Away Locker Room - Post-Match

The away locker room felt like a funeral.

Players sat in their assigned spots, some with heads in hands, others staring at nothing, a few stripping off their kits slowly because exhaustion made every movement feel like swimming through concrete.

Nobody spoke. What was there to say? They'd competed, created chances, defended well, and still lost because football was cruel sometimes and margins were measured in millimeters and VAR could take away joy with geometric precision.

Demien sat between his bag and the wall, his jersey soaked through with sweat and his legs cramping in ways that made standing painful, and the disappointment sat in his chest heavy enough to make breathing difficult.

Gasperini entered after giving his players five minutes of silence, and when he spoke his voice carried no anger—just tired acceptance of a result that could have gone differently but didn't.

"Heads up," the manager said, and several players looked up while others remained fixed on the floor. "We competed against the defending champions on their ground. We created chances. We defended with discipline. The result didn't come, but the performance was there."

He paused, making eye contact with players around the room.

"Demien," he said, and the young midfielder's head lifted. "You gave everything tonight. The goal that was disallowed—that's football. Sometimes the margins go against you. But the work you did, the chances you created, the defensive interventions you made? That's what I want to see every match."

Demien nodded because speaking was impossible with emotion clogging his throat.

"Everyone shower and get on the bus in twenty minutes," Gasperini concluded. "We have training Tuesday morning. Tonight we rest, tomorrow we recover, and Tuesday we start preparing for Lecce."

The manager exited, and the room slowly came back to life as players began moving toward the showers, conversations starting in quiet voices that gradually increased in volume.

Lookman stopped beside Demien's spot. "The volley was perfect. VAR's decision was bullshit."

"It was offside," Demien replied quietly. "Rules are rules."

"Still bullshit." The Nigerian winger managed a small smile before heading toward the showers.

Demien forced himself to stand, his legs protesting every movement, and he began stripping off his kit slowly because his body refused to cooperate with urgency.

His phone was in his bag, and when he checked it the screen showed dozens of notifications—messages from his mother, from Marco, from Luca, and one from Sophia that made his chest tighten when he read it.

From: Sophia ❤️

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 was here. She'd stayed. She was waiting.

Demien stared at the message for a long moment, and something warm pushed through the disappointment because even though the mission failed and the goal didn't count and everything had gone wrong, Sophia was waiting in the parking lot.

He locked the phone and headed for the showers, and the hot water felt good against muscles that had been pushed beyond their limits for seventy-five minutes against opposition that represented everything he aspired to become.

Twenty minutes later, Demien emerged from the locker room wearing his Atalanta tracksuit, his bag over his shoulder and his body moving stiffly from exhaustion and cramping.

The tunnel was quiet now, the noise from San Siro's celebrations muted by distance and concrete, and when he reached the parking area the night air hit him with cold clarity.

And there she was.

Sophia leaned against a sleek black car near the away team's exit, her blonde hair catching the parking lot lights, still wearing the navy blazer over his number 28 jersey, and when she saw him her face showed everything—relief, pride, sadness, support—all mixed together in an expression that made his throat tight.

He walked toward her slowly, and she pushed off the car and met him halfway.

"Hey," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sophia didn't say anything. She just pulled him into a hug—arms wrapped tight around him, her face pressed against his chest—and he felt something break inside as he hugged her back with what little strength remained.

They stood like that for a long moment in the parking lot while the night air grew colder and the last of the stadium lights began shutting down.

"That goal was beautiful," Sophia finally said, her voice muffled against his jersey. "The technique was perfect. The way you struck it..." She pulled back to look at his face, and her eyes were bright with emotion. "That should have been a goal. It was so unfair."

"VAR got it right," Demien said quietly. "Zapata was offside. Rules are rules."

"I don't care about the rules right now." She reached up and touched his face gently, her thumb brushing his cheek. "You played incredibly. Against the defending champions. At San Siro. You created chances, you defended like crazy, and you scored a beautiful goal that nobody watching will ever forget, even if it didn't count."

His throat felt too tight to speak.

"You gave everything out there," Sophia continued. "I saw it. Everyone saw it. And I'm so proud of you."

The words made his chest ache in a different way—not with disappointment, but with warmth that pushed through the exhaustion and frustration.

"Thank you for being here," he managed.

"Where else would I be?" She took his hand. "Now come on. You're coming with me."

"Sophia, I should—"

"You're not going back on that bus." Her tone left no room for argument. "I'm taking you to dinner, then you're staying at my hotel tonight. I'll drive you back to Bergamo in the morning before training."

"The team—"

"You already texted Gasperini that you'd find your own way back, didn't you?" She raised an eyebrow. "I saw you on your phone in the locker room."

He had. After seeing her message, he'd sent a quick text to the team manager asking permission to travel separately, citing that he had family in Milan. The response had been a simple "Approved. See you Tuesday morning."

"Yeah," he admitted. "But you don't have to—"

"I want to." She guided him toward the passenger side. "You're exhausted, you just had your heart broken on the pitch, and you need to eat and rest properly. That's not negotiable."

He let her lead him to the car, too emotionally and physically drained to argue, and when he collapsed into the leather seat the relief was immediate because standing had become painful.

Sophia got in the driver's side and started the engine, and warm air began flowing from the vents as she pulled out of the parking lot.

"Four Seasons Milano," she said. "Twenty minutes away. We'll order room service—something proper, not just pasta—and you can take a real shower, not a locker room one. Then sleep."

"I'm not sure I can eat anything," Demien said quietly, his head resting against the window.

"You will when it arrives." She reached over and squeezed his hand briefly before returning it to the wheel. "Trust me."

They drove through Milan's nighttime streets in comfortable silence, San Siro's illuminated structure disappearing in the rearview mirror, and Demien let his head rest against the window while his legs cramped and his mind replayed the disallowed goal on an endless loop.

The mission had failed. The goal didn't count. The assist never came. Zero rewards. Zero progress.

But somehow, with Sophia's hand occasionally reaching over to squeeze his, with the promise of a proper meal and a comfortable bed waiting at the Four Seasons, with someone who cared enough to wait in a cold parking lot for however long it took—the disappointment felt bearable.

The journey continued, even in defeat.

And tonight, at least, he wouldn't face it alone.

FINAL MATCH STATISTICS

Demien Walter - 75 minutes played

Match Rating: 7.3/10

Passes: 47/58 (81% accuracy)

Key Passes: 6Assists: 0

Goals: 0 (1 disallowed)

Tackles: 4/5

Interceptions: 3

Distance Covered: 10.2km

Sprints: 43

Mission Result: FAILED

Required: 7.8+ rating AND 1 assist

Achieved: 7.3 rating, 0 assists

Rewards: 0 TP, 0 MP

Match MVP: Mike Maignan (AC Milan)

7 saves

2 crucial punches from corners

89% pass completion

Clean sheet maintained

A/N

Sorry for the late upload. I just found out i was out of chapters. So iam currently drafting the outlines.

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