My Ultimate Gacha System-Chapter 281 - 270: Matchday I

Saturday, April 15, 2023

Team Hotel, Florence

7:42 AM

The breakfast room was quiet except for the sound of cutlery against plates and the occasional scrape of chairs on tile flooring, and Atalanta’s squad sat scattered across tables eating without the usual morning conversation because everyone understood what the day carried.

Demien sat near the window with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him while his headphones rested over his ears but no music played, and his eyes scrolled through his phone’s lock screen once before he pressed the button and the display went dark, and he set it face-down beside his plate.

Across the room Koopmeiners ate cereal slowly while reading something on his tablet, and De Roon sat two tables away drinking coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup, and neither spoke to anyone because the pre-match atmosphere had settled hours earlier and nobody wanted to break it with forced conversation.

Lookman passed by with his tray and nodded once at Demien without stopping, and the acknowledgment was enough because words weren’t necessary on matchdays like this, and when Lookman sat down at a different table he pulled out his phone and began typing with one hand while eating with the other.

The coaching staff sat together at a table near the far wall discussing something in low voices that didn’t carry across the room, and Gasperini wasn’t present because the manager typically ate alone in his room before important fixtures, and everyone knew that without needing to ask.

Demien finished his eggs and pushed the plate away slightly while his hands came together in front of him on the table, and his eyes stayed on the window where morning light was coming through clean and bright because Florence in April meant proper spring weather, and somewhere across the city the Artemio Franchi was already preparing for tonight’s fixture.

He stood after three more minutes and walked toward the exit without clearing his tray because hotel staff handled that, and several teammates were doing the same thing because breakfast ended naturally when players decided they were finished rather than following a strict schedule.

The elevator ride to the fourth floor was silent except for the mechanical hum of the lift mechanism, and when the doors opened Demien walked down the corridor toward his room while his hands stayed in his tracksuit pockets.

**Team Hotel, Florence**

**10:17 AM**

Mid-morning brought the activation walk that Gasperini required before every away match because sitting in hotel rooms all day created stiffness and mental stagnation, and the squad assembled in the lobby wearing casual training gear while security personnel coordinated with hotel staff to clear the immediate area outside.

The streets around the hotel were mostly empty because the location was chosen specifically for privacy rather than proximity to tourist areas, and when the double doors opened the squad filed out into Florence’s morning sunshine with Gasperini at the front and assistant coaches bringing up the rear.

The walk was structured but informal—no specific route, just movement through the neighborhood for twenty minutes to get blood flowing and legs loosened—and conversations stayed quiet because nobody felt like shouting across groups.

Demien walked near the middle of the formation with his hands still in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed, and beside him Malinovskyi was silent while his eyes scanned the buildings they passed, and neither felt compelled to fill the space with talking.

Across the street maybe thirty yards away a small group of Fiorentina supporters stood behind a waist-high barrier that police had set up to keep fans at distance, and when they recognized Atalanta’s squad the noise started immediately.

"ATALANTA! VAI A CASA!"

"STASERA PERDETE!"

The shouts carried clearly across the empty street and several more voices joined in with similar taunts about tonight’s result, and the noise was hostile but contained because police presence kept anyone from crossing into the street.

Some Atalanta players glanced over briefly before continuing their walk without reaction, and Højlund actually laughed once under his breath at something someone yelled though the words were in Italian and Demien couldn’t tell what specifically had been funny.

Demien kept his head down and his hands deep in his pockets while his eyes stayed forward on the pavement ahead of him, and the noise from across the street continued for another ten seconds before fading as the squad moved beyond earshot.

Lookman appeared beside him and said quietly, "Always the same at away matches."

"Yeah," Demien replied.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

Lookman drifted back toward Hateboer and their conversation started up about something unrelated to football, and Demien continued walking in silence while his mind was already somewhere else entirely—receiving the ball under pressure, releasing it quickly, staying balanced when challenges came hard.

The walk lasted nineteen minutes and ended back at the hotel entrance where the squad filed through security checks before dispersing toward the elevators, and nobody lingered in the lobby because rest time was next and everyone knew it.

**Team Hotel, Florence**

**Demien’s Room**

**11:33 AM**

Demien’s room was dim because the curtains were drawn fully closed and only a thin line of daylight showed at the edges, and the bed was made perfectly because housekeeping had been through earlier while the squad was at breakfast.

He lay on top of the covers with his hands behind his head and his eyes open staring at the ceiling where a light fixture sat dark and unused, and his breathing was controlled while his body stayed completely still except for the occasional blink.

Some players slept during rest time but Demien never could before important matches because his mind wouldn’t shut down properly, and instead he ran through sequences—receiving between the lines, checking his shoulder before the ball arrived, knowing where pressure would come from, releasing quickly to keep circulation moving.

Simple actions repeated mentally without forcing complexity because complicated thinking during matches led to hesitation, and hesitation under pressure created mistakes.

His boots sat by the door where he’d placed them precisely after checking the studs this morning, and the sight of them sitting there clean and ready created a small amount of satisfaction because preparation mattered even in details that seemed minor.

Outside the window Florence continued its Saturday afternoon routines with traffic noise and distant conversations filtering through faintly, and somewhere across the city Fiorentina’s squad was going through their own pre-match preparation at home, and Adriano was probably in his apartment doing something similar—lying down, mentally preparing, waiting for the hours to pass.

Academy product versus academy reject.

Ninety minutes to settle it.

Demien’s eyes stayed on the ceiling while his breathing stayed controlled and his mind continued running through the same sequences on repeat without variation because repetition created automatic responses during matches when conscious thought wasn’t fast enough.

Team Hotel, Florence**

**Conference Room** 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

**2:47 PM**

The squad gathered in the hotel’s conference room for the final tactical briefing, and players filed in wearing their travel clothing while taking seats in the rows of chairs that hotel staff had arranged facing the projection screen at the front.

Gasperini stood beside the screen with a remote control in his hand and his expression showing the same focused intensity it always carried before important fixtures, and when the last player sat down and the room went quiet he clicked the remote without preamble.

Fiorentina footage appeared on the screen—their last three home matches cut into sequences showing their pressing patterns, their midfield positioning, their forward movements—and the coaching staff had already broken down the relevant patterns into digestible pieces that didn’t require extended explanation.

"Their press triggers when you take more than two touches," Gasperini said while the footage showed Fiorentina’s midfield closing down an opponent who’d received the ball and tried to turn. "Amrabat steps first. Bonaventura covers behind. Their wingers collapse inward to cut central options. You’re forced wide or you lose the ball."

He clicked to the next sequence.

"At home they’re more aggressive than away," Gasperini continued. "The crowd gives them energy. Momentum builds when they create chances early. Our job is to survive the first twenty minutes without giving them reasons to celebrate. Structure over creativity. Patience over forcing moments that aren’t there."

Another click showed Atalanta’s defensive shape against similar pressing systems.

"When we lose possession—transition immediately. Don’t ball-watch. Track runners. Fiorentina counter quickly through wide areas when turnovers happen in their half. Mæhle, Hateboer—your recovery runs matter more today than your attacking runs. Understand?"

Both wing-backs nodded once without speaking.

Gasperini moved to the next slide showing the starting eleven, and names appeared in formation on the screen.

"Starting eleven," Gasperini said. "Musso in goal. Back three—Tolói, Djimsiti, Demiral. Wing-backs—Hateboer right, Mæhle left. Double pivot—De Roon, Koopmeiners. Attacking midfield—Lookman left, Demien central, Malinovskyi right. Højlund up top."

He paused while eyes scanned the screen confirming positions.

"Bench—Éderson, Pasalic, Zapata, Muriel, Scalvini, Zortea, Sportiello. Substitutions will happen based on momentum and energy levels. Don’t assume you’re playing ninety minutes. Stay ready."

Nobody reacted because the lineup was expected based on training patterns throughout the week, and the bench players showed no visible disappointment because professionalism meant accepting roles without complaint.

"Questions?" Gasperini asked.

Silence answered him.

"Good. Return to your rooms. Change into travel suits. Bus leaves at five-fifteen. Don’t be late."

The meeting ended and players stood in quiet order before filing out through the door, and conversations stayed minimal because everything necessary had been communicated and additional talking would only dilute focus.

**Team Hotel, Florence**

**Demien’s Room**

**3:34 PM**

Demien’s room was still dim when he returned, and his match shirt hung on the closet door where hotel staff had placed it after pressing—black and blue vertical stripes, number 28 on the back, WALTER printed above it.

He walked to where his boots sat by the door and picked them up carefully while his fingers ran across the studs checking for anything loose or damaged, and everything felt solid because he’d already checked them twice this morning but checking again cost nothing.

The boots went back down in the exact same position.

His travel suit was laid out on the bed—dark jacket, matching trousers, white dress shirt, black shoes—and he began changing methodically without rushing because there was still over an hour before the bus departed.

Shirt came off first and was folded once before being placed on the desk chair. Tracksuit bottoms followed. The dress shirt went on and buttons were done from bottom to top, and when he finished he stood in front of the mirror briefly to check that everything sat properly before moving to the trousers.