Locker Room - Post-Shower Cool-Down (30 Minutes After Final Whistle)

The door clicked shut behind the last player, sealing in the steam from quick showers and the smell of liniment and victory that always filled dressing rooms after dominant wins, and towels draped over benches while ice baths bubbled in the corner and protein shakes sat half-drunk on the floor.

The room hummed with low chatter and laughter—no wild celebrations or music blasting, just the satisfied exhaustion of a job well done and the comfortable camaraderie that came from playing together successfully.

Gasperini stood in the center of the room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his voice steady and measured as always when he addressed the squad.

"Outstanding from start to finish," he began, his eyes scanning each player individually. "Clean sheet, five goals, no injuries—that's the blueprint we want every week. The pressing was relentless from the first minute, the movement was sharp and intelligent, the finishing was clinical when chances came. I'm very happy with all of you."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"Defense held the line perfectly and didn't panic when Cremonese had that one chance. Midfield dictated the tempo exactly how we trained. Attack punished every mistake they made. This is Atalanta at our best—patient when we need to be, ruthless when opportunities appear."

Another pause.

"Bus leaves in forty-five minutes. Get your showers finished if you haven't already, grab some food from the spread the staff prepared, hydrate properly, and load your bags. Rest tomorrow—you've earned it. Back sharp for training Monday because next week brings another challenge."

The team clapped hard—a unified wall of sound with fists pumping once or twice—and Gasperini nodded once before heading to his office, leaving the room to unwind naturally.

Post-Match Banter

Højlund bounded over first, his energy somehow still high despite ninety minutes of running, and he jumped onto Demien's back while he was still pulling on a fresh t-shirt over his head.

"Two screamers and three assists?!" the Danish striker shouted directly into his ear. "Dinner's on you tonight, kid—no excuses!"

Demien laughed, shrugging him off playfully while pulling the shirt down.

"Buy your own pizza, Rasmus. I earned this performance."

"Five goal involvements!" Højlund insisted, refusing to let it go. "That's like two dinners worth!"

Tolói walked past and ruffled Demien's damp hair with one rough hand, his Italian accent thick as he spoke.

"Good job out there, ragazzo. You made it look easy today."

Lookman chimed in from the corner where he was getting dressed, a towel draped over his head.

"Man of the match again? Save some for us mortals, yeah?"

The group erupted in laughter, and Muriel started a fake slow-clap from his locker that turned into a full circle of back-slaps and hugs around Demien, everyone contributing their own commentary on the free-kick goal or the La Croqueta skill move that had beaten two defenders.

Someone's Bluetooth speaker kicked on—a low-key Italian rap beat and the room settled into easy banter as players replayed the match highlights in exaggerated detail, arguing about whether the second goal or the free-kick was better.

"The free-kick was clean," Pasalic argued while pulling on his jeans. "Perfect technique."

"Nah, the open-play goal was harder," Boga countered. "Short corner routine, tight control, top-bin placement with defenders closing. That's special."

The debate continued without resolution, exactly how these conversations always ended, and Demien just smiled and let them talk while he finished getting dressed.

Tunnel Exit and Autographs (20 Minutes Later)

The squad filed out of the locker room together, bags slung over shoulders and jackets zipped against the cooling evening air, and they walked down the narrow tunnel toward the secure exit where fan voices echoed from beyond the metal barriers.

Two hundred to three hundred fans waited behind the barriers at the tunnel exit—mostly locals with kids on shoulders, waving shirts and programs and foam fingers, their faces lit up with the joy that came from watching their team destroy opponents five-nil at home.

The air buzzed with soft chants of "A-ta-lan-ta!" rippling down the line, and when the first players emerged the volume jumped immediately.

Demien stopped first, pulling a black Sharpie from his kit bag, and the crowd surged forward slightly before security waved them back.

"Demien! Demien! Over here!"

A young boy, maybe eight years old, thrust a replica Atalanta shirt toward him with number eight on the back, and Demien took it and signed across the numbers: "To Titi, best wishes - Demien 28"

He signed twenty shirts in total, ten programs with quick scribbles, and posed for five or six selfies with wide-eyed kids yelling "Grazie, Demien!" while their parents took photos.

His teammates fanned out beside him along the barrier—Muriel signing balls with elaborate flourishes, Boga high-fiving everyone in reach, Tolói chatting briefly with a group of older fans in Italian dialect, Højlund drawing smiley faces on kids' posters that made them giggle.

The line moved steadily without rushing, fifteen minutes of genuine connection with supporters who'd paid money and traveled to watch them play, and security only waved them on when the crowd began thinning naturally.

Team Bus Departure

The squad loaded onto the air-conditioned team bus parked in the secure lot just outside the tunnel, the engine already humming low and the interior lights warm and inviting after the evening air.

Players filed on one by one, bags were tossed into overhead racks, seats claimed with tired sighs and final bits of banter, some pulling out phones immediately to check messages while others just leaned back and closed their eyes.

Demien was last to board, his kit bag heavy over his shoulder from the man of the match plaque and energy drink bottle he'd been given, and he slid into his usual window seat near the back.

The doors hissed shut behind him with pneumatic finality.

The bus eased forward slowly, pulling away from the Gewiss Stadium's floodlights that still burned bright against the darkening Bergamo sky, and the city streets outside were quiet on a Saturday evening as the bus navigated toward the training complex where players would collect their cars.

Demien leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, letting the gentle vibration of the engine and the low murmur of teammate conversations wash over him.

Two goals, three assists, man of the match, five-nil victory.

Perfect clear.

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