalty area where the goal sits empty without nets attached yet, and he turns to look back at the halfway line while visualizing passing lanes and movent patterns that will exist when Milan’s defensive shape tries to compress space.
Koopiners jogs past and his breathing is controlled while his stride stays loose, and when he reaches the corner flag he turns sharply and jogs back along the touchline toward where the rest of the squad has gathered.
After fifteen minutes Gasperini calls them back with two short whistle blasts, and players converge on him while he stands with arms crossed near the center circle.
"Seen enough," he says, and his tone is matter-of-fact rather than dismissive. "Let’s go."
The squad files back through the tunnel toward where the bus waits, and the journey happens in reverse with the pitch disappearing behind them while concrete walls replace open air and the sound of boots on flooring echoes rhythmically.
Team Hotel
Dining Room
7:03 PM
Dinner is scheduled for seven and the hotel’s private dining room is reserved exclusively for the team with a long table set down the center, and when players enter the space pasta and grilled chicken and stead vegetables sit in serving dishes while bread baskets are positioned at regular intervals and water bottles line the middle creating a clean symtrical arrangent.
Players take seats without assigned positions and the table fills gradually as everyone arrives, and Demien sits between Ederson and Lookman while across from him Scalvini and Tolói talk quietly about sothing that doesn’t extend to the broader group.
The food is consud efficiently rather than savored because the purpose is fuel rather than enjoynt, and conversations happen in murmurs where they happen at all because most players eat in silence while processing their own pre-match routines internally.
Demien takes controlled portions of pasta and chicken while skipping the bread because carbohydrates this close to kickoff need to be managed carefully, and he drinks water steadily throughout the al because hydration matters more than most people realize when preparing for ninety minutes of sustained physical output.
Thirty minutes pass and plates begin emptying while players lean back from the table with their portions finished, and Gasperini stands from his position at the head of the table while everyone else goes still and quiet.
"Tonight we play for sothing bigger than ourselves," he says, and his hands rest on the back of his chair while his eyes move across the faces watching him. "This club hasn’t won this trophy in sixty years. So of you will never get this chance again."
He pauses and the silence stretches for three seconds before he continues.
"Leave everything on that pitch," he says, and his voice carries finality that doesn’t invite response. "No regrets."
He sits and players resu their positions, and though the al continues the mood has shifted heavier and more focused because the words settled over everyone like weight that can’t be ignored.
Team Hotel
Demien’s Room
9:04 PM
By nine everyone is back in their rooms and Demien lies on his bed staring at the ceiling where shadows from the curtained window create patterns that shift slightly when car headlights pass outside, and his phone sits on the nightstand buzzing once with a notification he doesn’t check because external voices don’t matter right now.
The system panel appears briefly in his peripheral vision without being summoned, and the translucent blue text floats against the white ceiling.
「PREPARING MATCH MISSION...」
The panel fades after three seconds and he closes his eyes while trying to rest even though sleep feels impossible with adrenaline already building in his chest, and the digital clock on the nightstand shows 9:47 PM in red numbers that seem too bright.
He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling again while his mind runs through tactical sequences automatically—where Ederson will be during buildup, how Milan’s midfield will try to press, which spaces will open when their fullbacks push high—and the ntal rehearsal is involuntary but necessary because preparation happens in monts like this rather than just during training sessions.
The clock shows 10:15 PM and he’s still awake with his hands folded across his stomach while his breathing stays controlled and asured, and he forces his eyes closed again while trying to empty his mind of everything except the present mont.
The clock shows 10:52 PM and exhaustion finally begins winning the battle against adrenaline, and his breathing deepens while his muscles relax increntally and sleep arrives in fragnts that blend together until consciousness fades completely.
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