Monday Morning - Demien's Apartment

Sunlight cut through the gap in the curtains and fell across Demien's face, pulling him from sleep that had come deep and dreamless after yesterday's exhaustion. He blinked twice before the memories flooded back—the debut, the goals, the rainbow flick, his mother's face through the fence—and something warm settled in his chest.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Then again.

And again.

He reached for it and the screen lit up with notifications that hadn't stopped since yesterday, the numbers scrolling past faster than he could read them.

Instagram: +12,847 new followers

His follower count had jumped from around 3,000 this morning to 162,013 now, and the number was still climbing in real-time—he refreshed and it jumped to 162,891, then 163,356.

But what caught his attention were the specific follower notifications at the top:

manuwa_fernandez started following you

adriano.ventresca started following you

teun.koopmeiners started following you

marten_de_roon started following you

lookman_11 started following you

rasmus.hojlund started following you

joakim.maehle started following you

Demien stared at Adriano's name for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the notification. His former best friend—the one who'd betrayed him with Elena—was now following him after watching yesterday's match.

He didn't know what to feel about that.

Fernandez following him made sense—professional respect after yesterday's battle. His teammates following him was expected. But Adriano?

He swiped past it without clicking and continued scrolling.

His mentions were absolute chaos:

@atalantaofficial tagged you in a post @espnfc tagged you in a post

@433 tagged you in a post @brfootball tagged you in a post @goal tagged you in a post @OptaPaolo mentioned you in a post @FabrizioRomano mentioned you in a tweet

His DMs were flooded—hundreds of messages from people he'd never met congratulating him, scouts saying they'd been watching, agents asking if he had representation, fans asking for autographs, random accounts sliding in with everything from sponsorship offers to date requests.

Twitter: His mentions were a tsunami

Demien locked his phone and set it face down on the nightstand, Koopmeiners' advice echoing in his head—enjoy the moment, but don't let it consume you—and he stood slowly, his body immediately reminding him that yesterday had been real.

His legs were stiff, his thighs tight with that deep muscle soreness that came from fifty minutes of Serie A intensity, and when he stretched his arms overhead his shoulders protested slightly. Nothing serious, just the aftermath of his debut, the price paid for that rainbow flick and the sprints and the challenges won.

He grabbed his towel and headed for the shower.

The hot water helped loosen his muscles, steam filling the small bathroom as he stood under the spray longer than necessary, processing everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. When he finally turned it off and stepped out, he could hear movement in the apartment—Luca was already awake.

Demien dressed in comfortable clothes—joggers and a hoodie—and walked into the kitchen where Luca was making breakfast, the smell of eggs and toast filling the space.

"Morning, superstar," Luca said without turning around, his tone teasing but warm.

"Shut up," Demien replied, but he was smiling as he grabbed a glass and filled it with water.

"One-sixty-two thousand followers," Luca continued, flipping eggs in the pan. "I checked your Instagram when I woke up. That's mental."

"It doesn't feel real."

"It's real." Luca plated the eggs and brought two plates to the small table. "Sit. Eat. You need fuel after yesterday."

They sat across from each other and ate in comfortable silence for a moment before Luca spoke again, his voice quieter now.

"That second goal though. The rainbow flick." He shook his head. "Where did that even come from?"

Demien thought about the system, about the enhanced agility and reactions, about Pirlo's vision that had let him see the opportunity, but he just shrugged. "Instinct. Nuytinck was sliding in and I just... reacted."

"Instinct," Luca repeated, laughing slightly. "Most people's instinct is to get tackled. Yours is to rainbow flick it and volley before it lands."

"Lucky, I guess."

"That wasn't luck. That was class." Luca took a bite of toast. "The whole team is talking about it. My phone was blowing up last night with messages from the guys asking if you're actually human."

Demien smiled and changed the subject. "You have a match today, right?"

"Yeah, five o'clock. Home against Lecce U23." Luca's expression shifted to focus. "Should be a good game. They're decent."

"You'll do well. Just play your game."

"Thanks." Luca paused, then added, "You should come watch sometime. When you have time. The guys would love to see you."

"I will," Demien promised. "Soon as things settle a bit. Tell them I said hi."

They finished breakfast and cleared the plates together, the routine familiar and grounding, and when Demien checked the time it was already past nine.

"I need to head to training," he said, grabbing his bag from his room.

"Recovery session?"

"Yeah. Light work, ice baths, probably some tactical stuff."

"Have fun with that," Luca grinned. "Meanwhile I'll be getting ready to actually play football."

"Good luck today. Seriously. Score one for me."

"I'll try." Luca pulled him into a quick hug. "Go show them you're not just a one-game wonder."

Demien laughed and headed for the door, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and as he stepped outside into the Monday morning sun, Milan felt different somehow—brighter, more alive, like the city itself was acknowledging what had happened yesterday.

Or maybe that was just him.

Atalanta Training Ground - 10:15 AM

The training facility was quieter than usual when Demien arrived, the parking lot only half-full because recovery sessions after match days didn't require the full squad, and he walked through the entrance nodding at the staff who greeted him with knowing smiles and congratulations.

The recovery room was down a corridor past the main locker room, and he could hear voices and laughter before he even opened the door.

Inside, about a dozen players were scattered around the space—some already in ice baths, others on massage tables, a few doing light stretching on yoga mats. The room smelled like menthol gel and coffee, and when Demien walked in, every head turned.

"THERE HE IS!" Højlund's voice boomed across the room. "The rainbow flick king himself!"

Laughter erupted immediately, and Demien felt his face heat as he dropped his bag near an empty spot.

"Morning," he said, trying to sound casual.

"Morning?" Lookman was grinning from an ice bath in the corner. "Mate, you broke the internet yesterday and you just say 'morning'?"

"Leave him alone," Koopmeiners said from a massage table, but he was smiling too. "He's still processing fame."

Demien started stretching, trying to ignore the attention, but Mæhle wasn't having it.

"So," the Danish wing-back said, leaning forward with exaggerated interest. "About that interview. The special girl you dedicated your goals to."

The room went quiet in that way that meant everyone was listening.

"Yeah?" Demien said carefully.

"Who is she?" Mæhle pressed. "You can't drop a line like that on live television and not give us details."

"Is she hot?" Hateboer added, which earned him a thrown towel from Koopmeiners.

"Don't answer that," the Dutch midfielder advised. "They're fishing."

"We're not fishing," Højlund protested. "We're being supportive teammates who want to know about our brother's love life."

"Since when do you care about my love life?" Demien shot back, but he was fighting a smile.

"Since you made it international news," Lookman said. "That clip has millions of views. People are making edits."

"Edits?" Demien's eyes widened.

"Oh yeah." Mæhle pulled out his phone. "There's like five different TikToks with your celebration and then cuts to romantic movie scenes. It's actually pretty good."

"Show me," Demien said before he could stop himself, and the room erupted in laughter again.

"He wants to see!" Hateboer was delighted. "He's checking his own romantic edits!"

"I'm not—that's not—" Demien gave up and just shook his head, laughing despite himself.

De Roon walked in then, towel around his neck, and immediately assessed the situation. "Giving him grief about the interview?"

"Absolutely," Mæhle confirmed.

"Good. He deserves it." The captain grinned at Demien. "But seriously, kid. You handled that well. The media is going to love you."

"Or destroy me," Demien muttered.

"Or both," de Roon agreed. "Usually both. But you'll be fine. Just remember—you control what you say, not what they write about what you say."

The conversation shifted after that, players talking about yesterday's match, about Lookman's goal, about Sampdoria's tactics, and Demien gratefully faded into the background as he continued stretching, working through the tightness in his legs.

After twenty minutes, one of the physios called him over to an ice bath, and he stripped down to his compression shorts before stepping into the freezing water with a sharp intake of breath.

"Jesus," he hissed as the cold bit into his skin.

"Three minutes," the physio said, setting a timer. "It'll help with the muscle recovery."

Demien gritted his teeth and sank deeper, the cold numbing everything below his waist, and across the room Højlund was laughing at his expression.

"First time?" the Danish striker called over.

"Yeah."

"Gets easier. Sort of."

It didn't feel like it got easier, and by the time the timer went off Demien's legs were completely numb and his teeth were chattering, but when he climbed out and dried off, the tightness in his muscles had eased noticeably.

He was pulling on his training gear when the door opened and Gasperini walked in with two of his assistant coaches, and the room immediately fell quiet as players straightened and paid attention.

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