Demien smiled. The trial was a week away. Time to start preparing for real.
Luca pushed open the door. Sunlight flooded in, and the football pitch stretched out before them, green and perfect.
A man stood near the center circle. He was shorter than both of them, maybe forty, with a whistle hanging from his neck. His grey tracksuit had a small badge on the chest, something official looking.
"Coach Rizzo." Luca jogged over. "This is Demien."
Rizzo's handshake was firm. His palm felt rough, like he'd spent years gripping footballs. "Luca tells me you both have a trial next week."
"That's right," Demien said.
"Good. Then we have work to do." Rizzo pointed to a section of the pitch where cones marked out several zones. "Warm up first. Two laps, light jog. Then stretching."
They ran side by side. The morning air was cool against Demien's face, and his new boots felt good on the grass. By the second lap, his muscles had loosened completely.
Stretching came next. Rizzo watched them carefully, correcting Luca's hamstring position with a tap of his foot.
"Alright." Rizzo pulled a bag of footballs closer. "Passing drill first. Fifty accurate passes between the marked zones. One touch or two touch maximum. I'll count. If you miss the zone, we restart."
Demien's chest tightened slightly. The system task required exactly fifty successful passes. Perfect timing.
They positioned themselves fifteen yards apart. Rizzo tossed the ball to Luca.
"Go."
Luca struck it cleanly with his instep. The ball rolled straight into Demien's zone.
Demien controlled it with one touch, then passed it back with his right foot. Perfect weight, perfect placement.
"One," Rizzo called.
The rhythm built quickly. Pass, control, pass. The ball moved between them like it was on rails. Luca's technique was solid, his first touch soft.
"Ten."
Demien shifted his positioning slightly, angling his body to create better passing lanes. The system window floated at the edge of his vision, tracking progress quietly.
"Twenty."
Sweat started forming on Luca's forehead. He wiped it with his sleeve between passes. His breathing had quickened, but his accuracy stayed consistent.
"Thirty."
Demien felt his body settling into the drill completely. This was muscle memory from David Drinkwater's thirty seven years, combined with Demien's upgraded stats. Every pass felt natural, effortless.
"Forty."
Luca grinned between passes. "You make this look easy."
"Just focus," Rizzo barked. "Don't break concentration."
"Forty five."
The last five passes went perfectly. Clean strikes, perfect placement, no hesitation.
"Fifty." Rizzo blew his whistle. "Well done. Take water."
The system chimed softly in Demien's head.
「DAILY TASK COMPLETE」
「Reward: 15 TP」
「Current Balance: 45 TP, 3 SP, 0 MP」
Demien grabbed a water bottle from the sideline. The cold liquid felt good going down his throat.
Luca stood beside him, breathing harder. "How are you not tired?"
"I am. Just don't show it."
"Bullshit." Luca laughed. "You're barely sweating."
Rizzo clapped his hands. "Next drill. Shooting practice. Ten shots each from different angles. I want accuracy first, power second."
He set up the goals with small targets marked in each corner. Red cones for bottom corners, yellow for top.
"Alternate. One shot each, then switch."
Luca went first. He struck the ball cleanly toward the bottom left corner. It hit the target dead center.
"Good," Rizzo said.
Demien stepped up. He could see the angle clearly, feel the weight distribution needed. His right foot connected smoothly, and the ball curved into the top right corner.
The yellow cone toppled over.
Rizzo's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Again."
They continued trading shots. Luca was good, hitting seven out of ten targets. His technique was textbook, his follow through clean.
Demien hit ten out of ten.
Every shot found its mark. Bottom left, top right, center, switching between power and placement based on the angle.
On the sixth shot, Luca stopped to watch. His face showed something between admiration and confusion.
"How are you doing that?" Luca asked when they finished.
Demien shrugged. "Just reading the angles."
"Just reading the angles," Luca repeated flatly. "Right."
Rizzo retrieved the balls without commenting. His expression stayed neutral, but his eyes lingered on Demien for an extra second.
"Dribbling next." Rizzo set up a cone course. "Weave through, then finish with a shot. Speed matters, but control matters more. Knock a cone and you restart."
Luca went first. His feet moved quickly, touching the ball four times between each cone. He navigated the course cleanly and finished with a decent shot.
"Forty two seconds," Rizzo announced.
Demien approached the starting line. The course looked simple enough. Twelve cones in a zigzag pattern, twenty yards total.
He started at a light jog, then accelerated. The ball stayed glued to his feet. Right foot, left foot, quick touches that barely seemed to slow him down.
The cones passed in a blur. His body knew exactly where each one was, when to cut, when to push.
He reached the end and struck the ball. It flew into the top corner.
"Twenty eight seconds." Rizzo's voice had changed slightly. Less instructional, more interested.
Luca was staring. "What the hell, man. That's professional level."
"Just got lucky with the timing."
"Lucky." Luca shook his head. "You're unreal."
They moved to one on one drills next. Rizzo set them up facing each other with a small goal behind each.
"Five rounds. One minute each. Winner is whoever scores more."
The whistle blew.
Luca came at him hard, trying to use his body to shield the ball. Demien read the movement early, stepped around him, and tapped the ball through.
"One zero," Rizzo called.
Luca tried again, this time with a step over. Demien didn't bite. He waited for the actual move, then poked the ball away cleanly.
By the fourth round, Luca was breathing hard. Sweat dripped down his face, and his shoulders sagged slightly.
Demien had scored four times. Luca had scored once.
"Alright, that's enough." Rizzo blew the final whistle. "Cool down. Walk the pitch twice, then stretch."
They walked in silence for the first lap. The sun had climbed higher now, and the heat pressed down on them.
Finally, Luca spoke. "You're way better than I thought."
"You're good too."
"Don't bullshit me." Luca's tone was light, not angry. "I'm decent. You're something else. Where did you learn to play like that?"
Demien thought carefully. "Extra practice. Lots of it."
"Must've been a lot." Luca wiped his face with his shirt. "I've been training with private coaches since I was twelve. Never seen anyone our age move like you do."
They finished the second lap and dropped onto the grass for stretching. The ground felt cool beneath them, and a light breeze cut through the heat.
"Can I ask you something?" Demien said while reaching for his toes.
"Yeah, sure."
"Why are you playing football?" Demien gestured vaguely toward the mansion behind them. "Your dad owns one of the biggest investment firms in Italy. You could just work there. Live easy."
Luca was quiet for a moment. He stretched his hamstrings, his face turned toward the sky.
"My older brother already does that," he said finally. "Works for my dad. Wears suits every day, goes to meetings, makes deals. He's good at it too."
"But you didn't want that?"
"Not really." Luca sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. "I mean, it's a good life. Stable. Safe. But it's not what I wanted."
"What do you want?"
Luca smiled slightly. "You're going to think this is stupid."
"Try me."
"When I was ten, my dad took me to Manchester. Business trip. We had an extra day, so he got tickets to Old Trafford." Luca's eyes lit up as he talked. "Manchester United versus whoever, I don't even remember who they played. But I remember Ronaldo."
Demien nodded slowly. Everyone remembered Ronaldo in 2007. The step overs, the speed, the confidence.
"He was amazing," Luca continued. "The way he moved, the way the crowd reacted to everything he did. I'd never seen anything like it. And I thought, that's what I want to do. I want to make people feel something."
He picked at the grass between his fingers. "I told my dad on the plane home. Told him I wanted to play football, not work in an office. I thought he'd say no."
"He didn't?"
"He surprised me. Said if that's what I want, he'll support it. Hired coaches, built this pitch, gave me everything I needed to try." Luca looked over at Demien. "But he also told me something I'll never forget."
"What?"
"He said football doesn't care about your last name or your bank account. If you're not good enough, you fail. Simple as that." Luca's expression was serious now. "That's why Atalanta matters. It's not my dad's money getting me there. It's my ability. Or at least I hope it is."
Demien understood that. The weight of proving yourself, of earning something rather than having it given.
"Atalanta's good for that," Demien said. "They don't care where you come from. They just want players who can perform."
"That's why I want it so bad." Luca stood up and offered his hand. "I need to know if I'm actually good or if I've just been fooling myself with private coaches and expensive training."
Demien took his hand and pulled himself up. "You're good. Really good. I wasn't lying about that."
"Thanks." Luca grinned. "Even if you're better."
They walked back toward the house. Rizzo had already packed up the equipment and was heading toward a side entrance.
"Hey," Luca said as they reached the changing area. "You should come back tomorrow. And the rest of the week. We can train together before the trial."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I mean, training with you will only make me better, right? And maybe some of whatever you've got will rub off on me."
Demien smiled. "Alright. I'll come back tomorrow."
"Good. Same time. Nine o'clock."
They changed quickly. Demien folded his new boots carefully and tucked them into his bag. The leather still felt stiff, but another week of training would break them in perfectly.
Outside, the golf cart was waiting. The same driver from earlier sat behind the wheel.
"I'll text you tonight," Luca said. "Make sure you're still coming."
"I'll be here."
The cart rolled down the path toward the front gate. Demien watched the mansion disappear behind trees and gardens. His legs felt pleasantly tired, and his mind was already planning tomorrow's training.
The bus ride home took forty minutes. Demien sat near the back, watching Florence pass by through the window. The city looked different somehow, full of possibility.
His phone buzzed halfway home. Luca's message appeared on the screen.
"Forgot to say, but you're insane. Can't wait to see what you do at the trial."
Demien typed back quickly. "You'll do great too. See you tomorrow."
When he got home, his mother was making dinner. The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes, and steam rose from a pot on the stove.