"Good morning," the manager said, his voice carrying easily across the space. "I won't keep you long since this is recovery time, but I wanted to speak with everyone who played yesterday."

He looked around at the assembled players, his expression serious but not harsh.

"First, well done. That was a good performance, a good result, and a positive start to the season. You executed the game plan well, you fought when it got difficult, and you finished strong. Be proud of that."

Several players nodded, and Demien felt a small surge of satisfaction because hearing it from Gasperini meant something different than hearing it from teammates or media.

"But," the manager continued, and the tone shifted. "We have some news that is not good. Éderson's injury from yesterday is serious. Very serious. The medical staff have assessed him and the diagnosis is a fractured fibula and damaged ankle ligaments."

The room went completely still.

"He will require surgery and extensive rehabilitation. Best case scenario, he returns to training in six to seven months. Realistically, his season is over."

Someone swore quietly. Others shook their heads. Demien felt his stomach drop because he'd seen the tackle, heard the sound, watched Éderson's face as they carried him off, but hearing it confirmed made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

"I know this is difficult news," Gasperini said. "Éderson is an important player for us, but more than that, he is your teammate and your friend. I encourage all of you to reach out to him, send messages of support. He will need it in the coming months."

De Roon spoke up from across the room. "We'll organize something as a squad, boss. Make sure he knows we're all behind him."

"Good. Thank you, Marten." Gasperini nodded. "Now, we must move forward because the season does not stop. Our next match is away to AC Milan on Saturday evening—a difficult fixture against a very good team."

He gestured to one of his assistants who had a tablet, and a tactical diagram appeared on the large screen mounted on the wall.

"Milan will press high and use their wingers aggressively. Leão on the left is very dangerous, Pulisic on the right is clever and creative. Their midfield is physical with Loftus-Cheek and Reijnders, and Giroud up front is experienced and smart."

The diagram shifted to show Atalanta's potential formation.

"We will be testing a new shape in training this week. Four-two-three-one instead of our usual three-four-two-one. The back four will give us more stability against their wingers, and the double pivot in midfield will help control the center of the pitch."

Demien studied the screen, processing the tactical change, and noticed his position would likely be one of the two holding midfielders alongside de Roon or in the attacking midfield slot behind the striker.

"Tomorrow we begin tactical preparations," Gasperini continued. "Today is for recovery. Rest your bodies, clear your minds, and be ready to work tomorrow. Milan is a big test, and I expect everyone to be focused."

He looked around one more time. "Questions?"

No one spoke.

"Good. Dismissed. And remember to message Éderson."

The players began to disperse, some heading for the showers, others grabbing their bags, the atmosphere heavier than it had been before the manager arrived. Demien pulled his phone from his bag and opened his messages, typing quickly:

Demien: Heard the news. Gutted for you, brother. You'll come back stronger. We'll hold it down while you're gone. Let me know if you need anything.

He hit send and pocketed his phone, then grabbed his bag and headed toward the exit where several players were gathering to leave.

"Anyone heading toward the city center?" he asked.

"I can drop you," Scalvini said, keys already in hand. "I'm going that way."

"Thanks."

They walked to the parking lot together, making small talk about yesterday's match and tomorrow's training, and twenty minutes later Scalvini dropped him outside his apartment building with a wave.

"See you tomorrow. Get some rest."

"You too. Thanks for the ride."

Demien walked into the building and climbed the stairs to his floor, his legs protesting slightly despite the ice bath, and when he opened the apartment door he found it empty—Luca had already left for his match.

A note sat on the kitchen counter:

Gone to stadium. Wish me luck. Don't become too famous while I'm gone. - L

Demien smiled and pocketed the note, then walked to his room and collapsed onto his bed with a long exhale. His body was tired, his mind was buzzing with tactical information about Milan, and his phone was still vibrating periodically with notifications he was ignoring.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before pulling out his phone and scrolling to Sophia's contact. He switched to video call and waited as it rang once, twice—

Her face appeared on screen, and she was smiling, sunlight streaming through what looked like a window behind her.

"There he is," she said warmly. "The man of the moment."

"Hey," Demien said, and hearing her voice made something in his chest relax. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Busy day at work but nothing crazy. How are you? How's your body feeling after yesterday?"

"Sore," he admitted. "Did an ice bath this morning which was horrible but helped. Mostly just tired."

"You earned it." Her smile widened. "That was incredible, Demien. Both goals, but especially the second one. I had to rewind it three times just to understand what you did."

"Yeah, that one surprised me too," he laughed. "Just sort of happened."

"'Just sort of happened,'" she repeated, shaking her head. "Most people can't do that on purpose and you just sort of did it by accident."

"Not by accident. More like... instinct?"

"Instinct," she echoed, and her expression softened. "Well, your instinct is pretty special."

They talked for a few minutes about the match, about the celebration with his mother, about the interview that had apparently become a meme, and Sophia laughed when he told her about the teammates teasing him at training.

"They asked who she was?" Sophia's eyes sparkled with amusement.

"They tried. I didn't tell them."

"Good. Keep them guessing." She paused, then added more seriously, "It was sweet though. What you said. About the special girl."

"I meant it."

Her smile turned shy for just a moment before she shifted topics. "Oh! I forgot to tell you. The Nike deal—I signed it yesterday."

"That's amazing! Congratulations!"

"Thank you. They're launching the campaign in a few weeks, probably late August or early September. It's going to be a whole thing—photoshoots, appearances, social media. I'm excited but also terrified."

"You'll kill it," Demien said with certainty. "They're lucky to have you."

"We'll see." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "But speaking of appearances, I have some news. I'm coming to Milan."

"Really?"

"Yeah, there's a fashion show this week that Nike wants me at. Thursday in Milan, actually." She paused, her smile growing. "And I checked your schedule. You have an away match at AC Milan on Saturday. I thought maybe I could stay for it and come watch."

Demien's heart did something complicated in his chest. "You want to come to the match?"

"If that's okay? I know it's a big game and you'll be focused, but I'd love to see you play in person. Plus, you know, support my..." She trailed off, searching for the word.

"Your?" Demien prompted, fighting a smile.

"My special footballer," she finished, laughing at herself. "That sounds ridiculous."

"No, it sounds perfect." He grinned. "And yes, please come. I'd love for you to be there."

"Good. Then it's settled." Her expression turned teasing. "Just don't score another ridiculous goal and dedicate it to me on live television. I can't handle that level of attention."

"No promises."

She laughed, and they talked for a few more minutes about nothing important—her day at work, his training schedule, a funny video Luca had sent him—before she had to go for a meeting.

"I'll text you later," she said. "Get some rest, okay? You look exhausted."

"I am exhausted."

"Then sleep. And Demien?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really proud of you."

The call ended and Demien set his phone on the nightstand, then lay back on his bed with his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling as a smile spread across his face.

Sophia was coming to Milan.

She'd watch him play against AC Milan.

His debut had been incredible, but somehow the idea of her being there for the next match felt even more important, like having someone in the stands who understood both versions of him—the footballer and the person underneath.

His phone buzzed one more time and he glanced at it—another notification, another hundred followers, another tweet about the rainbow flick—but he ignored it and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow would bring tactical training for Milan, pressure to back up his debut performance, expectations from everyone who'd watched those highlights.

But right now, lying in his bed with his body sore and his mind at peace, Demien Walter allowed himself to simply exist in this moment.

His mother had been there to see him score.

His best friend was playing his own match today.

Sophia was coming to Milan.

And his professional career had only just begun.

He smiled one more time before exhaustion pulled him toward sleep, and his last thought before drifting off was that sometimes, against all odds and despite everything that had gone wrong in two different lifetimes, things actually worked out.

Sometimes they worked out perfectly.

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