Chapter 71: Chapter 70: Opening Day
"Match tomorrow. Three o’clock at the Gewiss Stadium. Thought I’d invite you but figured I should check if you’re free."
There was a pause on the other end before Sophia sighed softly.
"I wish I could. I’m in Milan right now—meetings all weekend."
"Milan? What for?"
"Nike. We’re finalizing a partnership deal for a sportswear line. It’s been in the works for months and we’re at the critical stage—contracts, design approvals, marketing strategy. Back-to-back meetings tomorrow and Sunday."
"That’s huge. Congratulations."
"Thanks. I’m really sorry I can’t be there though."
"Don’t worry about it. It’s just opening day, and I probably won’t even play."
"Still. Send me a message after, okay? I want to know how it went."
"I will."
"Good luck, Demien."
"Thanks, Soph."
The call ended and Demien set his phone down, then returned to finishing his pasta. Luca was already heading toward his room, phone in hand.
"I’m going to bed," Luca called out. "Big day tomorrow."
"Yeah. Night."
Demien sat in the kitchen for another few minutes before cleaning up and heading to bed himself.
Sleep came slowly, his thoughts racing through formations, pressing triggers, and the knowledge that even if Sophia couldn’t be there, people who mattered would be in the stands watching.
********
Sunday, August 8th, 2022 - Match Day
The sun was out in full force when Demien arrived at the Gewiss Stadium, the August heat already building despite it being late morning, and the car park was filling rapidly with staff vehicles and the occasional fan arriving early for Atalanta’s opening home match. The Sampdoria team bus sat near the away entrance, their players having arrived an hour earlier.
He walked through the players’ entrance and felt the energy immediately—match day at home carried a different atmosphere than training or even pre-season friendlies. The staff moved with purpose, the corridors echoed with preparation, and the weight of points actually mattering hung in the air like electricity before a storm.
The home dressing room was already buzzing when he pushed through the door. Players were arriving in waves, some already changed into their pre-match warm-up gear while others were just setting down their bags at their assigned lockers.
Demien walked to his locker and stopped, taking in the sight properly.
Number 28 hung on the peg, the black and blue stripes of Atalanta’s home kit looking sharp under the overhead lights, his name printed across the back in capital letters above the number. This wasn’t a friendly kit or a training shirt—this was his official Serie A jersey for competitive football that counted toward standings and European qualification.
He reached out and touched the fabric, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders while his heart rate picked up slightly. This was real. This was actually happening.
"First league kit?" Malinovskiy asked from the adjacent locker while pulling on his own shirt.
"Yeah," Demien admitted without trying to hide it.
"Special feeling, that one," the Ukrainian said with a knowing smile. "Doesn’t matter how many you have after, the first one stays with you."
Demien changed methodically, pulling on the compression shorts and shirt underneath, then the socks that came up to his knees, and finally the jersey itself that settled over his shoulders with that perfect fit that professional kits had. He laced his boots carefully, double-checking each knot, and joined his teammates in the center of the room where Gasperini was preparing to speak.
The coach waited until everyone was present and quiet, his arms crossed while his eyes scanned the group with that intensity that demanded focus.
"Gentlemen," Gasperini began, his voice calm but carrying weight. "Today we start our journey. Everything we worked for, everything we prepared—it begins now, at home, in front of our people."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"This stadium, these supporters—they expect something from us. Not perfection, but commitment. Not miracles, but effort. You wear the Nerazzurri today. That means something in this city. It means you fight for every ball, you run for every meter, you leave everything on that pitch."
His eyes moved across each player.
"Sampdoria are organized, disciplined. They won’t make it easy. Good. We don’t want easy. We want to prove ourselves. We want to show Serie A what this team is about. Starting eleven—set the standard. Substitutes—be ready when called. Everyone contributes today."
He stepped back slightly, his voice rising just enough to carry more authority.
"This is your house. Defend it. This is our season. Start it right. Now get out there and show them who we are. Forza Atalanta!"
"Forza Atalanta!" the squad roared back.
Gasperini gestured toward the door and they filed out into the tunnel, the starting eleven moving toward the pitch for final warm-ups while the substitutes headed to their designated area.
Demien emerged from the tunnel and the Gewiss Stadium opened up around him—not full yet but filling rapidly, maybe twenty thousand supporters already in their seats with more streaming through the gates. The noise was building, a constant hum of anticipation mixed with music playing over the speakers, and the late summer sun painted everything in that golden afternoon light that made football feel timeless.
He jogged onto the pitch with the other substitutes for warm-up drills, feeling the grass beneath his boots that had perfect spring to it, and went through his routine of stretches and touches while his eyes tracked around the stadium taking in details. The Curva Nord where Atalanta’s ultras were setting up their displays, the camera positions mounted around the ground, the Sampdoria players in their white and blue away kits going through their own preparations on the opposite side.
Demien was going through his passing drills with Moretti when a football rolled toward him from Sampdoria’s warm-up area. He trapped it and looked up to see a player jogging over—young, athletic build, Sampdoria’s number 7 on his white shirt.
Manuwa Fernandez.
"My bad," Fernandez said in accented English as he approached, a friendly smile on his face.
Demien passed the ball back. "No problem."
Fernandez trapped it but didn’t immediately turn away. "You’re Walter, right? Saw the Tuchel clip online. That was sick, man. Chelsea’s coach calling you out like that."
"Oh. Yeah, that was..." Demien managed a small smile. "Lucky timing, I guess."
"Nah, don’t do that." Fernandez grinned. "You don’t get mentioned by Tuchel for being lucky. You played well." He extended his hand. "Manuwa. Good luck today."
"Demien." They shook hands firmly. "You too."
"Might see you out there if Gasperini brings you on." Fernandez’s grin widened slightly. "Try not to make me look bad in front of the scouts, yeah?"
Demien couldn’t help but laugh. "I’ll try. No promises though."
"Fair." Fernandez jogged backward a few steps. "Respect, man. See you on the pitch."
He turned and jogged back to his teammates, leaving Demien standing there with a strange mix of nerves and excitement settling in his chest. Even opponents knew about the Tuchel comments. Even players his age with actual hype around them were paying attention.
"Who was that?" Moretti asked when Demien returned to their passing drill.
"Fernandez. Sampdoria’s right winger."
"Friendly guy."
"Yeah," Demien agreed, trying to shake off the encounter and refocus on his warm-up. But something about it stuck with him—the mutual respect between two young players chasing the same dream in the same league.
Twenty minutes later the warm-ups concluded and the substitutes made their way to the bench while the starting eleven returned to the dressing room for final preparation. Demien sat down three spots from the end of the bench, Moretti beside him, and waited while his heart hammered against his ribs.
The teams emerged from the tunnel to roaring applause, Atalanta in their black and blue home stripes, Sampdoria in white. They lined up for handshakes and the obligatory pre-match ceremonies, and Demien watched from the bench as Atalanta’s starting eleven took their positions across the pitch in the 3-4-1-2 formation they’d practiced all week.
*******
In the stands, Isabella Walter sat between Marco and Luca, her eyes scanning the pitch anxiously. The stadium was filling up around them, the noise building, but she couldn’t spot her son anywhere among the players warming up.
"Where’s Demien?" she asked, leaning toward Marco.
Marco pointed toward the bench. "There. Third from the end."
Isabella’s face fell slightly when she saw him sitting in his warm-up jacket among the substitutes. "Oh. He’s not starting?"
"He’s in the squad for opening day," Marco said calmly. "That’s already massive for someone who just signed. These things take time."
"Will he be alright? Just sitting there?" Isabella worried her hands together. "I hope he gets to play. Even just a few minutes."
"He’ll be fine, Isabella. Trust me, Gasperini knows what he’s doing. If the moment comes, Demien will be ready."
Luca leaned forward, his voice confident. "He’ll start. Maybe not today, but soon. I know him—he won’t be on that bench long."
Isabella nodded, trying to settle her nerves, and turned her attention back to the pitch where the referee was checking his watch.
******
The referee raised his whistle to his lips and blew.
At 15:00 exactly, Atalanta kicked off their Serie A campaign at home.
******
The referee’s whistle cut through the afternoon air, sharp and clear, and the Gewiss Stadium erupted in response. Twenty-five thousand voices rose as one, a wall of sound that rolled across the pitch and crashed against the commentary box where two voices fought to be heard above the roar.
"And we’re underway at the Gewiss Stadium!" The lead commentator’s excitement crackled through speakers around the ground, his words tumbling out fast and breathless. "Atalanta in their black and blue stripes, Sampdoria in white, and what a beautiful afternoon we have here in Bergamo for opening day, the sun is out, the pitch looks immaculate, and you can feel the anticipation in this stadium, can’t you?"