Chapter 37: Chapter 36: Fiorentina U23 vs Atalanta U23 [III]
Seventeen minutes in, the match reached a boiling point.
Fiorentina built from the back as Bellotti played a short pass to Cataldi, who turned and immediately looked for Adriano making a run between the lines, and the pass arrived at Adriano’s feet as he accelerated toward Atalanta’s defensive third with Demien tracking his movement.
Adriano touched it forward once and prepared to turn, but Demien had seen enough.
Every pass Adriano completed, every run he made, every smirk he threw over his shoulder—it all added weight to the anger that had been building since the bathroom confrontation, since the opening goal, since the memory of Elena’s shocked face and Adriano’s casual shrug three years ago.
Demien lunged forward as Adriano’s foot came down to touch the ball again, and his studs caught Adriano’s ankle with force that came from frustration more than tactical necessity, and the contact was sharp and rugged as Adriano’s leg was swept out from under him.
Adriano went down hard with a grimace contorting his face, and the referee’s whistle blew immediately and sharply as he sprinted over with his hand already reaching for his pocket.
The yellow card came out without hesitation, and the referee held it high while saying something stern in Italian that Demien barely registered, and around him, Fiorentina’s players protested while pointing at the tackle and calling for more.
Adriano stayed down for a moment longer than necessary while holding his ankle, and when he finally stood up with help from Vitale, he looked directly at Demien with an expression that mixed pain and satisfaction, as if the yellow card proved something he’d wanted to prove.
"Calm down," Riccardo said while jogging over and putting a hand on Demien’s shoulder, and his voice was firm but not angry as he added, "We need you on the pitch, don’t give them a reason to send you off."
Demien nodded once while his jaw stayed clenched, and David Drinkwater’s thirty-seven years of experience whispered warnings about losing composure and letting emotions dictate actions, but the eighteen-year-old part of him that was Demien Walter wanted to do it again.
Coach Rossi’s voice cut through the moment as he called out sharply, "Walter! Here! Now!"
Demien jogged to the touchline where Rossi stood with his arms crossed and his expression hard, and when Demien reached him, the coach grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close enough that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.
"What are you doing?" Rossi’s voice was low but intense, and his eyes bore into Demien’s as he continued, "That was stupid, you’re letting him get in your head, and that’s exactly what he wants."
"Coach, I—"
"I don’t want to hear it," Rossi cut him off before his tone softened slightly, and he added, "Listen to me, you’re the best player on this pitch right now, you’ve created three clear chances that your teammates couldn’t finish, but none of that matters if you get yourself sent off."
Demien’s breathing slowed as Rossi’s words sank in, and the coach’s grip on his shoulder tightened before he continued, "You’re here to play football, not settle personal scores, so focus on what you can control and show them why cutting you was a mistake by playing your game."
"Yes, Coach."
"One more stupid tackle like that," Rossi said while his eyes hardened again, and his voice dropped even lower as he finished, "and I’m subbing you out, because it seems you can’t face your old team head-on without losing your composure, understood?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and Demien felt shame mixing with anger as he nodded and said, "Understood."
"Good," Rossi released his shoulder and pointed back toward the pitch, and he added, "Now get back out there and play football."
Demien jogged back onto the pitch while his teammates watched him return, and as he took his position, David Drinkwater’s consciousness spoke clearly in his mind: What am I doing? Why am I letting Demien’s memories control me like this?
He grabbed his water bottle during a brief stoppage and took a long drink while forcing himself to think clearly, and the veteran part of him that had played for thirty-seven years across Europe knew better than to let emotions dictate his actions on the pitch.
I’m better than this, he thought while setting the bottle down, and his jaw set with renewed determination as he thought, Drinkwater never let personal grudges affect his game, so why am I letting an eighteen-year-old’s heartbreak make me play like an amateur?
The match restarted, and Demien’s focus sharpened as he pushed Adriano and Elena and Fiorentina’s rejection to the back of his mind where they belonged.
Fiorentina prepared to take the free kick as Adriano limped toward the touchline with the team physio supporting him under one arm, and the wonderkid’s face showed frustration as he sat on the bench while medical staff examined his ankle more closely.
Cataldi stood over the ball just outside Atalanta’s defensive third as his teammates positioned themselves in and around the box, and he looked up once to gauge the goalkeeper’s position before taking three steps back.
The referee’s whistle blew, and Cataldi’s right foot struck the ball cleanly as it curled over Atalanta’s defensive wall with pace and dip, and the trajectory looked dangerous as it bent toward the top corner while Leone scrambled across his line.
The ball struck the inside of the post with a hollow metallic sound that echoed through the stadium, and instead of bouncing away harmlessly, it ricocheted back into the six-yard box where Vitale reacted fastest and threw himself at the rebound.
"Clear it!" someone screamed from Atalanta’s defense as bodies converged on the loose ball, and Vitale’s shot was goal-bound when Moretti threw his body in front of it, and the ball struck his chest before he hooked it away desperately with his right foot.
The clearance flew high and wide toward the touchline as Atalanta’s defenders exhaled collectively, and the Fiorentina section groaned at the missed opportunity while their players held their heads in disbelief.
"Stay focused!" Rossi shouted from the touchline as his heart rate slowly returned to normal, and he clapped his hands twice before calling out, "Good block, Moretti!"
The game continued with both teams pressing forward and trading chances, and the tension in the stadium grew with each passing minute as everyone waited to see who would break through first.