Marco stood a few feet away, pretending to watch the players hydrate while keeping his ears sharp. The Atalanta scout was talking to someone nearby, and Marco caught fragments of the conversation.
"...Does the kid have an agent?" the scout asked.
"Yeah, some guy named Benetti," the other person replied.
The Atalanta scout pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through several pages. Then he looked up, scanning the area.
"You Marco Benetti?" he called out.
Marco turned, meeting his eyes. "Yeah, I am."
The scout extended his hand. "Atalanta. Nice meeting you."
They shook briefly. Marco noticed the Sampdoria scout a few meters away, also watching him with interest. His stomach tightened. Scouts didn’t approach agents unless they saw something worth pursuing.
"What’s going on?" the Atalanta scout asked, nodding toward the pitch where players were hydrating. "Why did Fiorentina release a gem like that? Did they know he was this good before they let him go?"
Marco scratched the back of his neck. The question felt loaded, like the scout was testing him for honesty.
"To be honest," Marco said slowly, "Demien wasn’t this good. I’ve been his agent for a long time, and I’m just as surprised as you are that he’s performing ."
The scout’s eyebrows lifted. "Uhm?"
"Don’t get me wrong," Marco added quickly, raising a hand. "I’m not saying he wasn’t good before. But I’m shocked he’s playing at this level. As for Fiorentina, they said he wasn’t good enough and canceled his contract."
The scout studied Marco’s face for a long moment, as if weighing whether the agent was lying or genuinely caught off guard by his own client’s breakthrough. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.
"Give me your contact," he said. "I’ll get back to you later this week."
Marco handed over his card, trying to keep his expression neutral even as relief flooded through him. The scout pocketed it and walked back toward the stands without another word.
Before Marco could process what just happened, the Sampdoria scout appeared beside him.
"Your card," the man said simply, holding out his hand.
Marco gave him one too, and the Sampdoria scout nodded once before heading back to his seat.
Marco glanced around. A few other scouts from smaller clubs were watching, but none approached. He understood why. If Serie A teams like Atalanta and Sampdoria were sniffing around, what could a Serie B or lower-tier club offer that would make Demien choose them instead?
Smart, Marco thought. They’re backing off before wasting their time.
On the pitch, Demien sat on the grass with his knees pulled up, water bottle in hand. Sweat dripped down his temples, and his shirt clung to his back. The floodlights above hummed softly, casting long shadows across the field.
Coach Mancini clapped his hands twice, drawing the team’s attention.
"You guys are doing good out there," he said, pacing in front of them. "Really good. Especially you, Demien. I like what you’re doing. Keep up the work."
Demien nodded, keeping his face calm even though pride swelled in his chest. Thirty-seven years of football knowledge, and hearing a coach praise him still felt like oxygen.
Mancini moved on, addressing the defenders about holding their line tighter and reminding the forwards to stay onside during counters. Demien let the words wash over him, his mind already running through the second half.
Team 2 would come out desperate. Three goals down with forty-five minutes left meant they’d press high and take risks. If he stayed patient and picked his moments, there’d be space to exploit.
A few minutes later, the referee’s whistle cut through the evening air.
Demien pushed himself to his feet and jogged toward his position. As he crossed the halfway line, the crowd’s noise grew louder. A group of spectators near the touchline started chanting his name. Fınd the newest release on 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹•𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖•𝗇𝗲𝘁
"Demien! Demien! Demien!"
He caught sight of a few girls in the front row, waving and calling out to him with bright smiles.
David Drinkwater, the thirty-seven-year-old consciousness inside this eighteen-year-old body, didn’t even glance their way. He’d seen it all before, the attention, the noise, the distractions. None of it mattered when the ball was about to roll.
The whistle blew sharply, and the second half kicked off under the glowing floodlights.
Team 2 exploded out of the gates.
Their formation had shifted. Gianluca Romano, their defensive midfielder, pushed higher to press Team 1’s backline immediately. Paolo Gallo positioned himself tight against the touchline, ready to exploit any space behind Esposito.
Within thirty seconds, Romano intercepted a loose pass from Rinaldi and immediately fed the ball wide to Gallo.
Gallo took off like a sprinter leaving the blocks. Esposito rushed across to cut off the angle, but Gallo touched the ball forward with the outside of his boot, accelerating past him.
Demien tracked back, reading the danger. Team 2’s right back had pushed up to overlap, creating a two-on-one against Esposito. The defensive shape was collapsing.
Gallo cut inside sharply, his body leaning left as if preparing to shoot. Esposito lunged, but Gallo had already shaped his body differently. He whipped a cross with his right foot, the ball curling toward the penalty spot.
Alessandro Ferrari, Team 2’s center forward, had timed his run perfectly. He outmuscled Rinaldi, jumping early and meeting the ball with his forehead. The connection was clean, powerful, directing the ball toward the bottom corner.
It flew just wide of the post by inches.
Demien’s eyes flicked to the sideline where Coach Mancini was shouting, his hands gesturing frantically for the midfield to drop deeper and tighten the gaps. Team 1’s defense looked rattled, the backline stretched and disorganized. If they didn’t adjust soon, Team 2 would pull one back.
At the 48th minute, Luca Bianchi won a tackle in midfield and immediately looked up. Demien had dropped into space, ten yards behind the halfway line, unmarked.
Bianchi played it square.
Demien received the ball with his back to goal, taking a single touch to control it. He could feel Julian Weber closing in from behind, the pressure building. Instead of turning, he scanned left and right with quick glances.
Matteo Ferrari was sprinting down the right flank, his marker Roberto Costa half a step behind and struggling to keep pace.
Something clicked in Demien’s mind. The positioning, the angle, the weight needed—it all aligned perfectly. His consciousness tapped into the skill embedded in his muscle memory.
「Andrea Pirlo: Deep-Lying Playmaker — Activated」
Demien shifted his weight as if to turn left, drawing Weber closer. Then he pivoted sharply on his right foot and drove his boot through the ball with perfect technique. The pass was surgical, threaded like a needle between Liam Hughes and Costa, angling into the channel with the exact pace needed.
The ball dropped perfectly into Matteo’s path.
Matteo controlled it with his chest, the ball dropping softly in front of him. He let it bounce once as Costa scrambled back, then crossed low and hard into the six-yard box.
Alessandro Moretti had ghosted between two defenders, his timing impeccable. He met the ball with the inside of his boot and fired it into the net before the keeper could react.
The crowd erupted. Demien jogged back toward the halfway line, allowing himself a small smile. One more cushion.
But Team 2 wasn’t breaking.