De Roon read it perfectly, intercepting with one touch and imdiately spraying a diagonal pass out to the right where Zappacosta had space.
Zappacosta took one touch to control, then drove forward at pace with the Angers left-back backpedaling desperately to keep up.
Koopiners made a run into the box from deep, dragging a defender with him and creating space.
Zappacosta reached the byline and cut the ball back low and hard across the six-yard box.
Zapata attacked it from the penalty spot, but the defender got a foot in and deflected it slightly.
The ball spun loose toward the edge of the box.
Muriel arrived like a bullet, his left foot eting the ball cleanly before the defender could react.
The shot was low, hard, and placed perfectly into the bottom corner.
The net rippled.
The stadium erupted.
"YEAHHH!" The roar shook the stands as fans leapt to their feet, arms raised, voices joining in one massive release of pent-up tension.
Sophia jumped up beside him, shouting in excitent, her hands clapping together rapidly.
Demien stood too, applauding as Muriel sprinted toward the corner flag with his teammates chasing after him.
But even as he celebrated, his mind was working.
The press that triggered the turnover. The diagonal pass that switched play. The overlapping run from the wing-back. The delayed run from Koopiners creating space. The instinctive finish from Muriel.
Every piece had to be perfect.
Every movent had been rehearsed, drilled, programd into muscle mory through hours of training.
This was first team football.
This was the level he’d be playing at starting Monday.
The realization settled over him like a weight—not crushing, but present and undeniable.
This was going to be tough.
******
The final whistle blew at 90 minutes.
Atalanta 1, Angers 0.
The crowd applauded the players off the pitch, satisfied with the result even if the performance hadn’t been spectacular.
Demien and Sophia stood and made their way toward the exit, joining the slow-moving stream of fans filtering out of the stadium.
"That was amazing," Sophia said, her eyes still bright with excitent. "I get why people love this now."
"It’s addictive," Demien agreed.
They reached Sophia’s car in the parking lot, and she unlocked it with a click of her key fob. The drive back toward Florence started in comfortable silence, but then Sophia connected her phone to the car’s speakers.
"You ever listen to Asake?" she asked, scrolling through her playlist.
"Yeah, actually. My mom loves Afrobeats."
"Perfect."
The opening notes of "Organize" filled the car, the bouncy rhythm and smooth vocals imdiately lifting the mood.
Sophia started singing along, her voice light and slightly off-key but full of joy, and Demien found himself joining in during the chorus, both of them laughing when they stumbled over the Yoruba lyrics.
By the ti they pulled up outside Demien’s building, the sun had set and the streetlights cast an orange glow over everything.
Sophia put the car in park and turned to look at him.
"I had fun today," she said. "We should do this again."
"Definitely," Demien said, his heart suddenly beating faster.
They looked at each other for a mont, and sothing unspoken passed between them.
Then Demien leaned forward.
Sophia t him halfway.
Their lips touched softly at first, tentative and gentle, then with more confidence as the kiss deepened.
When they finally pulled apart, Sophia was smiling, her cheeks flushed.
"Goodnight, Demien."
"Goodnight," he said, his voice slightly unsteady.
He got out of the car and closed the door, then waved as she pulled away from the curb. She waved back through the window, still smiling, and then she was gone.
Demien stood there for a mont, watching her taillights disappear down the street, before turning and heading inside.
*****
Demien and Luca’s Apartnt
The apartnt was quiet when Demien entered.
Atalanta had arranged shared accommodation for both him and Luca—a two-bedroom place close to the training center that was modest but comfortable. It beat living alone, especially with pre-season about to start.
Luca was sprawled on the couch when Demien walked in, scrolling through his phone with a knowing grin already forming on his face.
"How was it?" Luca asked without looking up.
"The ga was good," Demien said, dropping his keys on the counter. "Atalanta won 1-0. Muriel scored—"
"Who’s talking about the ga?" Luca interrupted, finally looking up with that sa grin. "I an the date."
Demien felt heat creep up his neck. "It was nice."
"Nice?" Luca sat up, eyebrows raised. "Just nice?"
"Yeah. Nice."
"You’re so boring, man." Luca shook his head dramatically. "My sister takes you to a match, drives you ho, and all you say is ’nice’? Co on, give sothing here."
"It was a good day," Demien said, heading toward his room.
"Wait—" Luca’s eyes narrowed, studying his face. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"Goodnight, Luca."
"Oh my God!" Luca sat up straighter, realization dawning. "Sothing happened! What did you do?"
Demien didn’t respond, just kept walking toward his room while Luca’s voice followed him down the hallway.
"Demien! What happened? Did she—wait, did you—"
Demien closed his door and leaned against it, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face.
He changed into comfortable clothes and collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling while his mind replayed the evening.
Sophia’s hand on his arm. Her excitent during the goal. The way she’d sung along to the music without caring how she sounded. The softness of her lips against his.
But beneath all of that was sothing else.
The match.
The way Atalanta had played—the precision, the intensity, the level of execution required just to break down a mid-table French side in a pre-season friendly.
Monday, he’d be training with those players.
Monday, he’d be expected to keep up.
Monday, everything would beco real.
Demien closed his eyes and let exhaustion pull him under, his last conscious thought a mixture of anticipation and nerves.
In two days, he’d join first team pre-season training.
He’d be ready.
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