Atalanta Headquarters - Director’s Office
Luca Percassi stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, phone pressed to his ear as the late afternoon sun cast golden light across Bergamo. Below, the training complex buzzed with activity—first team players finishing their session, staff moving between buildings with purposeful strides.
"Gian Piero," he said, his voice carrying a mixture of amusent and intrigue. "I just finished with the contract negotiations."
On the other end, Gasperini’s voice was imdiately attentive. "How did it go?"
"It went well. Very well, actually. Both boys signed without issue." Percassi turned from the window, a smile playing at his lips. "But sothing interesting happened during the discussions."
"Oh?" Gasperini’s tone sharpened with interest.
"The Walter boy," Percassi explained, moving to lean against his desk. "During the contract negotiations, he was... remarkable. Not just for an eighteen-year-old, for anyone. He identified weaknesses in the initial offer, suggested progressive bonus structures, negotiated image rights splits with the confidence of soone who’s done this for years."
There was a pause on the other end. "Really?"
"Marco Benetti was leading the negotiations, of course, but Walter was actively participating. Thoughtfully. Intelligently. At one point, he made an argunt about escalating bonuses that actually made pause." Percassi let out a quiet laugh. "I’ve negotiated with veteran players and their agents for twenty years, Gian Piero. This boy negotiated like he’s been in the business for decades."
"That’s... unexpected," Gasperini said slowly.
"More than unexpected. It was almost unnerving," Percassi admitted. "He has this way of speaking that doesn’t match his years. The maturity, the business acun, the way he articulated his value proposition—it’s like there’s soone older looking through those young eyes."
Gasperini was quiet for a mont, clearly processing. "You said he negotiated image rights?"
"Not just negotiated. He understood the market standards, knew exactly what split was fair, and argued for progressive improvent over the contract term. Then he did the sa for Bianchi’s contract without being asked." Percassi shook his head with genuine admiration. "Most eighteen-year-olds can barely understand their own contracts. This one was actively improving them."
"And you’re certain Benetti wasn’t feeding him the argunts?"
"Absolutely certain. Marco was as surprised as I was. At one point, I caught him just staring at the kid with this expression like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing." Percassi moved back to the window, watching the training ground below. "You were right to push for him, Gian Piero. But I think there’s more to Demien Walter than even you saw on the pitch."
"The trial performances weren’t flukes," Gasperini stated rather than asked.
"No. They weren’t. And after seeing him negotiate like that?" Percassi paused. "This is an interesting boy you’ve brought us. I want to see how far he can go."
"Trust ," Gasperini replied with quiet certainty. "He’s going to go far. There’s sothing different about this one. I felt it the mont I watched him play."
A smile spread across Percassi’s face. "Well, you’ve never been wrong about talent before. Let’s see if your instincts hold true again."
"They will," Gasperini said with the confidence of a man who’d built a career on identifying hidden gems. "They always do."
After they exchanged goodbyes and the call ended, Percassi set his phone down on the polished desk. He stood there for a mont, thinking about the unusual maturity in an eighteen-year-old rejected by Fiorentina, about the way Walter had conducted himself with the poise of a seasoned professional.
Then he turned toward his assistant, who had been working quietly at a laptop in the corner of the office. She looked up as he called her na.
"Chiara."
"Yes, Director?"
"Get Fabrizio Romano’s contact information."
Chiara’s fingers paused over the keyboard. "The transfer journalist?"
"Yes. I want you to reach out to him directly." Percassi moved to his desk and opened a folder containing the newly signed contracts. "Tell him we’ve just agreed deals with two players. Demien Walter and Luca Bianchi."
Chiara pulled up a new docunt on her laptop, fingers poised to type. "Both nas?"
"Yes, but make sure Demien is the focus of the story," Percassi instructed, his tone deliberate. "Fra it like this: Demien Walter is a Fiorentina academy reject who ca to Atalanta for a trial. During that trial, our first team coach was so impressed that he personally requested we sign him directly to the first team squad."
"Understood." Chiara was already typing. "Anything else?"
"ntion that Luca Bianchi has also signed, but keep him secondary in the narrative. The story should be about Walter—the rejected prospect who earned his way into a Serie A first team." Percassi’s eyes glead with the strategic thinking that had made him one of Italy’s most respected sporting directors. "It’s a good story. The dia will love it."
"When should I tell him to post the announcent?"
"Tell Fabrizio we’ll inform him of the official timing. We want to coordinate it properly with our own social dia announcent." Percassi checked his watch. "The dicals are scheduled for Monday morning. We’ll do the official signing and photo session imdiately after. Tell him to be ready to post Monday afternoon."
"I’ll send the ssage right away," Chiara confird, already drafting the text.
Percassi nodded, satisfied. Then he returned to the window, looking out over the complex that had beco ho to so many young talents who had gone on to achieve greatness.
Demien Walter, he thought. Let’s see if you’re ready for what cos next.
Demien’s Apartnt - Florence
The apartnt was quiet after Marco had left, taking Luca with him to celebrate with his family. Demien sat on the edge of his bed, the weight of the day finally settling over him like a blanket.
He’d signed a professional contract. First team. Atalanta.
The enormity of it kept washing over him in waves—not just the achievent itself, but what it represented. David Drinkwater’s decades of struggle, Demien Walter’s shattered confidence, all converging into this mont of redemption.
His phone sat on the nightstand, and he reached for it with hands that trembled slightly.
He scrolled through his contacts until he found "Mom" and pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then her voice, warm and familiar: "Demien?"
"Hi, Mom."
"Sweetheart! I was just thinking about you. How did everything go with—"
"I got it," he interrupted, unable to contain the news any longer. "I got the contract."
There was a mont of absolute silence on the other end.
Then: "You—what? You got it? The professional contract?"
"Yes." His voice cracked slightly. "Atalanta. First team. I signed it today."
The sound that ca through the phone was indescribable—half scream, half sob, all joy. "Oh my God! Oh my God, Demien! I can’t—I can’t believe it!"
He could hear her crying now, openly weeping, and his own eyes began to sting.
"Mom—"
"I’m so proud of you," she said through her tears. "So, so proud. After everything with Fiorentina, after—" Her voice broke. "You did it, baby. You actually did it."
"I couldn’t have done it without you," Demien said quietly, thinking of all the sacrifices she’d made, all the tis she’d believed in him when no one else did. When even he hadn’t believed in himself.
"When do you start?" she asked, recovering slightly though her voice still shook with emotion.
"dicals are on Monday," he explained. "That’s when we officially sign the contracts and do all the photos and everything. Pre-season training starts next week."
"Monday! Oh God, I need to—do you need to co? Do you want there?"
Demien smiled. "Actually, yes. If you can make it. I’d really like you to be there when I sign."
"Of course! Of course I’ll be there. Wild horses couldn’t keep away." She laughed, a sound still thick with tears. "My son, a professional footballer. Do you know how many tis I imagined this day? How many tis I—"
"I know, Mom. I know."
They talked for another twenty minutes, his mother alternating between tears and laughter, asking questions about the contract terms, about when she should arrive, about what she should wear ("It doesn’t matter, Mom. Just be there."), until finally they said their goodbyes.
As the call ended, Demien felt lighter than he had in weeks. Both lives, both sets of mories, both dreams—all validated in this mont.
His phone buzzed with a text before he could set it down.
Sophia: Congrats!! Luca just told ! 🎉🎉
Demien couldn’t help but smile as he read it.
Sophia: My father says congratulations too. He’s very impressed.
He was typing a thank you when another ssage ca through.
Sophia: So... are you going to ask properly about Saturday, or is my brother going to keep speaking for you? 😂
Demien’s heart jumped slightly. During the car ride back from Bergamo, Luca had—in typical Luca fashion—suggested that Sophia should co watch him play. The suggestion had been mortifying at the ti, but now...
He typed carefully: I was going to wait for the right mont, but since you brought it up... would you like to co to Bergamo on Saturday? Watch the match?
The three dots appeared imdiately, indicating she was typing.
Sophia: I thought you’d never ask properly 😊
Sophia: Yes, I’d like that
Demien grinned at his phone like an idiot.
Demien: Finally, I had the sense to ask you officially instead of letting your brother do it
Sophia: Progress! 😄 See you Saturday then
He set his phone down, still smiling, and fell back onto his bed. Professional contract. His mother coming to the signing. Sophia actually wanting to spend ti with him.
Maybe, just maybe, everything was finally coming together.
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