Chapter 64: Chapter 63: Chelsea Vs Atalanta [IV]
The away dressing room was quiet except for the sound of breathing and water bottles being drained. Players sat slumped on benches with ice packs on their legs while others stared at the floor, processing the first half that had just ended.
Gasperini stood in the center with a tactical board in his hand, his expression calm but serious, and he waited until every player was looking at him before he spoke.
"That first half showed exactly what I expected," he said, his voice carrying authority without being loud. "Chelsea are quality and we knew that, but we gave them too much space in transition, let them run at us when we lost the ball."
He drew circles on the board with a marker, marking where the three goals had come from—Sterling’s movement at the back post, Mount’s shot from distance, the deflected goal off Moretti’s leg.
"Sterling’s movement was world class, Mount found the space between our lines exactly where we discussed, and Kanté covered every blade of grass in midfield." He tapped the board twice with the marker. "Second half we rotate, fresh legs and new energy, and I want to see intensity with focus."
He turned to face the room directly, his eyes scanning across every player.
"Eleven changes."
Players straightened in their seats, the exhausted ones showing relief while the substitutes leaned forward with anticipation. In friendlies mass substitutions at halftime were common, but hearing it confirmed still carried weight.
"Sportiello, you’re in goal," Gasperini began while pointing at the backup keeper. "Defense—three at the back with Demiral central, Moretti on the right side of the three, Okoli on the left. Wingbacks—Soppy pushing forward on the right, Kolasinac doing the same on the left."
Moretti’s head snapped up and his eyes went wide as the realization hit that he was staying on but moving from the bench to center-back in the second half.
"Midfield—Freuler and Musah as the double pivot, sitting deep to protect the back three and help us build."
Gasperini’s eyes found Demien on the bench, and the moment felt like everything stopped.
"Attacking midfield—Walter on the left, Malinovskiy on the right. I want you between their lines just like we practiced Friday, using your vision to find space and connect the play from deep to forward."
The moment Gasperini said his name, the system activated without warning.
「MISSION ACTIVATED」
A blue panel materialized at the edge of Demien’s vision, visible only to him while the rest of the room continued existing in normal time.
「DEBUT MISSION: Stamford Bridge Statement」
「Objectives:」
「• Play minimum 30 minutes ✓ (Auto-complete with substitution)」
「• Complete 80% of passes (0/1)」
「• Create 1 clear chance (0/1)」
「• Win 3+ duels (0/3)」
「• Maintain 7.0+ match rating (Current: N/A)」
「Rewards:」
「• Base Reward: 20 TP」
「• Bonus for ALL objectives completed: +30 TP + 5 SP」
「• Special Reward if assist/goal achieved: +5 MP」
「Time Limit: 45 minutes」
Demien’s heart kicked hard against his ribs, his hands gripping the bench beneath him while his mind processed five objectives in forty-five minutes with rewards that could change everything.
A mission. Right now. At Stamford Bridge.
Okay.
"Højlund, you lead the line and show me what you can do up there," Gasperini continued while his attention shifted to the Danish striker, who nodded once with his face set in determination.
Gasperini set the board down and crossed his arms, his posture shifting from instructor to motivator. "Chelsea will also rotate their squad with fresh players coming on—that’s how friendlies work at this level—but they’re still Chelsea with the same quality, just different faces wearing the shirt. Don’t be careless with the ball, press intelligently when they have it, transition quickly when we win it, and when you have possession use it well."
He paused while looking around the room one more time, letting his words settle on each player.
"Forty-five minutes to show me you belong at this level."
The team began moving immediately, the energy in the room shifting from recovery to preparation. Players pulled off their first-half kits that were soaked through with sweat and grabbed fresh shirts from the numbered pegs on the wall. Demien stood on legs that felt strange, simultaneously light from nervous energy and heavy from the weight of what was coming, and he walked to his spot where number 28 hung waiting for him.
He pulled the jersey over his head and the fabric settled against his skin, the weight of it feeling different now from when he’d first put it on earlier. This was real—not training where mistakes could be corrected tomorrow, not watching from the bench where safety lived, but playing at Stamford Bridge in front of forty thousand people.
Malinovskiy appeared beside him while adjusting his own shirt, his movements practiced and calm from years of professional football. "Ready?"
"Yeah," Demien said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt inside where his pulse was hammering.
"Just play simple at first, find your rhythm with easy passes, then create when the moment comes." The Ukrainian smiled with the ease of someone who’d been through this before. "You’ve got the quality, I saw it in training all week, so trust it when the pressure comes."
Demien nodded once and bent down to lace his boots tighter, checking each knot twice while his hands needed something to do with the nervous energy coursing through his system.
Around him the other substitutes were preparing with the same focused energy that came before walking onto a pitch—Soppy adjusting his shin guards and pulling his socks up high, Højlund rolling his ankles in small circles to keep them loose, Freuler taping over his socks to keep everything secure during the forty-five minutes ahead.
The corridor official knocked twice on the door, the sound cutting through the preparation.
"Two minutes."
Gasperini gestured toward the door without needing words, and the substitutes filed out into the tunnel where the noise from the stadium filtered through the concrete walls like distant thunder that was getting closer with every step.
Demien walked between Malinovskiy and Freuler, his pulse hammering in his ears while his breathing stayed controlled through conscious effort, and the tunnel opened up ahead of them into Stamford Bridge’s afternoon light.
The teams lined up for the second half kickoff with both sides showing completely different faces from the first forty-five minutes. Chelsea had made eight changes of their own—Kepa taking over in goal, Chilwell and Chalobah forming the center of defense, Gallagher and Barkley sitting in midfield to control tempo, Pulisic and Hudson-Odoi providing width on the wings, and Werner leading the line with his pace.
Still quality players at every position, still dangerous despite being second string.
Demien jogged into his position between Chelsea’s midfield and defense, the exact space where Gasperini wanted him to operate, and his legs felt light from nervous energy that made everything sharper and more immediate. The grass beneath his boots felt perfect, the stadium noise created a constant hum that vibrated in his chest, and forty thousand people were watching even if most didn’t know his name yet.
The referee checked his watch while both teams settled into their shapes, raised his whistle to his lips, and blew.
At 46:00 Atalanta kicked off to start the second half.
Højlund tapped the ball square to Demien who was standing five yards behind him, and Demien immediately played it back to Freuler with one simple touch. Get it out of your system, feel the ball, don’t try anything complicated yet.
The ball cycled across Atalanta’s back line from Demiral to Moretti to Okoli while Chelsea’s front three pressed forward but without the same intensity as the first half. Demien dropped deeper into the space between the defense and midfield, showing the ball between Gallagher and Barkley who were marking loosely, and Freuler found him with a pass that came to his feet at a comfortable height.
His first touch killed the ball completely dead—no bounce, no spin, no movement except stopping exactly where he wanted it—and his second touch turned his body away from Barkley who was closing in from behind with pressure. He played it square to Malinovskiy who was wide on the right with space to operate.
Safe pass, smart decision, building confidence with every touch.
Chelsea pressed immediately as their shape shifted, Pulisic and Hudson-Odoi harrying Atalanta’s defenders whenever the ball went backward while Gallagher and Barkley closed down the midfield passing lanes. The tempo was high despite this being a friendly, the spaces were tight between the lines, and every touch had to be clean or the ball would be lost.