Friday Evening - The First Team Coach Arrives
The black SUV rolled through Zingonia’s gates just after six in the evening. Giancarlo Gasperini, Atalanta’s first-team head coach, sat in the back seat, scrolling through his phone with barely concealed boredom.
Another youth match, another scouting obligation.
He’d been doing this for twenty years—watching U23 friendlies, youth cup matches, reserve games—and most of the time, it was wasted effort. Kids who looked good at eighteen rarely developed into anything useful by twenty-three, and the ones who did were already on his radar long before these dog-and-pony shows. Still, the board expected him to stay involved with the youth setup, maintain a connection, show his face, so here he was.
The car stopped outside the main building. Gasperini climbed out, straightening his club jacket, and his assistant, Marco Belotti, fell into step beside him, clipboard already in hand.
"Three players to watch, Mister," Belotti said, tapping the list. "Alessio Moretti, center back, nineteen years old, strong in the air, good positional sense. Davide Costa, winger, fast, direct, needs to work on his decision-making. And Simone Parisi, striker, clinical finisher, twelve goals in the youth league last season."
Gasperini nodded absently. "Anyone else worth noting?"
"The usual suspects; Carlos is developing well." Belotti flipped a page. "Oh, and Rossi started a trialist this week, a midfielder, apparently he impressed in training."
"A trialist?" Gasperini’s tone was flat and uninterested.
"Yeah, Demien Walter, eighteen, English-Italian. Came through that Milan scouting trial last week, a Fiorentina reject."
"Another academy castoff." Gasperini stopped walking. "Let me guess—Rossi thinks he’s found a diamond in the rough?"
Belotti hesitated. "He did mention keeping an eye on him."
Gasperini resumed walking. "They all say that; every week, someone’s ’special,’ then they play one match against a Serie C side and disappear. Focus on the three I asked for; that’s why I’m here."
They entered the building. Rossi was waiting in his office, standing when Gasperini walked in.
"Mister," Rossi greeted him with a firm handshake. "Good to see you."
"Gianluca." Gasperini dropped into a chair. "Let’s make this quick; I’ve got a tactical session with the first team tomorrow morning."
"Of course." Rossi sat across from him. "I sent the report earlier this week. Moretti, Costa, Parisi. All three are starting tomorrow, you’ll get a good look at them."
"Good." Gasperini glanced at his watch. "Formation?"
"Three-four-three, mostly. Parisi central, Costa on the right, Moretti anchoring the back line."
"Walter, Martinez, and—"
"Walter." Gasperini interrupted. "That’s the trialist?"
Gasperini leaned back. "Why is he starting over one of our academy players?"
Rossi didn’t blink. "Because he’s better."
"Better after four days of training?"
The room went quiet; Belotti shifted uncomfortably in the corner.
Finally, Gasperini sighed. "Fine. If he embarrasses himself, it’s on you."
"We’ll see." Gasperini stood. " I’ll be watching from the directors’ box. Make sure your three targets get forty-five minutes minimum; that’s all I care about."
As Gasperini walked out, Rossi’s voice followed him. "Mister. Keep an eye on number eight. He’s different."
Gasperini didn’t turn around; he waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and kept walking. Different. They were all "different" until they played a real match against real opposition.
Saturday, July 13th, 2022 - Matchday Morning
Demien woke at six-thirty, an hour before his alarm. The room was dark except for a sliver of light creeping through the curtains. Beside him, Luca snored softly, dead to the world.
He dressed quietly and walked to the window. The training complex looked peaceful in the early morning; a few groundskeepers were already working, prepping the pitch for the match later.
His phone buzzed, a message from his mother.
"Good luck today. I know you’ll make me proud. Love you."
He typed back quickly: "Thanks, Mum. I’ll call you tonight."
Another message appeared—this one from Marco.
"First team coach is watching today. Play your game. Don’t try to do too much."
Demien stared at the words, First team coach. He’d known this was a possibility, but seeing it confirmed made his stomach twist.
The system chimed softly in his head.
「MISSION ALERT」 「MISSION: First Impressions」 「Objective: Achieve a match rating of 7.0 or higher against Como」 「Secondary Objective: Register at least 1 key pass」 「Reward: 20 TP, 2 SP」 「Failure: No penalty」
He dismissed the notification; the match was hours away, no point stressing over it now.
Breakfast was quiet; most of the starting eleven ate in silence, focused on the day ahead. Demien forced down scrambled eggs and toast, his appetite nonexistent.
At ten o’clock, Rossi gathered them in the locker room. The jerseys were already laid out—bright blue with Atalanta’s crest on the chest. Demien’s had the number eight on the back.
"This is a friendly," Rossi began, "but I want you to treat it like a final. Como will press. They’ll be physical. They’ll test you. If you drop your level, they’ll punish you."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Mister Gasperini is here today. The first team coach. He’s watching this match."
A ripple went through the room; some players straightened, others exchanged glances.
"That doesn’t change anything," Rossi continued. "You play your game. You do your job. If you’re good enough, he’ll notice. If you’re not, no amount of trying to impress him will help."
His eyes swept across the room.
"Everyone—support each other. Give options. Move for your teammates. If you stand still, you’re useless."
The team filed out onto the pitch an hour later. The stands were mostly empty—maybe two hundred people scattered across the bleachers: parents, scouts, a few die-hard fans who followed the youth teams.
And in the directors’ box, high above the halfway line, sat Giancarlo Gasperini.
He wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky, his arms were crossed, and a notebook sat unopened on the armrest beside him. Belotti stood next to him, binoculars already raised.
"Which one is Moretti?" Gasperini asked.
"Number five. Center of the back four."
"Number seven. Right wing."
"Number nine. Central striker."
Gasperini nodded. His eyes didn’t leave the pitch, but his focus was narrow: Three players. That’s all he cared about. Fınd the newest release on 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✶𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮✶𝓷𝓮𝓽
Down below, the referee blew his whistle. The captains shook hands. Coins were flipped.
Atalanta won the toss; they’d kick off.
Demien stood in the center circle, the ball at his feet. The Como players spread across their half, organized and compact, exactly as Rossi had predicted.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips.
Gasperini leaned forward slightly in his seat, his eyes on number five, number seven, and number nine.
Not once did he glance at number eight.
The whistle blew. The match had begun.