The giant screens around San Siro displayed the updated Serie A standings after Matchday 2:

Serie A Table – Matchday 2

AC Milan – P: 2 | W: 2 | D: 0 | L: 0 | GD: +3 | Pts: 6

Napoli – P: 2 | W: 2 | D: 0 | L: 0 | GD: +3 | Pts: 6

Inter Milan – P: 2 | W: 2 | D: 0 | L: 0 | GD: +2 | Pts: 6

Roma – P: 2 | W: 1 | D: 1 | L: 0 | GD: +2 | Pts: 4

Lazio – P: 2 | W: 1 | D: 1 | L: 0 | GD: +1 | Pts: 4

(…)

(…)

Atalanta – P: 2 | W: 1 | D: 0 | L: 1 | GD: +1 | Pts: 3

Milan sat top of the table on goal difference with maximum points from two matches, while Atalanta had dropped to eighth after the defeat—still respectable with three points from the Sampdoria victory, but the gap to the leaders already opening up.

Atalanta's players sank to the turf in exhaustion and disappointment. They'd competed admirably, created chances, even thought they'd scored, but the quality gap proved decisive and the margins were too fine and VAR had taken away the moment that might have changed everything.

Gasperini walked onto the pitch to applaud the away section first, two thousand traveling supporters who'd made the journey from Bergamo to Milan only to watch their team lose by a single goal, and they responded with "Forza Atalanta" chants that mixed defiance with devastation.

Then the manager walked over to each of his players, offering handshakes and brief words, and when he reached the bench where Demien still sat with the towel over his head, he stopped.

"You played well," Gasperini said simply. "This level of opposition shows you what's required. Learn from it."

Demien pulled the towel down and nodded, unable to speak because his throat was too tight with emotion.

On the pitch, both teams formed lines and shook hands with professional respect, and Demien forced himself to stand and walk down the steps toward the tunnel because sitting wouldn't change anything.

Tonali found him near the center circle as the players began dispersing. "Good match," the Italian midfielder said genuinely, and he offered his hand.

Demien shook it. "Thanks. You made it difficult all night."

"That's the job." Tonali smiled briefly, then gestured toward his shirt. "Want to swap?"

Demien blinked, surprised. Shirt exchanges usually happened between established players or after big matches, and he was still just an 18-year-old with two professional appearances. But Tonali's offer seemed genuine—a sign of respect from one midfielder to another.

"Yeah. Sure," Demien said, and he pulled his sweat-soaked Atalanta number 28 over his head while Tonali did the same with his Milan number 8.

They exchanged shirts, Tonali's still warm from seventy-five minutes of running and defending, and the Italian midfielder nodded once before jogging to catch up with his teammates who were heading toward the tunnel.

Demien stood there for a moment holding Sandro Tonali's shirt—the midfielder who'd marked him out of the game for large stretches, who'd made every touch difficult, who represented the level he aspired to reach—and the weight of it felt significant in ways that had nothing to do with fabric.

In the premium section, Sophia stood and gathered her things with hands that still trembled slightly from the emotional rollercoaster of watching Demien score only to have it taken away by millimeters.

"Sophia." Alessandro Moretti's voice came from behind her, and she turned to see Nike's Italian talent director making his way down the row. "Heading out?"

"Yeah," she managed, and her voice sounded hoarse from the emotional whiplash.

They walked toward the exit together, navigating through celebrating Milan supporters, and Alessandro waited until they'd cleared the concourse before speaking.

"That VAR decision was brutal," he said, and his tone was genuinely sympathetic. "Walter played well though. You must be disappointed after coming all this way to watch."

Sophia nodded, not trusting her voice because the emotion was still too raw.

"Good technical quality. Works hard defensively. Created chances against elite opposition. The volley technique was excellent even if VAR took it away." He paused. "Not ready for a major deal yet, but the potential is visible."

"That's good to hear," Sophia said quietly.

"Marcus wanted me here tonight to evaluate," Alessandro continued. "Your pitch last week—making him your first athlete for Sophia Athletics while we use him for Next Gen—Marcus said we'd revisit after this match. He wanted my professional assessment."

Sophia's chest tightened, waiting.

"I'm writing it up for Monday's meeting," Alessandro said. "The performance tonight was solid despite the loss. Competed well, showed resilience when the goal got taken away, didn't collapse mentally. The technical quality is there." He checked his watch. "I'll recommend we move forward with initial contact through his agent. Start the conversation while he's still affordable."

Relief washed through Sophia despite the night's disappointment. "Thank you for telling me."

"You were right about him," Alessandro acknowledged. "The mental strength you talked about in your pitch—I saw it tonight. Not many eighteen-year-olds keep fighting after VAR cancels their first professional goal." He nodded once. "See you at next week's product review meeting."

"Good luck with your line launch," Alessandro said before heading toward his car. "And tell your midfielder—off the record—that tonight won't be forgotten by the people who matter, even if the numbers say he failed."

He disappeared into the parking structure, and Sophia stood alone in the quiet aftermath, the Milan celebrations now distant echoes through concrete walls.

She pulled out her phone and typed a message:

To: Demien ❤️

You were incredible tonight. The goal should have counted. I'm so proud of you. Meet me at the parking lot when you're done? I'll wait for you. ✨

She hit send and walked toward her own car, but instead of leaving she found a spot near the away team's exit and leaned against the hood, the night air cold against her face as she processed everything—the brilliance, the heartbreak, the cruel margins between success and failure in professional football.

She'd wait however long it took.

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