Gasperini appeared from the training facility entrance, clipboard in hand as always, and called out, "Everyone on the bus. We leave in five minutes."
The players filed on in orderly fashion, moving down the aisle to find their preferred seats. Veterans claid the front rows, closer to the coaching staff, while younger players gravitated toward the back where conversations could be more relaxed.
Demien climbed the steps and moved past the first few rows. De Roon sat in the second row reviewing tactical notes on his tablet, completely focused. Koopiners occupied the seat across from him, already wearing his headphones and staring out the window.
Demien continued toward the back, finally settling into a window seat about three-quarters of the way down. The interior slled like leather and coffee, comfortable but not luxurious, designed for function rather than show.
Pasalic dropped into the seat beside him. "Mind if I sit here?"
"Go ahead," Demien said.
The bus pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road, Zingonia’s training complex disappearing in the side mirror as they rged onto the highway heading toward Milan.
Demien pulled out his phone and opened Spotify, scrolling through his pre-match playlist. He selected it and his headphones filled with instruntal hip-hop—beats without lyrics, rhythm that helped him visualize without distraction.
He leaned his head against the window, eyes half-closed, and started the ntal preparation routine he’d refined over both lifetis.
Receiving the ball between the lines. First touch away from pressure, cushioned, controlled. Head up imdiately. Scan. See the runners before the ball arrives. Özil’s vision activating, showing passing lanes two seconds early. Thread the pass. Weight it perfectly. Vidal’s engine ready to win the second ball if it breaks down.
The scenarios played on loop in his mind, each repetition refining the movents his body would execute tomorrow.
Back to goal. Defender pressing from behind. Shield the ball. Strong core, low center of gravity. Feel the pressure, adjust body position. Turn. Explosive. First touch into space. Release.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, breaking his visualization.
From: Sophia ❤️
Just landed in Milan. Hotel is beautiful. Tomorrow’s going to be special. I can feel it. 💙
Demien smiled and typed back quickly.
To: Sophia ❤️
I’m on the bus now. Confird starter. No pressure, right? 😅
The reply ca within seconds.
From: Sophia ❤️
Can’t wait to see you play. ✨
He locked the phone and returned it to his pocket, warmth spreading through his chest despite the pre-match nerves that had been building all day.
Tomorrow, he thought, and the visualization resud with new intensity. Tomorrow I show them everything the gacha system has given . Vidal’s warrior spirit. Özil’s vision. Pirlo’s playmaking. All of it cos together at San Siro.
The bus rolled down the highway, Milan’s skyline growing larger on the horizon with every passing kiloter.
*******
Friday, August 23rd, 2022 - 6:30 PM
Team Hotel, Milan
The bus pulled up to a modern hotel three blocks from San Siro, the building’s exterior understated but elegant—tall glass windows, clean lines, designed to blend into Milan’s upscale neighborhood rather than announce itself loudly.
Players filed off in orderly fashion while hotel staff moved efficiently to handle luggage, the check-in process already coordinated by the club’s travel coordinator to minimize delays and maximize rest ti.
Demien stepped off the bus and into the early evening air. The temperature had dropped slightly from the afternoon heat, comfortable now, and sowhere in the distance he could hear the muted sounds of city traffic.
A staff mber approached with a clipboard. "Walter, Demien?"
"Yes."
"Room 412. Here’s your key card." She handed him a small envelope. "Your roommate is already upstairs. Dinner is at seven-thirty in the private dining room on the second floor. Team eting at nine PM in the conference room."
"Thank you," Demien said, taking the envelope.
He followed the flow of players into the hotel lobby—modern décor, polished marble floors, soft lighting that created an atmosphere of calm professionalism. The elevator took him to the fourth floor, and he walked down the corridor checking room numbers until he found 412.
The door clicked open and he stepped inside.
The room was clean and functional: two beds separated by nightstands, a desk with a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above it, floor-to-ceiling windows with curtains drawn back to show Milan’s evening skyline. The bathroom door stood open, revealing white tile and modern fixtures.
Rafael Tolói sat on the bed nearest the window, unpacking his small travel bag. The Brazilian center-back looked up and nodded. "Walter. Looks like we’re roommates."
"Tolói," Demien replied, setting his bag on the other bed. "How’s the ankle?"
"Fine. Recovered from Sunday." Tolói pulled out his match suit and hung it in the small closet. "You nervous about tomorrow?"
"A little," Demien admitted, unzipping his bag. "It’s San Siro."
"Good. Nerves keep you sharp." Tolói sat back on his bed, leaning against the headboard. "I’ve played there maybe six tis now. Just focus on your job, ignore the noise."
Demien nodded, appreciating the veteran’s perspective. He hung up his suit beside Tolói’s and laid out his training gear for tomorrow’s pre-match activation session.
******
Friday, August 23rd, 2022 - 7:30 PM
Team Dinner, Hotel Private Dining Room
The private dining room on the second floor had been set up specifically for the squad—tables arranged in a U-shape, white tablecloths, place settings already laid out with the club nutritionist’s carefully portioned als waiting at each seat.
Demien entered with Tolói and found his assigned spot between Malinovskyi and Lookman. The Ukrainian winger nodded in greeting while Lookman was already eating, focused on his al.
Staff brought out the food in coordinated waves—grilled chicken breast, stead vegetables, brown rice, everything designed for optimal performance and easy digestion. No heavy sauces, no fried foods, nothing that would sit poorly in their stomachs tomorrow.
The atmosphere felt relaxed despite tomorrow’s pressure. Players talked and laughed, conversations flowing naturally across tables.
"My first ti at San Siro," Djimsiti was saying from across the room, his voice carrying, "I thought the tunnel would never end. We just kept walking and walking, and the noise kept getting louder, and when we finally ca out onto the pitch—" He shook his head, smiling at the mory. " Thousands of people, all screaming. I forgot what formation we were playing for about thirty seconds."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"What happened in the match?" soone called out.
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