CHAPTER 93: CHAPTER 91: THE PREPARATION I

Friday, August 23rd, 2022 - London

Sophia Bianchi stood in the Louis Vuitton studio overlooking the Thames, soft afternoon light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows while a photographer adjusted his equipment for the final shot.

"Perfect, Sophia, just like that—chin slightly down, eyes up, yes, beautiful—"

The camera clicked three times in rapid succession, flash strobes bouncing off white backdrop, and Sophia held the pose with practiced ease, her expression shifting from confident to mysterious to playful across sequential shots.

"And that’s wrap!" the photographer called out, lowering his camera. "Absolutely stunning work today. These will be perfect for the winter campaign."

Sophia relaxed immediately, the professional mask sliding away as she stepped off the seamless paper backdrop. Her assistant Cynthia appeared with a bottle of water and a tablet showing the day’s schedule.

"Car’s waiting downstairs," Cynthia said efficiently. "Your father’s jet is prepped at London City Airport. Flight time to Milan is ninety minutes, puts you there around eight PM local time."

"Good." Sophia took the water and drank half of it. "And the hotel reservation?"

"Confirmed at the Four Seasons. Suite overlooking the Duomo." Cynthia swiped to the next screen. "You have the Atalanta-Milan match tomorrow at San Siro, kickoff at eight forty-five PM, and the Nike shoot is scheduled for Tuesday morning back in Florence."

Sophia nodded, her mind already shifting from fashion to football, from work to something more personal.

The shoot had gone well—six hours of wardrobe changes, lighting adjustments, and holding poses that looked effortless but required complete muscle control—but her thoughts had drifted throughout, returning again and again to tomorrow’s match.

Demien’s second Serie A appearance, she thought, and warmth spread through her chest. Against Milan at San Siro. I promised I’d be there.

"Let’s go," she said, handing the water back to Cynthia. "I want to beat the evening traffic."

The drive to London City Airport took forty minutes through congested streets, Sophia sitting in the back of the Mercedes while Cynthia handled phone calls and emails, coordinating schedules and confirming appointments with the efficient precision that made her indispensable.

They arrived at the private terminal just after six PM. The Bianchi family’s Gulfstream G650 sat on the tarmac, engines already running, crew performing final checks.

Sophia stepped out of the car, the August evening warm but not uncomfortable, and Nicole—her new assistant, hired just three days ago through Nike’s recommendation—met her at the terminal entrance.

"Evening, Ms. Bianchi," Nicole said professionally, her Italian accent crisp despite years living in London. "Everything’s ready for departure. The crew confirmed we’re wheels-up in fifteen minutes."

"Perfect." Sophia walked toward the aircraft stairs. "And the package? Did it arrive?"

"Yes, the box is secured inside the cabin," Nicole confirmed, following a step behind with Sophia’s carry-on luggage. "Placed on the right seat as requested."

Sophia climbed the stairs into the Gulfstream’s cabin—luxury leather seats, polished wood trim, the kind of private aviation comfort she’d grown up around but never took for granted. Cynthia and Nicole followed, settling into their seats while Sophia moved to her preferred spot near the window.

A medium-sized box sat on the adjacent seat, wrapped in simple brown paper with her name written across the top in familiar handwriting.

Sophia smiled and reached for it immediately, the weight feeling substantial but not heavy, and something warm settled in her chest because she knew what this was before opening it.

She tore the paper carefully, revealing a white box underneath, and lifted the lid.

An Atalanta jersey lay folded inside—black and blue stripes pristine against white tissue paper, the club crest embroidered on the chest, and on the back in bold numbers:

28

Sophia lifted the jersey slowly, running her fingers over the printed number, and her smile widened because this was real—Demien sending her his kit, inviting her into this part of his life, trusting her enough to share something this personal.

She held it up to examine the fit, the fabric quality, the way the colors caught the cabin light.

"That’s lovely," Cynthia said from across the aisle, her expression shifting from professional assistant to genuine interest. "Special occasion?"

"Something like that," Sophia replied, folding the jersey carefully and setting it back in the box. "I’m going to Milan early for tomorrow’s match."

"Early?" Cynthia’s eyebrows raised slightly. "The Nike shoot isn’t until Tuesday. That’s four days in Milan."

"I promised someone I’d be there," Sophia said simply, and she pulled out her phone, opening the camera app.

Nicole leaned forward slightly, curiosity clear on her face, and whispered to Cynthia, "Do you know who it is?"

Cynthia shook her head slowly. "No idea."

Nicole’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, watching Sophia position the jersey for a photo, and she whispered back, "I’m pretty sure it’s the person she’s always texting. Every time her phone buzzes, she lights up."

Sophia adjusted the jersey one more time, making sure the number was clearly visible, then took three photos from different angles. She reviewed them quickly, selected the best one, and opened her messages.

To: Demien ❤️

[Photo attached]

Got the gift. On my way to Milan now. Can’t wait to see you play tomorrow. ✨⚫🔵

She hit send, then locked her phone and leaned back in her seat, the jersey still resting on her lap.

The pilot’s voice came through the cabin speakers. "Good evening, Ms. Bianchi. We’re cleared for departure. Flight time to Milan Linate will be one hour and thirty-two minutes. Weather is clear, should be a smooth flight."

"Thank you, Captain," Sophia replied.

The engines increased power, the Gulfstream beginning its taxi toward the runway, and Sophia looked out the window at London’s evening skyline fading behind them.

Tomorrow

, she thought, and anticipation mixed with something deeper, something that felt like possibility opening up. Tomorrow I’ll see him play at San Siro. Against AC Milan. In front of seventy thousand people.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.

From: Demien ❤️

You’re really coming? That jersey better bring me luck. Might not start but Éderson’s injured so there’s a chance.

Sophia smiled and typed back quickly.

To: Demien ❤️

I’m really coming. Starting or not, you’re going to be amazing. Can’t wait to see you play. ✨

The Gulfstream lifted off, London disappearing beneath clouds, and Sophia watched the sunset paint the sky orange and purple while her thoughts drifted to tomorrow’s match.

He’s going to be incredible, she thought, and she believed it completely.

Friday, August 23rd, 2022 - 9:00 AM

Atalanta Training Ground, Zingonia

Demien arrived at the Centro Bortolotti training complex thirty minutes before the scheduled session, the morning air cool and crisp as summer began its slow transition toward autumn. The facility sprawled across several acres—multiple pitches, gym buildings, medical centers, all maintained to obsessive standards.

He parked his car in the players’ lot, grabbed his training bag from the trunk, and walked toward the main building. A few staff members nodded as he passed, recognition coming easier now after Sunday’s viral debut.

The locker room was nearly empty when he entered, just two other early arrivals—Davide Zappacosta and Berat Djimsiti, both defenders, both veterans who took preparation seriously.

"Walter," Zappacosta said with a nod, his Italian accent thick. "Big week, eh? Everyone’s talking about Sunday."

"Just trying to stay focused," Demien replied, setting his bag down at his assigned locker.

"Good mentality." Djimsiti smiled slightly. "Keep that focus today. Gasperini’s watching everyone."

Demien changed into his gear—compression shorts, Atalanta practice kit, boots perfectly molded to his feet after weeks of wear—and headed to the pitch, where a few others were already warming up.

This entire week, the routine was different. For four mornings straight, Gasperini and his coaching staff had drilled the squad on the new 4-2-3-1 formation, tweaking details and clarifying roles since Éderson’s injury on Sunday night. The tactical sessions began Monday, stretching through Thursday, with each day’s training focused on adapting to the new shape, working out angles, movement lanes, and patterns of play. Demien had spent each session learning how to exploit the number ten space, joining rondos and tactical walkthroughs alongside de Roon, Koopmeiners, Malinovskyi, Pasalic, and the rest. His understanding grew with every drill, every correction, every repetition.

On Friday, the routine was lighter, deliberately so. The session started at 10:30 AM, Gasperini appearing with his staff, clipboard at the ready, expression unreadable.

"All right, gather up," the manager called, the squad forming a loose circle around him.

Gasperini’s eyes swept the group, sharp and observant. "Light session today. No intense work. Tomorrow is Milan, and I want you fresh."

He didn’t need to repeat himself about the formation—by now, everyone knew what was coming.

"We’ve trained the system all week. Four-two-three-one. Today is just review. Possession to start, tactical walkthrough, then rest."

The squad split into small groups, balls distributed for the first drill—another rondo. Demien joined de Roon, Koopmeiners, Malinovskyi, and Pasalic, ball movement crisp, pressure controlled, everyone’s touch on point, the rhythm smooth despite the lighter pace.

After ten minutes, Gasperini called them in.

"Formation," he said, and they arranged themselves instinctively into the practiced shape.

Demien slotted into the attacking midfield role—the creative pivot in the 4-2-3-1—supported by the double pivot behind him: de Roon and Koopmeiners. Lookman and Malinovskyi took up the flanks, Højlund the central forward spot.

Gasperini watched, then walked toward Demien as the squad settled. "Demien, your role tomorrow," he said, voice measured. "Number ten. Break lines. Find spaces. We’ve drilled this all week. Use your strengths."

"Yes, Mister," Demien replied, pulse quickening but voice steady.

"Show me. Walkthrough at seventy percent intensity. I want your positioning spot on."

The drill began, opposition moving at half pace, Gasperini watching every turn, every angled run, every pass. For half an hour Demien executed his role, taking corrections, tweaking his movement, refining touches.

When the session finished, the squad gathered. The tactics were set—the week’s work culminating in quiet confidence. Tomorrow, Milan. The only question left was who would start.