Tuesday, December 20, 2022

The Torch Doha Hotel

5:47 AM

Morning came early with alarms cutting through the darkness, and Demien woke to find his bag already packed from the night before sitting near the door.

Sophia stirred beside him and reached for her phone on the nightstand, and the screen showed their departure time in bold text—flight at 9:15 AM, which meant leaving the hotel by seven.

"We should get ready," she said quietly, and her voice carried the grogginess of interrupted sleep.

They moved through the routine efficiently because there was nothing left to do in Qatar and no reason to delay, and within thirty minutes they were dressed and carrying their bags toward the elevator.

6:34 AM

Hotel Restaurant

Luca was already at a table when they arrived, and he looked more awake than he had any right to be while eating eggs and toast with enthusiasm.

"Finally," he said when he saw them approaching, "I thought you two were going to make us late."

"We're forty minutes early," Sophia replied, and she sat across from him while Demien took the seat beside her.

"Early is on time," Luca said with mock seriousness, "on time is late."

Elena arrived moments later looking considerably less awake than Luca, and she dropped into her chair with a sigh before reaching for the coffee pot.

"I can't wait to sleep in my own bed," Luca said between bites, "hotel beds are never right—too soft or too hard, never just right."

"You're like Goldilocks," Elena muttered.

"Exactly," Luca agreed without irony.

Sophia smiled while Demien ate quietly, and the conversation drifted toward logistics—checkout times, airport procedures, whether they needed to exchange remaining currency.

7:47 AM

Hamad International Airport

The airport was busy with departing travelers, and they moved through check-in quickly because most people were still arriving rather than leaving.

Security took longer because the lines were thorough, and Demien shifted his weight carefully while waiting because standing in one position made his right leg stiffen.

A couple near the front of the line glanced at him twice with uncertain expressions, and he could see them trying to decide if he was someone they recognized or just someone who looked familiar.

One man in his thirties wearing a France jersey finally made the connection, and he nodded respectfully from several feet away without approaching or asking for photos.

Demien nodded back, and the gesture was acknowledged before both returned to waiting in their respective lines.

"That was nice," Sophia said quietly, "no fuss."

"Better than a crowd," Demien agreed.

They reached their gate with time to spare and found seats near the windows where planes lined up on the tarmac, and within twenty minutes boarding began.

9:15 AM

Departure

Demien took the window seat and watched Qatar shrink beneath them as the plane climbed, and the city's geometric buildings and construction sites faded into desert and then clouds.

Sophia sat beside him reading something on her tablet while Luca and Elena were several rows ahead, and the flight attendants began their service routine while the cabin settled into the rhythm of long-haul travel.

He closed his eyes and let the engine noise fade into background hum, and his mind was already shifting toward what came next—Bergamo, rehabilitation, the slow process of returning to training.

Monday, February 6, 2023

Centro Bortolotti Training Complex

8:47 AM

Winter still sat heavy over Bergamo when Demien arrived at the training complex, and frost covered the grass on the outer pitches while his breath formed clouds in the morning air.

He parked in his usual spot and grabbed his kit bag from the passenger seat, and the familiar weight of boots and training gear felt different now than it had two months ago because this morning he wasn't heading to the medical wing—he was reporting to the main dressing room.

The physio staff had cleared him three days earlier for modified group training, and the notification had come through text message with instructions to arrive at normal squad time rather than the early rehabilitation sessions he'd been attending since mid-January.

Inside the building the warmth was immediate, and he moved through corridors he knew by memory while equipment staff nodded greetings and analysts hurried past carrying tablets.

The dressing room was already half-full when he entered, and the noise was familiar—music playing from someone's speaker, conversations overlapping in Italian and English, the sound of studs clicking on tile.

Lookman saw him first and his face split into a grin.

"Demien!" he called out, and several heads turned, "you're back with us?"

"Modified sessions," Demien replied, and he moved to his locker where his name was still displayed above the space, "but yeah—back with the group."

Højlund came over and clapped him on the shoulder, and his smile was genuine.

"Good to see you out of that medical room," he said, "how's the leg?"

"Getting there," Demien said while opening his locker, "not ready for contact yet but I can train."

"That's progress," Højlund replied, and then his expression shifted to something more mischievous, "also—we saw the photos from Qatar."

Demien paused while pulling his training top from his bag.

"What photos?" he asked carefully.

"The ones with your girlfriend at the World Cup final," Lookman said from across the room, and his tone carried amusement, "enjoying the high life while we were grinding through winter training."

"It wasn't like that," Demien protested.

"Sure," Højlund said with exaggerated skepticism, "injured player goes to watch the World Cup final in luxury with his model girlfriend—nothing suspicious about that at all."

"Recovery is important," Lookman added in a mock-serious tone, "very important to rest properly."

"In Qatar," Højlund finished, "at the World Cup."

Several other players were laughing now, and Demien shook his head while pulling on his training gear.

"You're both idiots," he said without heat.

"Idiots who've been training in freezing temperatures," Lookman countered, "while you were watching Messi and Mbappé from premium seats."

"The seats weren't premium," Demien said.

"But you were there," Højlund pointed out, "which is more than we can say."

De Roon emerged from the shower area and caught the tail end of the conversation, and he smiled while moving to his own locker.

"Leave him alone," he said to the others, "he was injured—he's allowed to watch football."

"Thank you," Demien said.

"Though the photos did make it look quite comfortable," De Roon added with a straight face, "very comfortable indeed."

The room erupted in laughter and Demien gave up defending himself while finishing getting changed, and the banter continued around him with the easy rhythm of teammates who'd spent months together.

Gasperini appeared in the doorway ten minutes later, and the room quieted immediately.

"Morning," he said, and his eyes scanned the assembled players before landing on Demien, "Walter—welcome back to group training. You'll work with the physios on modified drills, no contact, and you'll step out when intensity increases. Understood?"

"Yes, mister," Demien replied.

"Good," Gasperini said, and he clapped his hands once, "everyone else—normal session. Let's move."

9:23 AM

Training Pitch One

The morning air was cold and sharp when they emerged onto the main pitch, and Demien's breath came in visible clouds while he jogged slowly to warm up.

The group spread out for dynamic stretching, and he moved through the routine while his right leg responded without complaint, and the familiarity of being surrounded by teammates rather than alone with a physio felt significant.

The session began with passing drills—simple patterns designed to emphasize technique and movement rather than intensity—and Demien slotted into a group with Koopmeiners and Pasalic while the physio watched from the sideline.

"Nice to have you back," Koopmeiners said while they waited for their turn, "even if it's just passing drills."

"Better than nothing," Demien replied.

The ball came to him and he controlled it with his first touch before playing it square to Pasalic, and the execution was clean because this type of work had been part of his rehabilitation for weeks.

They rotated through various patterns for twenty minutes—short passes, longer switches, one-touch combinations—and Demien's positioning felt natural even though his movement speed was deliberately controlled.

When the intensity increased to include pressing and defensive pressure, the lead physio gestured for Demien to step aside, and he moved to a separate area where he continued with individual ball work while the main session progressed.

From his position he could watch the team work through tactical drills, and Gasperini's voice carried across the pitch while he adjusted positioning and corrected decisions.

10:47 AM

Cool Down

The session ended with light jogging and stretching, and Demien rejoined the group for the final portion while his heart rate settled.

Lookman jogged beside him and his breathing was heavier from the full session.

"How did it feel?" he asked.

"Good," Demien said honestly, "different from rehab work but good."

"You'll be back properly soon," Lookman said, "another few weeks maybe."

"That's the plan," Demien agreed.

They finished cooling down and moved back toward the dressing room, and several players peeled off toward the medical wing for treatment while others headed straight to shower.

Demien stopped near the physio office where the lead therapist was waiting with a tablet.

"Good session," the physio said while reviewing data, "heart rate stayed controlled, no compensation patterns in your movement, hamstring responded well to the load."

"So I can keep training with the group?" Demien asked.

"Modified sessions, yes," the physio confirmed, "we'll reassess weekly and increase load gradually, but this is good progress."

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