CHAPTER 163: CHAPTER 158: THE NEXT STEP?

Demien,

Your travel to England for the U21 international duty has been arranged. Details below:

Departure: Monday, September 19th — 6:45 AM

Pickup: Hotel lobby — 5:30 AM

Flight: Naples to London Gatwick — 9:15 AM departure

Arrival: 11:45 AM local time

The club will provide transport from hotel to airport. Check-in assistance will be provided by our staff member accompanying you. Your kit bag and formal wear for the England camp have been packed and will be loaded onto the transport vehicle.

Please be ready in the hotel lobby by 5:30 AM.

Safe travels,

Roberto Mancini

Travel Coordinator

Atalanta BC

Demien read it twice while processing the timeline—less than seven hours until pickup, which meant maybe five hours of actual sleep after accounting for the bus ride back and settling into the hotel.

His body already ached from the match and the thought of traveling that early made the fatigue feel heavier, though international duty was an honor he couldn’t refuse even if the timing was brutal.

He pocketed his phone and grabbed his towel before walking toward the showers where steam was already filling the air.

Team Bus

11:35 PM

The bus pulled away from the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona thirty minutes later with players spread across the seats in various states of exhaustion, and the atmosphere was subdued as Naples’ city lights passed by the windows.

Demien sat alone near the middle of the bus with his head resting against the window, and the cool glass felt good against his forehead while his mind replayed sequences from the match involuntarily.

The first half struggles—Anguissa’s physical dominance, the misplaced touches, the growing frustration as nothing worked—then the halftime instruction that had seemed impossible to execute until Zielinski’s comment made everything click.

The second half breakthrough—checking away before receiving, creating separation, finally finding space to operate—and the two goals that had come from his movement and passing even though the comeback ultimately fell short.

Three-nil to three-two, he thought while watching street lights streak past. Almost.

Pride mixed with frustration in his chest because the second half had proven he could compete at this level when he understood what was required, though the first half had cost them any realistic chance of salvaging a result.

Around him teammates sat quietly—some scrolling phones, others sleeping already, a few talking in low voices about the match—and the bus engine’s steady hum filled the silence between conversations.

Lookman sat across the aisle with headphones in and his eyes closed, while Zapata two rows ahead was texting someone with a slight smile that suggested the conversation was more pleasant than the match result.

The bus merged onto the highway heading back toward their hotel, and Naples gradually gave way to darker stretches of road illuminated only by occasional streetlights and passing vehicles.

Hotel Lobby

12:15 AM

The team bus pulled up outside their hotel forty minutes later and players filed off slowly with bags slung over shoulders, and the lobby was quiet except for night staff who nodded politely as the squad entered.

A team official stood near the reception desk with a clipboard checking players in, and his voice was professional but tired as he spoke to those passing.

"Room keys at reception. Breakfast starts at six for those traveling early. Everyone else, report to the bus at ten tomorrow morning for the return flight to Bergamo."

Demien collected his room key—Room 412—and walked toward the elevators where several teammates were already waiting, and when the doors opened he stepped in alongside Mæhle and Hateboer.

The elevator rose silently until Mæhle spoke quietly.

"Good second half tonight. Really good."

"Thanks," Demien replied, and his voice came out rougher than intended from fatigue.

"Napoli away is never easy," Hateboer added. "You handled it well once you found your rhythm."

The elevator chimed and doors opened on the fourth floor, and all three stepped out into the carpeted hallway lit by soft wall sconces.

"Get some rest," Mæhle said before turning toward his room. "Tomorrow comes fast."

Demien found Room 412 halfway down the corridor and slid his key card through the reader, and the lock clicked open before he pushed inside to find the room exactly as he’d left it that morning—his bag on the nearest bed, Lookman’s belongings on the far bed.

His roommate wasn’t there yet, probably still downstairs with other players, and Demien was grateful for the temporary quiet as he dropped onto his bed.

He pulled out his phone to set an alarm for 5:00 AM—thirty minutes before the scheduled pickup—though the action felt optimistic given how wired he still felt.

A soft knock came at the door before he could start organizing his things for tomorrow, and when he opened it Gasperini stood in the hallway still wearing his suit from the match.

"Demien," the manager said. "A moment?"

"Of course, mister."

Gasperini stepped just inside the doorway though he didn’t enter fully, and his expression was serious but not harsh.

"You’re leaving early for England duty tomorrow. I wanted to speak with you before you go."

"Yes, mister. Six forty-five flight."

"Good." Gasperini paused as if choosing his words carefully. "Tonight’s second half showed me what you can be at this level. The movement, the passing, the intelligence to adapt when the initial approach wasn’t working—that’s what I need from you consistently."

Demien nodded because his throat felt tight with emotion and words seemed inadequate.

"The first half will happen sometimes, especially at eighteen in hostile environments against elite opponents. What matters is how you respond." Gasperini’s eyes held his steadily. "You responded well. Remember that feeling when you finally understood the instruction. That’s your baseline now."

"I will, mister."

"Represent us well with England. Train hard, stay focused, and come back ready to compete for your place in the team." Gasperini stepped back toward the door. "Buona fortuna. Rest well tonight."

"Thank you, mister."

The manager left and pulled the door closed behind him, and Demien stood alone in the quiet room processing the conversation while his chest felt tight with determination mixed with exhaustion.

He turned to his bag and began unpacking methodically—pulling out his wash kit and tomorrow’s travel clothes, laying them on the desk so he wouldn’t have to think in the morning when his alarm screamed at five.

The bathroom mirror showed a tired face with shadows under his eyes and skin still flushed from exertion, and he splashed cold water on his face before brushing his teeth quickly.

Back in the room he stretched for ten minutes despite his body’s protests—hamstrings, hip flexors, calves, lower back—because flying tomorrow without proper recovery would make the fatigue worse.

His phone buzzed repeatedly on the bed as more messages came through—teammates checking in, friends commenting on the match, social media notifications he’d deal with later—but he ignored them all while moving through the stretching routine.

When he finally finished and lay down on the bed still fully clothed, his legs felt heavy like concrete and his mind was starting to slow as exhaustion caught up with adrenaline.

Outside the window Naples celebrated Napoli’s victory with distant sounds of car horns and shouting that filtered through the double-glazed glass, though inside the hotel room everything was quiet except for the air conditioning’s gentle hum.

Demien set his phone on the nightstand with the alarm confirmed for 5:00 AM and closed his eyes against the ceiling, and his last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was about movement—checking away before receiving, creating space before the ball arrived, finally understanding what Gasperini had been asking for all along.