Saturday, August 31st, 2022

Demien's Apartment

6:40 AM

Demien woke to silence.

The apartment was too quiet without Luca shuffling around in the kitchen or the shower running or music playing from the other room, and the emptiness hit harder than he'd expected when he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling while accepting that seven months was a long time to live alone.

He sat up slowly and reached for his phone on the nightstand, and the screen lit up with notifications that made his chest tighten.

Luca: I just Landed 8:05

Luca: I know i've been to Portugal a lot of time but nah, Braga is so beautiful.

Luca: Okay, i just confirmed my medical is tomorrow morning, wish me luck bro.

The message had come in three hours ago while Demien was still sleeping, and he typed back quickly without overthinking it.

Demien: Good luck brother. Destroy the Portuguese league

The message sent, and his thumb hovered over the screen before he opened his conversation with Sophia where the last messages stared back at him with their timestamp from Wednesday night when everything had gone sideways, and he started typing.

Demien: I'm sorry

His finger paused over the send button, and David Drinkwater's thirty-seven years of experience whispered that apologizing when you weren't wrong just to end a fight was weakness, but Demien Walter's eighteen years wanted to fix whatever was broken between them, and he deleted it before starting again.

Demien: I didn't mean to make you feel like your success had anything to do with my decisions. I was just trying to protect both of us from bad optics. Can you at?

The message sat there complete and honest, and he stared at it for ten seconds before his thumb moved to the delete button and erased every word because he didn't know what to say that wouldn't make things worse.

"What the hell," he muttered, and frustration built in his chest while his mind churned between anger and confusion because Sophia was acting childish about something that made logical sense, and the conflict of interest was real, and the optics were bad, and walking away from Nike was the smart move regardless of Adriano, so why was she upset?

He threw the phone onto the bed beside him and ran both hands through his hair before standing up and walking to the bathroom where cold water waited to clear his head.

The shower ran cold deliberately, and the shock of it against his skin pulled him fully awake while washing away the frustration and the confusion and the weight of Luca's absence that still pressed on his shoulders, and he stood under the spray longer than necessary before finally turning it off and toweling dry.

When he looked at himself in the mirror, the reflection that stared back showed someone who needed to focus on what mattered today: Lecce at Gewiss Stadium with nineteen thousand people waiting to see if San Siro was a fluke or the beginning of something real.

He walked to the kitchen and pulled out the protein powder from the cabinet before mixing it with water in the shaker bottle, and the familiar routine settled his nerves while he drank it standing at the counter with his eyes on the empty apartment that felt too big for one person, and his match bag sat by the door already packed from last night with boots and shin guards and extra socks and headphones and water bottle and everything he needed for the next twelve hours.

He walked back to his bedroom and pulled on dark jeans and a simple black hoodie before lacing his trainers, and when he looked in the mirror one final time, he met his own eyes and said quietly, "Let's go win this match."

The words hung in the empty apartment for a moment before he grabbed his bag and walked out the door while the lock clicked behind him with finality.

Bus to Gewiss Stadium

8:15 AM

The team coach pulled away from the Bortolotti training complex under a low grey Bergamo sky, and inside the usual chaos was absent because today was different, and no music blasted from portable speakers, and no banter flew between seats, and no Lookman's loud laugh cut through conversations, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional cough and the rustle of someone unwrapping a protein bar and the soft creak of seats as players shifted under the weight of what today meant: second home game of the season with a sold-out stadium and new heroes to anoint or old ones to bury.

Demien sat three rows from the back on the aisle side with his hoodie up and his eyes fixed on the black screen of his phone, and he felt the silence pressing against him from all directions while his teammates stayed locked in their own heads, and the seat beside him shifted as Koopmeiners dropped heavily into it before pulling one AirPod out and offering it without a word.

Demien glanced at the earphone, shook his head once, and turned back to the window.

Koopmeiners shrugged and popped the bud back in, but he didn't move away, and his presence felt like silent solidarity that Demien appreciated even if he couldn't acknowledge it out loud.

From the rear rows Tolói's deep voice cut through the quiet with half-joking warning: "Ey, Ragazzo d'Oro, today the Curva sings your name before mine, don't make me look bad, eh?"

A few tired laughs rippled forward, and someone whistled from the middle of the bus, and Demien forced the corner of his mouth upward in a half-smile that never reached his eyes before giving a small nod that could mean anything and turning back to the window.

Tolói studied him for a second with his brow creasing before leaning back and letting it go, and the silence returned heavier than before.

Højlund glanced over from across the aisle and opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but Koopmeiners gave a tiny head-shake, and the Danish striker closed it again without speaking because whatever Demien was dealing with needed space not conversation.

Even Gasperini sitting up front with his tablet looked up once to scan the bus, and his eyes lingered on Demien's reflection in the windshield before returning to his tactics without comment because he'd seen this before in young players carrying weight they couldn't share.

Outside, Bergamo rolled past in quiet streets and shuttered shops, and inside the only soundtrack was the soft click of Demien's phone screen lighting up every thirty seconds before going dark again with no new notifications, and the weight of nineteen thousand voices waiting to judge him pressed against the windows long before the stadium even came into view, and no one needed to say it out loud because everyone knew the truth: today the kid either became the real thing or the honeymoon ended.

Gewiss Stadium – Players' Entrance

9:30 AM

The coach turned into the players' entrance, and the difference from a normal midweek session was immediate with barriers up and police horses and stewards in high-visibility jackets and a low but constant roar leaking over the stands even ninety minutes before kick-off, and a few hundred early fans were already clustered behind the fences with phones out and scarves raised, and most shouted for Tolói and Lookman and Højlund while a handful of kids spotted Demien getting off the bus and started yelling "Walter! Walter!" in excited cracking voices that made something tighten in his chest because it wasn't nineteen thousand yet but it was louder than any stadium he'd ever played in during his first life.

Inside the tunnel the air smelled of fresh paint and hot dogs, and Demien kept his hood up with his bag over his shoulder while following the line of teammates toward the pitch where the noise was building, and when they stepped out onto the grass the noise swelled properly with maybe six or seven thousand in already and the Curva Nord half-full and working on something, and as the players spread out for warm-ups the choreography dropped: a simple but effective tifo with a gold card showing a black silhouette of Demien wheeling away at San Siro and the words RAGAZZO D'ORO in block capitals.

A solid cheer went up that was respectful and curious but not yet worship, and a pocket of ultras started the chant first—"Wal-ter! Wal-ter!"—and it spread to maybe two thousand voices before dying down again when the stewards made them sit, and Demien felt it land somewhere deep in his chest because it was flattering but not overwhelming, and he was the new kid who'd done something crazy once, not the established star, not yet.

Warm-Up – 9:45 AM

During the stretching lines behind the goal, Gasperini walked the back row tapping shoulders and giving final whispers to each player, and when he reached Demien he crouched low enough that only the two of them could hear what came next.

"San Siro was a nice visiting card," Gasperini said quietly while his eyes stayed fixed on Demien's face, and he continued, "Today is different, this is our house, ten goal involvements this season I want from you personally—goals or assists—start the counter today, the pitch is yours, don't wait for permission."

Demien met his eyes with his jaw tight and gave one short nod because nothing more was needed, and Gasperini tapped him twice on the chest before moving on to Lookman, and the message was delivered without speeches or motivational talks because words didn't matter as much as action.

Ten goal involvements.

Start today.

The pitch is yours.

Demien's hands curled into fists at his sides while the warm-up continued around him, and David Drinkwater's thirty-seven years of experience whispered that pressure like this could crush young players who weren't ready for it, but Demien Walter's eighteen years had already survived rejection and betrayal and suicide attempts, and this was just football, and he was going to win.

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