Thursday, July 11th, 2022 - Day 6
The training pitch felt different Thursday morning, lighter, the brutal intensity of the previous days had given way to something more calculated—tactical preparation rather than physical warfare.
Coach Rossi gathered the entire squad in the center circle, all thirty players, from established starters to fresh trialists, and his assistant wheeled out the tactical board.
"Saturday we play Como," Rossi began, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent decades in Italian football. "They're organized defensively, compact, they'll sit deep and look to counter, which means we need patience."
He pointed at the board, marked with Como's 4−4−2 shape. "When they press high, we stay calm, center backs split wide, keeper drops deep, and the regista—whoever that is—shows between them to receive, and when they drop off, we push our outside backs high and look to play through the lines."
Riccardo, wearing the captain's armband, raised his hand. "What about transitions, Coach, if we lose it high up?"
"Good question. We counter-press immediately, five seconds, win it back or get into defensive shape, no half measures."
The session that followed was collective tactical work. Rossi split them into two groups—one playing Como's system, the other playing Atalanta's response. Everyone rotated through different roles, learning both how to attack Como's setup and how Como would defend.
Demien found himself in the midfield group, working on positioning between the lines. When the simulated Como press trapped the center backs, he showed for the ball, received, and played a switch to the far wing, the weight was good, but not perfect—the winger had to check his run slightly.
"Again," Rossi called. "Faster decision-making. If you see the press coming, adjust your body shape before you receive."
The second attempt was better, Demien opened his hips as the ball came, already facing the far side, and struck it first-time—sixty yards, perfectly weighted.
"That's it. See the picture before the ball arrives."
They worked set pieces next as a full squad: corners, free kicks, throw-ins deep in the attacking third. Rossi rotated players through different roles—attackers, defenders, delivery specialists.
Demien took a corner from the right, his delivery found the near post, but Marco Valenti, one of the center backs, couldn't get enough on the header.
"Movement!" Rossi barked at the attacking group. "Don't just stand there. Attack the space."
By the time the whistle blew for lunch, Demien's legs felt fresh, but his mind was buzzing; Rossi hadn't singled him out or promised him anything, this was professional football—you earned your spot on the pitch, not in team talks.
*******
In the cafeteria, the atmosphere had shifted again, where earlier in the week there had been cold calculation and quiet hostility, now there was something closer to grudging acceptance, Demien wasn't an outsider anymore, but he wasn't exactly welcomed either.
The established players sat at their usual tables, Demien and Luca found seats with Felix and Gabriel at the trialists' table.
Across the room, Riccardo sat with the other midfielders, eating mechanically, not looking at anyone, and when his eyes accidentally met Demien's, he held the gaze for a second—not hostile, not friendly—then looked away.
"He's taking it hard," Luca observed quietly.
"Wouldn't you," Demien replied. "He just lost his spot to a trialist."
"Fair point."
Later, as Demien returned his tray, Riccardo was at the water station, and they ended up side by side, neither acknowledging the other at first.
Finally, Riccardo spoke without looking at him. "Como's midfield is physical, they'll test you early, they know our system relies on the central pair."
It wasn't advice, it wasn't a warning, just a statement of fact.
"Thanks," Demien said.
Riccardo filled his bottle, still not making eye contact. "Don't expect them to go easy because you're new."
"I won't."
Riccardo walked away without another word: no "good luck," no handshake, no resolution, just cold professionalism.
Luca appeared beside Demien. "That was... awkward."
"That's football," Demien said. "He wants his spot back. Can't blame him."
"Think he'll get it?"
"If I play badly, absolutely." Demien watched Riccardo return to his table. "That's why he's not wishing me luck."
After lunch, as Demien walked back toward the residence, Rossi's voice stopped him.
"Walter. A moment."
Demien turned. The coach stood near the equipment shed, arms crossed.
"Yes, Coach?"
Rossi didn't waste words. "You've impressed this week. Keep doing what you're doing. That's all."
He walked away before Demien could respond. It wasn't a promise, it wasn't favoritism, it was acknowledgment—and in professional football, that was enough.
*********
Friday, July 12th, 2022 - Day 7
Friday's session was short, forty-five minutes of light passing drills and sharp movement patterns, Rossi wanted them fresh, not fatigued.
"No injuries," he reminded the full squad. "No hero tackles in training the day before a match." The real message was clear: don't do anything stupid.
When the whistle blew, players started drifting toward the showers, but Rossi's assistant called out before anyone left.
"Team sheet's posted in the corridor. Check before lunch."
The atmosphere shifted immediately, some players jogged toward the building while others walked slowly, delaying the inevitable.
Demien found himself in the middle of a small crowd gathering near the notice board. The corridor felt tight, shoulders bumping as players pushed forward to see the list.
The starting XI was typed cleanly on white paper, pinned to the corkboard:
ATALANTA U23 vs COMO U23 Starting XI (3-4-3 Formation):
GK: Bellini (1)
CB: Moretti © (3)
CB: Valenti (4)
CB: Rinaldi (5)
RWB: Esposito (2)
CM: Walter (7)
CM: Martinez (8)
LWB: Carlos (10)
RW: Costa (9)
ST: Parisi (11)
LW: Di Luca (6)
Substitutes: Bianchi, Riccardo, Gabriel, Felix, Romano, El-Sayed (GK), Conte, Mancini, Greco, Torres, Lombardi, Rosetti
Demien's name. Central midfield.
His eyes scanned down to the substitutes list. Riccardo's name was there, listed as a regular player known as the Captain but relegated to the bench. Luca's name (Bianchi) was also on the bench.
Before Demien could process it, Luca appeared at his shoulder. His grin was forced, not quite reaching his eyes.
"You made it," Luca said.
"Luca, I—"
"Don't." Luca cut him off. "You earned it, man. I'll get my chance off the bench."
The words were right, but his voice carried an edge: disappointment barely hidden beneath professionalism.
Around them, reactions varied, some players nodded and walked away satisfied, others lingered, double-checking, hoping they'd misread. Felix stood near the back of the group, his expression neutral when he realized his name wasn't there.
Riccardo emerged from the crowd, face unreadable, he glanced at Demien for half a second—no acknowledgment, no reaction—then kept walking toward the showers, the bench captain.
Felix clapped Demien on the shoulder as he passed. "Make it count."
"Thanks."
The crowd dispersed quickly. Professional football, every opportunity someone got meant someone else didn't.