"We lost two-nil," Djimsiti replied cheerfully. "I played terribly. But I learned that the stadium doesn’t play football. Once you get past the initial shock, it’s just another pitch."
De Roon spoke up from the head table, his captain’s voice cutting through the ambient conversation. "My first San Siro match was Europa League. We were terrible. Lost three-nil. Couldn’t complete a pass to save my life."
He paused, making eye contact with several younger players including Demien.
"But I learned sothing important that night. The grass is the sa size everywhere. The goals are the sa height. The ball bounces the sa way. Yes, the crowd is loud. Yes, the pressure is intense. But fundantally, football is football. You do what you’ve trained to do, you trust your preparation, and you play for the man beside you."
The room went quiet for a mont, the captain’s words settling over everyone.
"Tomorrow," de Roon continued, "so of you will be nervous. That’s normal. That’s good. It ans you care. Just rember—we’re Atalanta. We don’t bow to anyone. We compete with anyone. And tomorrow, we show Milan exactly what that ans."
"FORZA ATALANTA!" soone shouted, and the entire room echoed it back.
Dinner continued for another forty-five minutes. Demien ate slowly, chanically, his mind already at tomorrow’s match while his body went through the motions of refueling.
Lookman leaned over at one point. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Demien said. "Ready as I’ll ever be."
"Good. I’ll be making runs in behind all ga. You see them, hit them. Don’t hesitate."
"I won’t."
"That’s what I like to hear." Lookman smiled and returned to his al.
When dinner finally ended, players dispersed—so heading back to their rooms for rest, others toward the hotel’s small gym for light stretching and recovery work.
Demien walked back to room 412 with Tolói, both moving slowly, conserving energy for tomorrow.
******
Friday, August 23rd, 2022 - 9:00 PM
Final Tactical Session, Hotel Conference Room
The conference room on the third floor had been converted into a temporary war room. Chairs arranged in rows facing a large projection screen, tactical boards set up along the side walls, Gasperini’s laptop connected and ready at the front podium.
Players filed in at eight fifty-five, professional and punctual. Nobody wanted to be the one who walked in late to the final tactical session before a match like this.
Demien sat in the third row again, notebook open to a fresh page, pen ready.
Gasperini stood at the front with his coaching staff flanking him. The projection screen showed a frozen image of Milan’s attacking shape.
"Last review," Gasperini began without preamble. "Set pieces first."
The next hour was ticulous and detailed. Every corner kick routine Milan ran, every free kick pattern they favored, every throw-in variation they used to create chances—all of it broken down and analyzed with corresponding Atalanta defensive responses.
"Milan’s corners are dangerous," Gasperini explained, using his laser pointer to highlight positions. "Giroud attacks the near post, Tomori cos up from defense to attack the far post. They’ll use short corners occasionally to create different angles. Our zonal marking stays disciplined. Don’t get dragged out of position."
He clicked to the next slide showing Atalanta’s attacking set pieces.
"Our corners—we use a mix of near post flick-ons and back post targeting. Højlund, you attack the near post. Lookman, you make the late run to the back post. Walter, you stay outside the box for second balls and cutbacks."
Demien made a note: Outside box on corners. Second balls cutbacks.
The presentation moved through free kicks, both offensive and defensive. Then throw-ins. Then pressing triggers—specific monts when Atalanta would hunt the ball aggressively versus monts when they’d drop off and compress space.
"If Maignan plays short to Calabria," Gasperini said, "that’s our trigger. Lookman presses imdiately, forces him toward the touchline. Malinovskyi tucks inside to cut the passing lane to Tonali. We squeeze them into mistakes."
More notes. More arrows. More tactical details filling Demien’s notebook until his hand cramped slightly from writing.
When Gasperini finally closed his laptop, the clock on the wall read ten-fifteen.
The manager stood at the podium, looking out at his squad, and the tactical analysis shifted to sothing more emotional, more visceral.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "we face one of Europe’s most historic clubs on their ho ground. They won the Scudetto last season. They expect to beat us. Their fans expect a comfortable victory. Every dia outlet in Italy has predicted three points for Milan."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Good. Let them underestimate us. Let them think we’re just another mid-table team coming to San Siro to make up the numbers."
His voice hardened slightly.
"Then we show them who Atalanta is. We show them that we compete with anyone, that we fear nobody, that when we step onto that pitch, we’re there to win."
De Roon stood up slowly, and the entire squad followed his lead, rising as one.
"Together," the captain said, his voice carrying command and belief in equal asure.
"TOGETHER!" the squad shouted back, fists raised, voices echoing off the conference room walls.
The eting ended and players filed out, so slapping each other on the back, others already ntally locked in for tomorrow.
Demien walked out with his notebook under his arm, tactical details swimming in his head, nerves and excitent mixing in his chest in equal asure.
Friday, August 23rd, 2022 - 10:30 PM
Room 412
Demien lay in his bed, lights off, the room dark except for the faint glow of Milan’s city lights filtering through the curtains. Tolói was already asleep in the other bed, breathing deep and even, the veteran able to shut his mind off and rest when needed.
Demien’s mind wouldn’t stop racing.
He stared at the ceiling, replaying everything from today—Gasperini’s tactical instructions, the formation on the projection screen with his na in the attacking midfield position, de Roon’s words at dinner about the grass being the sa size everywhere.
San Siro. AC Milan. Seventy thousand hostile fans. Théo Hernández bombing forward. Rafael Leão cutting inside with pace that could destroy you in seconds. Olivier Giroud holding the ball up, bringing others into play.
And sowhere in those stands tomorrow, Sophia would be watching. His mother would be watching from ho in Florence. Marco would probably be watching from his office in Florence.
No pressure, he thought with dark humor.
His mind drifted to the legendary techniques sitting dormant in his skillset, waiting to be deployed.
He could feel them there, integrated into his muscle mory and nervous system, ready to activate when called upon.
First touch clean. Head up. Scan. See the space. Release.
The mantra repeated in his mind, over and over, a ditation that slowly began to quiet the racing thoughts.
His breathing deepened, his body finally starting to relax into the mattress.
Tomorrow I show them everything. Tomorrow I prove that the gacha system wasn’t luck, that the stat boosts and legendary techniques were earned through training and matches and dedication.
Tomorrow I prove I belong.
Sleep was coming now, pulling him under gradually, his conscious mind fading while his subconscious continued rehearsing movents and scenarios.
The system window materialized in his vision just before consciousness fully disappeared, soft blue light cutting through the darkness behind his closed eyes.
「TRAINING SESSION COMPLETE」
「REWARD: 10 TP」
「Current Balance: 65 TP | 0 SP | 16 MP」
The notification hung there for a mont, then faded completely.
Demien’s breathing evened out, his body surrendering to sleep, his mind finally quiet.
Tomorrow would co soon enough.
Tomorrow, everything changed again.
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