45+2' – Half-Time Whistle

The referee checked his watch as Atalanta recycled possession in Lecce's half, the clock ticking past forty-seven minutes, and he raised the whistle to his lips.

Three sharp blasts cut through the noise.

TWEEEEET. TWEEEEET. TWEEEEET.

The sound pierced across the pitch, high and shrill, and both teams froze wherever they stood, legs stopping mid-stride, the ball rolling loose toward the touchline as Demien straightened from his pressing position and felt the weight hit his legs all at once, forty-seven minutes of constant movement catching up in the sudden stillness.

His lungs burned as he walked toward the tunnel, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples and soaking the collar of his white shirt.

The big screen above the Curva Nord flashed the half-time statistics in bright white letters:

Atalanta 68% possession | 9 shots (3 on target)

Lecce 32% possession | 1 shot (1 goal)

The numbers told the story of the half: complete domination that had somehow resulted in a draw because Lecce's clinical counter-attack had punished the one mistake Atalanta made, and now the second half would determine whether control could be converted into victory.

Demien followed his teammates down the tunnel toward the dressing room, and the contrast between the two sides was stark and immediate because Lecce's players bounced down the corridor like they'd already won something, slapping backs and shouting "Forza ragazzi!" and "We've got them!" like taking a point home from Bergamo was already guaranteed.

Atalanta walked in silence at first, sweat dripping from foreheads and chins, breathing hard through open mouths, but no heads were down because the equalizer had shifted the momentum and everyone knew the second half would be different.

Atalanta Dressing Room

Half-Time

Gasperini shut the door behind him the moment the last player entered, and the noise from the tunnel cut off immediately, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing and water bottles being opened as twenty-two bodies found seats around the room.

"Good," Gasperini said, standing in the middle with his arms crossed. "We're doing exactly what we need to do. Possession, control, creating chances. They scored from their only shot because Maehle pushed too high and left space. That won't happen again."

He gestured toward the tactical board on the wall where his assistant had already drawn Lecce's defensive shape in yellow marker.

"Second half, same system, but we need more movement in the final third," Gasperini continued, his voice calm and clinical. "Lookman, Malinovskyi—when Walter drops deep, you push higher. Stretch them vertically. Højlund, hold the ball better when it comes to you, bring others in. De Roon, Koopmeiners—quicker transitions when we win it back, don't let them reset."

He pointed at Tolói. "Tolói, good header on the goal. Keep winning those aerial duels, keep launching Walter when you see him dropping."

His eyes moved across the room, landing briefly on Demien. "Walter, keep doing what you're doing. Drop, receive, turn. They can't handle you in space."

Then he was already moving toward the door. "Hydrate. Five minutes. We finish this second half."

The door closed behind him, leaving the room in relative quiet as players reached for water bottles and sports drinks, some stretching on the floor, others just sitting with their heads back against the wall.

Demien stayed seated on the bench, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing steady now as the adrenaline from the first half began to fade into focused calm.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and checked the lock screen.

Still empty.

No Sophia.

He locked it again, the screen going black, and he stood slowly before rolling his neck once to each side, his jaw set, his eyes hard as he walked toward his locker to retape his ankle where Gallo's studs had opened the skin earlier.

Forty-five minutes. Two objectives left. Time to finish this.

Tunnel Camera – Second Half

The tunnel camera at the Gewiss Stadium captured the moment perfectly as both teams lined up to return to the pitch, and Demien emerged first, alone for a split second before the rest of Atalanta followed, his white shirt fresh and clean after the half-time change, his face focused and calm.

The Curva Nord saw him before Lecce's players even appeared from their dressing room.

The roar started immediately, building from a low rumble to a deafening crescendo as nineteen thousand voices recognized their number eight stepping back onto the pitch, and the chant rose with coordinated precision, drums thundering beneath the words as the entire north stand sang as one:

"VINCI PER NOI, MAGICA ATALANTA!

VINCI PER NOI, MAGICA ATALANTA!"

Win for us, Magic Atalanta.

The concrete walls of the tunnel vibrated with the sound, the noise so loud it drowned out everything else, and Demien walked forward into it without breaking stride, his expression unchanged, his eyes already scanning the pitch ahead where the second half waited.

Behind him, his teammates followed, their faces set with determination, and Lecce's players emerged from their tunnel moments later to find the Gewiss Stadium transformed into a cauldron of noise and expectation that made the first half sound like a practice session.

Demien took his position in the center circle, the ball at his feet, and nineteen thousand voices created a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums as Lecce's players spread across their half in the same tight defensive shape they'd used all first half.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips, his eyes scanning both teams one final time.

Then he blew.

TWEEEEEEEEET.

A/N

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