Sunday, October 23, 2022

Isabella's House, Florence

8:15 AM

Demien woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains of his childhood bedroom, and for a moment he couldn't remember why he was in Florence instead of Bergamo, but then Sunday's reality settled over him completely.

Fiorentina versus Atalanta.

The Artemio Franchi.

Today.

He sat up slowly while his body felt rested despite the weight of what was coming, and when he checked his phone the screen showed 8:15 AM with no new notifications, and he set it back on the nightstand before standing to stretch the stiffness from his shoulders and back.

The house was quiet as he walked down the hallway toward the bathroom, and the familiar creak of the floorboards under his feet brought back memories of hundreds of mornings spent preparing for academy training, and when he looked in the mirror while brushing his teeth his reflection showed someone older than the boy who used to live here but still recognizable beneath three years of growth.

He showered quickly while letting hot water work into his muscles, and by the time he dressed in comfortable clothes and walked toward the kitchen, the smell of coffee and toast was already drifting through the house.

Isabella stood at the stove in her bathrobe with her hair still messy from sleep, and she turned when she heard him enter with a smile that showed both excitement and concern. "Good morning, tesoro. Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, Mamma," Demien replied while sitting at the familiar kitchen table. "Better than I expected."

"Good." She poured coffee into a mug and set it in front of him along with a plate of toast and jam. "I kept breakfast light. You need energy but not a full stomach before the match."

"Perfect," Demien said, and he took a sip of coffee while the caffeine began clearing the last remnants of sleep from his mind.

Isabella sat across from him with her own cup, and her eyes studied his face with focus. "How do you feel? Nervous?"

"A little," Demien admitted, and honesty felt easier than pretending. "But more focused than nervous."

"That's good. That's how you should feel." She reached across the table to squeeze his hand once. "I'll be in the stands today, Section 23. Wearing my Atalanta scarf that I bought online last week—don't laugh, it's very nice."

Demien smiled despite himself. "You bought an Atalanta scarf?"

"Of course I did! You're playing for them!" Her expression showed pride and defiance. "Everyone in the neighborhood knows I'm supporting you today, not Fiorentina. Let them talk."

"Thank you, Mamma."

"Don't thank me. Just play your football. That's all I want to see." She stood and moved back toward the stove. "More toast?"

"I'm good. This is enough."

They ate in comfortable silence while morning light continued filling the kitchen, and when Demien finished his breakfast and stood to rinse his plate in the sink, Isabella walked over and pulled him into a hug that lasted several seconds longer than usual.

"I'm so proud of you," she whispered against his shoulder. "No matter what happens today. I'm so proud."

"I know, Mamma," Demien said while returning the embrace. "I know."

Isabella's House, Florence

9:45 AM

Demien sat on his bed with his match bag open beside him while checking each item methodically—boots, shin guards, compression shorts, extra socks, athletic tape, water bottle—and the routine helped ground his thoughts while pre-match adrenaline began building in his chest.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and when he picked it up Sophia's name appeared on the screen not with a text message but with a video attachment, and he pressed play.

The video opened with Sophia's face filling the frame, and she was sitting in what looked like her apartment in Milan with natural light coming through windows behind her, and her expression was casual but genuine as she began speaking.

"Hey, Demien. I saw all the build-up on TV yesterday—Sky Sport, Gazzetta, everyone's talking about the match today." She paused briefly, and a small smile crossed her face. "I know you've got a lot going on, so I'm not going to call and take up your time. Just wanted to check on you. See how you're doing."

She shifted slightly, and her tone stayed measured but warmer than it had been recently. "Everyone's making this into some big narrative about academy rejects and wonder kids and all that media stuff. But you know what you're doing. You've been brilliant all season. Just play your game today, don't force anything, and it'll be fine."

Another pause, and she looked directly at the camera. "Good luck. I'll be watching from Milan. Not that you need luck—you've earned everything you've gotten. Anyway. That's it. Talk soon."

The video ended, and Demien stared at the frozen frame showing Sophia's face for several seconds before locking his phone and setting it back on the nightstand.

She hadn't called.

Hadn't sent paragraphs of text.

Just a short video acknowledging the moment without adding pressure.

He stood and grabbed his match bag, and when he walked out of his childhood bedroom for what might be the last time before returning to Bergamo, he glanced back once at the space that had held three years of pain and recovery before closing the door behind him.

Florence Streets

10:30 AM

Demien drove through Florence's morning traffic while his car navigated familiar streets toward the meeting point where the team bus would be waiting, and the city looked exactly as it always had—old buildings with terracotta roofs, narrow streets with pedestrians and scooters, church bells ringing somewhere marking the hour.

When he reached the hotel where the squad had spent Saturday night, the Atalanta bus was already idling in the parking area with its engine running, and several players stood near the entrance finishing cigarettes or coffee while equipment staff loaded bags into the cargo hold.

Demien parked and grabbed his match bag before walking toward the group, and Lookman spotted him first while tossing an empty cup into a nearby bin. "Morning. Your mum send you off properly?"

"Yeah," Demien replied. "Fed me breakfast and everything."

"Classic Italian mother," Hateboer said from nearby with a grin. "Mine does the same every time I visit home."

Inside the bus, players settled into their usual spots while conversations stayed quiet and focused, and Demien found his seat near the middle beside Koopmeiners who was already wearing headphones and staring out the window, and his eyes suggested he was visualizing the match rather than seeing the street.

The bus departed at 10:45 AM exactly, and as it pulled away from the hotel toward the Artemio Franchi, the atmosphere carried professional tension without nervousness because this squad had played enough important matches to understand pre-game energy management.

Gasperini sat at the front with his coaching staff, and he turned once to look down the aisle at his players before nodding to himself and facing forward again, and the gesture said everything without words: You're ready. Now prove it.

The drive took twenty minutes through Sunday morning traffic, and as the bus turned onto the final approach toward the stadium, the Artemio Franchi came into view rising against Florence's skyline, and purple banners hung from its exterior while early fans streamed toward the entrances wearing Fiorentina colors.

Demien stared at the building through the window while three years of history pressed against his thoughts, and this was the stadium where he'd once believed his future was being built before everything collapsed, and now he was returning not as a prospect hoping for approval but as a Serie A regular coming to take three points.

The bus pulled into the secure area reserved for away teams, and when the engine shut off Gasperini stood and turned to address the squad one final time before they disembarked.

"Remember what we prepared," the manager said, and his voice carried calm authority. "Their press is aggressive but structured. We break it with quick circulation and intelligent movement. Stay disciplined defensively. Take your chances when they come. This is just another match. Treat it that way."

Players began filing off the bus, and Demien followed while his match bag felt heavier than usual as he stepped outside the Artemio Franchi for the first time since Fiorentina had released him from their academy.

Artemio Franchi Stadium

11:15 AM - Away Dressing Room

The away dressing room was functional and professional with wooden benches arranged in a U-shape and individual hooks where Atalanta's black and blue shirts already hung in numerical order, and Demien found his number 28 exactly where it should be while the space gradually filled with teammates unpacking their bags and beginning pre-match routines.

The atmosphere stayed controlled as players changed into training gear for warm-ups, and conversations were sparse while everyone moved through their individual preparations, and Demien pulled on his warm-up jacket while his mind focused entirely on the next three hours.

Gasperini entered at 11:30 AM with his tactical board, and the squad gathered around him as he went through final instructions one more time—defensive assignments during Fiorentina's press, attacking patterns when space opened, set-piece responsibilities.

"Starting eleven," Gasperini said while pointing at the board. "Musso in goal. Back four: Hateboer, Demiral, Tolói, Maehle. Double pivot: De Roon and Koopmeiners. Attacking three: Lookman right, Walter central, Malinovskyi left. Højlund up front."

Demien's name came without fanfare or emphasis, just confirmation of what he'd already known since Saturday's briefing, and around him the other starters showed no reaction because selection had been communicated clearly throughout the week.

"Substitutes," Gasperini continued while reading from his clipboard. "Carnesecchi, Okoli, Scalvini, Zappacosta, Pasalic, Muriel, Zapata, Ederson, Boga."

The manager set down the clipboard and looked around the room. "Fiorentina will push hard early. They want to use home advantage and crowd energy to build momentum. We absorb the initial pressure, stay compact, and hurt them when opportunities appear. Questions?"

Silence answered him.

"Good. Warm-ups in fifteen minutes. Be ready."

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