Wednesday, February 22, 2023

Stadio Olimpico, Rome

10:47 PM

The whistle's echo faded into the Olimpico's fractured noise, and Demien bent forward with his hands pressing down on his knees while his lungs pulled air in deep cycles that burned slightly at the edges, and around him the stadium carried two opposing truths at once because Atalanta's section was bouncing in waves of blue and black while Roma's curva had gone quiet except for scattered pockets still trying to generate something that resembled support.

His legs felt heavy in the way they do after extra time when every muscle has given everything it had, and sweat dripped from his hair down onto the grass while his chest continued heaving, but beneath the fatigue something else settled—satisfaction that came not from celebration but from having finished what he'd started when Gasperini called his name at seventy-two minutes.

Forty-eight minutes of football spread across regulation and extra time, one goal that changed the match's direction, one assist that gave Moretti his debut moment, one penalty won that decided everything at the end, and now the scoreboard showed the only number that mattered while photographers circled looking for reactions and teammates began moving across the pitch in various directions.

He straightened slowly and his hands dropped to his hips while his breathing started settling into something closer to normal, and across the field Roma's players were scattered in different states of collapse because some sat with their heads in their hands and others lay flat on their backs staring up at nothing and a few stood frozen in place processing what had just happened.

The noise continued building from Atalanta's section where flags waved in coordinated rhythm and songs overlapped into one sustained roar, and the sound wasn't celebratory in the explosive way of a last-minute winner—it carried relief mixed with disbelief because coming back from three-one down away from home in a quarterfinal wasn't something that happened often, and the supporters knew it even if they were too busy celebrating to articulate the thought clearly.

Moretti was still being pulled from one embrace to another fifteen yards away, and his face showed shock that hadn't faded since his header found the net in the ninety-eighth minute, and every teammate who reached him added their own version of congratulations while slapping his back or grabbing his head or shouting things that wouldn't be heard over the stadium noise but would be remembered anyway.

The stadium screens replayed his goal on a loop—the cross arriving low and fast, Moretti's run timed perfectly, the header powered downward past the goalkeeper—and each replay drew fresh roars from Atalanta's section while Roma's supporters looked away or stared at their phones or simply sat in silence trying to process how a comfortable lead had evaporated so completely.

Demien began walking slowly toward the center circle where teammates were gathering, and his legs cooperated enough that the movement felt controlled rather than unsteady, and when Koopmeiners saw him approaching he jogged over with both arms raised and pulled him into a brief hug that was more about shared relief than individual praise.

"Fucking brilliant," Koopmeiners said directly into his ear, and the words came fast and breathless. "That turn for your goal—Cristante had no idea where you went."

Demien nodded once but didn't respond because speaking felt like too much effort right now, and Koopmeiners released him before moving toward other players who were starting to form a loose group near the halfway line.

Højlund appeared next and his face showed exhaustion that matched everyone else's, but his grin was wide and genuine while he grabbed Demien's shoulder. "Missed you, man," he said, and his voice carried warmth that went beyond the match result. "Welcome back properly this time."

"Good to be back," Demien replied simply, and the words felt true in a way they hadn't when he'd returned for those fifteen U21 minutes last weekend because this was senior competitive football where results mattered and mistakes had consequences, and finishing extra time without breaking down meant something more significant than surviving a friendly development match.

Lookman jogged past and slapped his back hard enough to rock him forward slightly. "Beautiful goal!" he shouted while continuing toward the away section without waiting for a response, and behind him other players were moving in the same direction because acknowledging the supporters who'd traveled to Rome was part of the routine whether the legs wanted to keep moving or not.

Gasperini stood at the edge of the technical area with his hands in his coat pockets, and he wasn't rushing onto the pitch the way some coaches did after dramatic victories—instead he waited calmly while players slowly made their way toward him, and his expression showed focus rather than relief because the job was finished but the tournament wasn't, and semifinals were still ahead.

When Demien reached him, Gasperini's right hand came out of his pocket and gripped his shoulder firmly, and the touch lasted two seconds before he spoke. "Good decisions," he said, and nothing else followed because those two words captured everything that needed saying about positioning and movement and choosing when to turn and when to shield and when to force the issue that drew the late foul.

Demien nodded once and Gasperini's hand released his shoulder, and the coach was already looking past him toward other players who were approaching, and the moment ended there without elaboration or extended praise because this was how Gasperini operated—acknowledgment came through brevity rather than speeches, and respect was shown by trusting players to understand what they'd done well without having it explained in detail.

The walk toward the tunnel took longer than usual because teammates kept stopping to embrace or to acknowledge Roma's players who were filing past in the opposite direction, and the atmosphere was subdued rather than hostile because knockout football eliminated teams every week and everyone understood that roles could reverse in the next round.

Roma's captain walked with his head down and his shirt untucked, and when he passed Demien their eyes met briefly and the Roma player nodded once in acknowledgment—not friendliness exactly, but recognition that the match had been decided fairly even if the result hurt.

The player who'd been sent off for the second yellow card wasn't visible in the line, and someone mentioned he'd already gone straight to the dressing room after the red card was shown, and his absence felt appropriate because facing teammates after a sending-off required a different kind of conversation than what happened in mixed zones and tunnel corridors.

Cameras followed the procession with particular attention paid to Demien, and the broadcast crew was repositioning for post-match interviews while commentators in the booth above were already framing their analysis around his return and Moretti's breakthrough and Atalanta's resilience after falling behind.

"Demien Walter," the lead commentator's voice carried through the stadium's PA system during a moment when crowd noise dipped slightly. "Three months out injured, comes on at three-one down, scores one and creates another. That's the story tonight alongside Alessandro Moretti's debut goal."

His colleague added context while footage played on the screens. "Atalanta changed shape once Walter came on—the four-two-three-one gave them more presence between Roma's lines, and you saw how Roma struggled to track his movement. The goal was pure quality, but the assist to Moretti and the penalty won showed game intelligence beyond his years."

The tunnel swallowed them gradually as players disappeared from view in groups, and the last thing Demien saw before the concrete walls blocked the pitch was Moretti being carried on someone's shoulders toward the away section while Atalanta's supporters chanted his name loud enough that the sound followed them underground.

Away Dressing Room

10:52 PM

Inside the away dressing room the atmosphere was controlled but alive, and players moved through their routines with the kind of energy that comes after hard-fought victories rather than comfortable ones—boots being unlaced slowly, ice packs distributed by medical staff, jerseys pulled off and dropped into bins that would be collected later.

No music played yet because the moment felt too raw for celebration soundtrack, and instead conversations happened in pairs and small groups while some players sat with their heads back against the wall catching their breath and others stood near their lockers checking phones that had accumulated messages during the match.

Moretti sat on the bench in the center of the room still wearing his full kit, and his face showed the kind of disbelief that accompanies dreams coming true faster than preparation could catch up, and when Lookman approached with a towel in his hands the winger threw it directly at Moretti's head with perfect accuracy.

"Debut goal!" Lookman shouted, and the room's noise level jumped immediately as several other players joined in. "In Rome! In a quarterfinal! Extra time!"

Someone else grabbed Moretti and pulled him to his feet while others crowded around clapping and shouting encouragement, and for ten seconds the room was pure noise and movement and celebration focused entirely on the young defender who'd been promoted from the youth side just weeks earlier.

"You'll never forget this," Højlund said while shaking Moretti's shoulders. "First goal at the Olimpico. That's your story now. That's what you tell everyone."

Koopmeiners added his own congratulations by grabbing Moretti's head with both hands and speaking directly to his face. "Brilliant run. Perfect timing. Goalkeeper had no chance."

The attention continued for another minute before gradually dispersing as players returned to their own spaces, and Moretti sat back down with his face still showing shock mixed with exhausted joy while his hands worked slowly at untying his boots.

Demien sat three spaces away and watched the scene unfold while his own breathing had finally settled completely, and satisfaction sat quietly in his chest because debuts like Moretti's were rare enough that witnessing them felt significant even for teammates who'd experienced their own breakthrough moments.

He stood and walked over to where Moretti was now staring at his unlaced boots without moving to remove them, and Demien extended his hand which Moretti took after a moment's hesitation.

"First of many," Demien said while they shook, and he kept his voice low enough that it stayed between them rather than broadcasting to the room. "Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow you start working toward the next one."

Moretti nodded but didn't speak, and when Demien released his hand and turned back toward his own space the young defender was smiling in a way that suggested the advice had landed even if words weren't necessary.

A staff member appeared in the doorway and scanned the room before his eyes found Demien. "Walter—they need you for broadcast," he said, and his tone was professional rather than urgent. "Pitch-side interview in five minutes."

Demien nodded and grabbed a towel to wipe his face while several teammates made jokes about keeping the answers short and not giving away tactical secrets, and the mood stayed light as he followed the staff member back through the corridor toward the pitch.

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