Demien locked his phone and set it face-down on the bench beside him, and he pulled off his socks and shirt before standing to grab a towel from the stack near the showers, and his body felt the accumulated strain of forty-eight minutes spread across regulation and extra time—not injury exactly, but the specific soreness that comes from muscles working at capacity for extended periods.

Gasperini appeared in the doorway and the room's volume dropped immediately to near silence, and players who were standing moved slightly closer while those sitting straightened their posture because even after victories the coach's presence commanded attention.

He didn't smile or acknowledge the result with celebration, and instead he stood at the center of the room with his hands in his pockets while his eyes scanned the faces around him.

"Discipline," he said, and the single word carried weight. "When we were three-one down, discipline kept us organized. When we equalized, discipline prevented us from opening up too much. When extra time came, discipline maintained our shape even when legs were tired. That's what won tonight—not individual moments, though they mattered—discipline as a collective."

He paused and his gaze moved across different players. "Game management," he continued. "Understanding when to press and when to hold. When to risk and when to protect. Some of you made good decisions under pressure tonight. Some made excellent decisions. That's the difference between playing football and controlling football."

Nobody spoke or moved, and Gasperini's expression stayed neutral while he delivered the final thought. "Semifinals are ahead. Enjoy tonight, but tomorrow we reset. This doesn't guarantee anything beyond entry to the next round. The work continues."

As he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway and looked back once. "Nights like this are built, not given," he added. "Remember that."

Then he was gone and the room stayed quiet for five seconds before conversation gradually resumed at a lower volume than before, and players returned to their routines while the coach's words settled into the space he'd occupied.

Demien stood and moved toward the showers while his phone stayed face-down on the bench, and around him the dressing room continued functioning through its post-match rhythms—ice being distributed, jerseys collected, quiet conversations about moments from the match—and the atmosphere carried satisfaction that didn't need music or loud celebration to feel genuine.

Outside the Stadium

11:34 PM

The bus sat idling near the stadium's secure exit while players filed out through the tunnel in scattered groups, and Rome's night air was cold enough that breath appeared in small clouds while voices carried across the loading area in fragments of Italian and English.

Demien emerged with Koopmeiners and Lookman, and his phone was in his pocket buzzing periodically with new messages he'd check later, and the three of them moved toward the bus without urgency because the schedule allowed time before departure.

The city stretched out around them with lights marking streets and buildings, and somewhere beyond the stadium's walls normal Roman life continued completely unaware that a cup quarterfinal had just finished, and the contrast felt significant even though it was the same every week in every city—football mattered intensely to those inside stadiums and barely registered to those outside them.

Staff members directed them onto the bus where other players were already settling into seats, and Demien found a window spot three rows back and dropped his bag into the overhead compartment before sitting down, and exhaustion pulled at him properly now that adrenaline had finished draining away.

His phone buzzed again and he pulled it out to see Sophia's name on the screen.

Sophia: You looked like yourself out there. Not tentative. Not careful. Just you.

He typed back quickly because the observation felt more meaningful than the congratulations that had filled other messages.

Demien: Legs are dead but yeah. Felt right. Watching it from the bench made me realize how much I missed it.

Sophia: The goal was beautiful. The assist was smarter. The penalty was earned.

Demien: Moretti's goal will be the story. Debut in extra time at the Olimpico. That's his moment.

Sophia: You gave him the platform. Don't minimize your part.

He didn't respond immediately because arguing about credit felt unnecessary, and instead he locked his phone and leaned his head against the window while other players continued boarding and finding seats around him.

The conversation around him had changed from match analysis to plans for the rest of the week because tomorrow was Thursday and training would be light recovery work, and Friday would bring tactical preparation for Sunday's league match, and the routine reasserted itself immediately even after cup drama because professional football operated on schedules that didn't pause for reflection.

Gasperini was the last person to board and he moved to his seat near the front without addressing the team, and once he was seated the driver closed the doors and the bus pulled away from the stadium slowly while security escorted them toward the main road.

Demien watched Rome pass by through the window—streets that looked like every other European city at night, anonymous buildings and intersections and traffic lights that could have been anywhere—and his mind wasn't replaying goals or celebrating the result anymore.

Instead he was already thinking about Sunday's league match and about training tomorrow and about the slow process of rebuilding match fitness that would continue over weeks rather than being completed in one ninety-minute performance.

The conversation around him had changed, and he knew it without checking social media or reading headlines because the way teammates had acknowledged him in the dressing room carried a different weight than when he'd returned for those fifteen U21 minutes.

This was different because results mattered and consequences existed and finishing extra time away from home in a knockout competition meant something more than surviving a development match.

Next week would be different too, and the thought settled quietly while the bus moved through Rome's late-night traffic toward the hotel where they'd sleep before flying back to Bergamo in the morning.

The chapter ended there with Demien's forehead pressed lightly against the window and his eyes watching Rome disappear behind them, and his phone buzzed once more in his pocket but he didn't reach for it because whatever message had arrived could wait until tomorrow, and right now the only thing that mattered was rest.

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