My Ultimate Gacha System-Chapter 289 - 278: Post-Match to Morning I

Saturday, April 15, 2023

Artemio Franchi Stadium, Florence

Post-Match

10:56 PM

The final whistle’s echo faded and the stadium erupted properly now because the result was sealed, and Fiorentina players turned toward the stands with arms raised while some clapped above their heads and others pointed toward sections of supporters who responded with sustained noise that rolled down from every tier.

Atalanta players gathered briefly near the center circle with hands on hips and shoulders carrying the weight of defeat, and their breathing was heavy while sweat dripped from faces onto the grass below, and then they moved as a group toward the tunnel without arguments or gestures beyond what professionalism required.

Demien walked with them and sweat dripped from his chin onto his chest, and his legs felt heavy from ninety minutes of constant movement while his mind was processing the result without dwelling on individual moments because the match was finished and nothing could change what had happened.

The noise from the crowd stayed loud behind them as they moved toward the tunnel entrance, and purple smoke still drifted across sections of the stands while drums continued their rhythmic beating.

Inside the tunnel the temperature dropped immediately because the concrete walls blocked the April evening warmth, and boots struck the floor creating echoes that bounced off the narrow corridor while both teams moved in separate streams toward their respective dressing rooms.

A steward waved them forward with a professional gesture and his face showed no expression because managing post-match traffic was routine work, and the roar of the crowd dulled into a low echo behind the walls as distance increased from the pitch.

Away Dressing Room

11:02 PM

The dressing room door closed behind the last player and the noise from outside became properly muted, and Atalanta’s squad moved to their designated spaces quickly because everyone understood the routine that followed defeats.

Players dropped onto benches and shirts were pulled over heads immediately, and tape was peeled off wrists while shin guards were removed and set aside, and the atmosphere was quiet without being tense because professional football meant accepting losses without dramatizing them.

Physios moved quickly through the room pressing fingers into calves and checking ankles for swelling, and one sprayed cold mist onto Hateboer’s thigh where a knock had accumulated during the second half, and a bag of ice was kicked gently across the floor toward where Tolói was sitting because his ankle needed treatment.

Demien sat at his space and his breathing had normalized completely while his hands worked at untying his boots, and beside him Koopmeiners was doing the same thing while his face showed controlled frustration rather than anger.

Nobody spoke while the physios continued their assessments, and the silence carried weight without being uncomfortable because words wouldn’t fix what tactics and execution had failed to deliver.

Gasperini waited near the tactical board until everyone was seated properly and the physios had stepped back, and when the room went completely quiet he began speaking without raising his voice.

"Spacing," Gasperini said, and his tone was instructional rather than accusatory. "After we equalized at two-two, we lost our shape. The midfield stretched too wide when we pushed forward, and the gaps between our lines became too large. Fiorentina exploited that through quick transitions."

He paused while his eyes scanned the room once.

"The moments after our second goal—those five minutes—that’s where control slipped. We pressed for the winner instead of managing the equalizer properly. That’s impatience, not tactics."

His marker tapped the board once where Fiorentina’s counter-attacking patterns were drawn in red.

"Adriano Ventresca," Gasperini continued, and the name was stated factually without singling anyone out. "His movement between the lines created problems all night. Not because our tracking was poor, but because his timing was excellent and their execution was clinical when chances arrived."

No player names were called out beyond that reference, and Gasperini’s instruction stayed focused on collective issues rather than individual failures.

"The table has tightened. Milan are one point ahead now. We have six matches remaining and Champions League qualification requires maximum points from winnable fixtures. Tonight was winnable. We made it difficult through our own decisions in key moments."

He stepped back from the board and his arms crossed.

"Questions?"

Silence answered him.

De Roon stood slowly and his voice came measured when he spoke. "The table doesn’t lie. Fifth place means we’re chasing instead of controlling. Six matches left. We stay together, we execute properly, we finish fourth. Simple as that."

Several heads nodded in acknowledgment and nobody added anything further because De Roon’s assessment was accurate and complete.

"Recovery tomorrow morning," Gasperini said. "Light session in the afternoon. Monday we prepare for Lazio at home. Rest properly tonight."

He turned and walked toward his office space while players resumed their post-match routines, and conversations stayed minimal because the work was individual now—showering, changing, preparing for the bus ride back to Bergamo.

Demien finished his recovery work with the group as the physio brought ice for his right thigh where accumulated contact had created soreness, and he pressed the cold pack against the muscle while his other hand held a bottle of water that he drained slowly.

Stretching came next—hamstrings, hip flexors, lower back—and each position was held for thirty seconds while his breathing stayed controlled, and the routine was automatic from months of professional preparation that had made recovery protocols second nature.

A final bottle of water was consumed completely before Demien stood and moved toward the showers, and steam was already filling that section of the dressing room as teammates finished washing away ninety minutes of effort.

Twenty minutes later he was dressed in his travel suit and his hair was still damp, and most of the squad was ready to leave while a few players finished final treatments with the medical staff.

As players began moving toward the door in small groups, Demien approached the staff liaison who stood near the exit checking his tablet.

"Excuse me," Demien said quietly, and the liaison looked up with professional attention.

"Yes?"

"I need permission to stay in Florence tonight instead of taking the team bus," Demien said, and his voice was calm. "My mother is here and I’d like to spend time with her. I’ll be back in Bergamo early tomorrow for recovery."

The liaison’s expression didn’t change and his response came after brief consideration. "Let me confirm with the coach."

He walked toward where Gasperini was speaking with one of the assistant coaches, and thirty seconds later he returned with a nod.

"Approved. Be at Centro Bortolotti by nine AM for recovery work. Don’t miss it."

"I won’t. Thank you."

The liaison made a note on his tablet and Demien moved back to collect his bag, and when he walked toward the exit several teammates were already filing out toward where the bus was waiting.