The ring felt painful even though the relationship had ended three years ago, and he looked away toward the window while his throat tightened with emotions he thought he'd buried completely.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Adriano said quietly. "I'm here to close this properly. Because carrying this forward—into tomorrow's match, into whatever comes after—it doesn't serve either of us."

"You want my blessing?" Demien asked, and bitterness leaked into his tone despite his efforts to contain it. "Is that what this is?"

"Yes," Adriano admitted without hesitation. "I want your blessing. Not because I need permission to marry her—we're doing that regardless—but because you were my friend once, and I destroyed that, and I want to know if there's any chance we can move forward without this hatred between us."

Demien sat in silence while his mind raced through three years of accumulated anger and pain and eventual acceptance, and the truth was that he had moved on even if the memory still stung, and holding onto bitterness served no purpose except making himself miserable.

"I can't pretend everything's the same," Demien said finally, and his voice came out quieter than before. "We're not going back to being best friends. That's gone. You made sure of that."

"I know."

"But I won't carry bitterness forward either." The words felt right as he spoke them, like releasing weight he'd been holding for too long. "If you want my blessing to marry her, you have it. Not because I forgive everything. But because holding onto this doesn't help anyone."

Adriano's shoulders dropped slightly as tension released, and when he spoke his gratitude sounded genuine. "Thank you. I know that wasn't easy."

"It wasn't," Demien confirmed, and he finally looked directly at Adriano again. "But it's done now. We play tomorrow, and this stays in the past. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

The silence that followed felt different—less suffocating, more settled—and when Isabella's voice called from the kitchen asking if they wanted coffee, both of them answered yes at the same time before catching each other's eyes and almost smiling.

"Your mother's coffee is still the best in Florence," Adriano said while standing to walk toward the kitchen.

"She'll be thrilled you remember," Demien replied, and he followed while something in his chest felt marginally lighter.

Isabella emerged from the kitchen carrying two cups on a small tray, and her face showed relief at seeing them walking together rather than sitting in tense silence. "Better now?"

"Better," Demien confirmed, and he took a cup from the tray while the steam rose between them.

"Good," Isabella said firmly, and she pointed at both of them with her free hand. "Whatever nonsense happened between you boys, it's in the past. You hear me? Life's too short for grudges."

"Yes, Signora Walter," Adriano said with a small smile that reminded Demien of how he used to visit this house almost weekly when they were younger.

They sat in the living room drinking coffee while conversation started carefully and gradually found familiar rhythms, and Isabella asked Adriano about his parents and his season and how Fiorentina was treating him, and when she mentioned how proud she was watching him play on television his expression showed genuine appreciation for her support.

Twenty minutes passed, and the awkwardness that had filled the room earlier dissolved slowly into something approaching normalcy, and when Adriano mentioned he should probably leave because it was getting late, Isabella insisted he stay a bit longer while she brought out the leftover tiramisu.

"I can't say no to your tiramisu," Adriano admitted, and Demien found himself almost smiling because that was exactly what Adriano used to say three years ago.

While Isabella was in the kitchen, Adriano's eyes landed on the gaming console sitting beneath the television, and his expression shifted into something mischievous. "FIFA still works?"

Demien followed his gaze and felt something unexpected stir—muscle memory of countless afternoons spent arguing over virtual tactics and celebrating ridiculous goals. "Should still work. Haven't played it in months."

"One match?" Adriano suggested, and his tone carried challenge rather than peace offering. "Unless you're scared I'll embarrass you."

"You never beat me when we were kids," Demien countered, and he stood to grab the controllers from the shelf. "Don't see that changing now."

"I'm better now."

"So am I."

They set up the game while Isabella returned with tiramisu and watched them with obvious joy at seeing them interact like they used to, and when the match started—Adriano choosing Fiorentina and Demien choosing Atalanta because the symbolism was too obvious to ignore—the competitive banter returned naturally.

"That's a foul!" Adriano protested when Demien's virtual De Roon tackled his virtual Jović cleanly.

"Clean tackle. Learn the rules."

"Bullshit. Referee's blind."

"You're just bad at defending."

Isabella laughed from her chair while watching them argue exactly like they had as teenagers, and when Demien scored a goal with a long shot from his virtual self, Adriano threw his controller onto the couch in mock disgust.

"That's not even realistic! Your shooting's not that good!"

"It is now," Demien replied, and he couldn't suppress the grin. "Seven goals in eleven matches. Check the stats."

"Show-off."

The match ended 2-1 to Atalanta, and Adriano shook his head while standing to leave because it was nearly eleven PM and staying longer would be pushing hospitality. "Same as always. You and your lucky goals."

"Skill, not luck," Demien corrected, and he walked Adriano to the door while Isabella hugged him goodbye with instructions to visit more often and to tell his parents she said hello.

At the doorway, Adriano paused and extended his hand. "Tomorrow's different. Tomorrow we're opponents."

Demien took the hand and shook it firmly. "Rivals," he corrected, and his tone carried weight. "Not just opponents. Rivals."

Adriano's grip tightened slightly, and something shifted in his expression—recognition, acceptance, challenge. "Then let's make it count. Both of us. All the way to the top."

"That's the plan."

"Good." Adriano smiled once—genuine rather than forced. "I'd rather beat you when you're at your best than face someone who's not pushing me."

"Same," Demien replied. "See you on the pitch."

"Tomorrow I'm taking three points back to Bergamo," Demien added before Adriano could step away.

"We'll see about that."

"Yeah. We will."

Adriano smiled once—genuine rather than forced—before turning to walk down the front steps, and Demien watched him disappear around the corner before closing the door and leaning against it while something heavy finally released.

Isabella appeared in the hallway with her hands clasped together, and her eyes were bright with tears. "I'm so glad you two worked things out. I hated thinking you'd lost your friend because of something I didn't understand."

"We worked it out, Mamma," Demien confirmed, and he walked over to hug her because she deserved to know her son was okay. "Everything's settled now."

"Good," she whispered while holding him tight. "That's all I wanted."

Friday, October 21, 2022

Isabella's House, Florence

11:47 PM

Demien lay in his childhood bed staring at the ceiling while the house had gone quiet around him, and his mother had retired to her room an hour ago while he'd stayed awake processing everything that had happened since the doorbell rang.

Adriano's apology.

The admission about Sarah.

The blessing given.

The FIFA match.

The past finally settling into something manageable rather than suffocating.

The system interface materialized in his peripheral vision without warning, and the familiar blue panel appeared with its usual efficiency.

「TRAINING SESSION COMPLETE」

「Quality: Good」

「REWARD: 10 TP」

「Current Balance: 359 MP | 278 TP | 2 SP」

The notification referred to Thursday's training rather than tonight's conversation because the system only recognized football-related progress, and Demien dismissed it with a thought while recognizing that some forms of progression existed outside the interface's awareness.

Tomorrow he would face Fiorentina.

Tomorrow he would face Adriano on the pitch rather than in his mother's living room.

Tomorrow the academy reject would prove himself against the academy product in front of fifty thousand fans.

But tonight, the past had finally stopped weighing down the present.

Tonight, closure had arrived unexpected and uncomfortable and ultimately necessary.

Tonight, he could sleep knowing that Sunday's match would be about football rather than unresolved bitterness.

Demien closed his eyes while his childhood room felt exactly as it had years ago—the same posters on the walls, the same desk in the corner, the same window showing Florence's night sky—and when sleep finally came it was deeper and more peaceful than it had been in weeks.

Tomorrow was for proving Fiorentina wrong.

But tonight was for letting go.

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