Nike Studio, Central Milan

9:17 AM

The studio was in a converted warehouse space near Porta Garibaldi with exposed brick walls and industrial lighting that created the specific aesthetic Nike preferred for their athlete content, and when Demien arrived at nine-ten a production assistant met him at the entrance and guided him through the building toward the main shooting area where equipment was already set up and crew members were adjusting cameras and reflectors.

"Demien, good morning," the creative director said when Demien walked into the main space, and the man extended his hand for a brief professional handshake before gesturing toward the setup. "We’re doing action shots first—you with the ball, various poses, different angles. Then we move to promotional stills for the boot launch campaign. Should run about four hours total if everything goes smoothly."

The creative director’s name was Andrea and he’d worked Nike shoots before so the rhythm was familiar—efficient rather than artistic, focused on deliverables rather than creative exploration—and the whole operation moved with the practiced precision of people who photographed elite athletes for product campaigns multiple times per week.

"Wardrobe first," Andrea said, and he pointed toward a curtained area on the far side of the studio where clothing racks held multiple Nike training kits in different colorways. "Standard Atalanta training kit for action shots, then we have the new Mercurial collection for the promotional work. Maria will help you with sizing."

Maria was the wardrobe coordinator and she had Demien changed into the first outfit within five minutes—black Atalanta training top with the Nike swoosh prominent on the chest, matching black shorts, the new Mercurial Superfly IX boots in the electric blue colorway that Nike was pushing for the upcoming season launch.

Action shots started at nine-thirty and the photographer—a woman named Elena who’d shot for Nike Italia for eight years and had worked with Serie A players ranging from Immobile to Dybala—directed Demien through poses that required him to dribble the ball, strike it, control it mid-air, all while maintaining the specific body positioning that made the boots visually prominent without looking staged.

"Freeze there," Elena called out from behind her camera when Demien’s right foot was planted and his left foot was raised mid-step with the ball rolling ahead. "Perfect. Hold it."

The shutter clicked in rapid succession—ten frames, fifteen frames, twenty frames—and Demien held the position while his left leg started burning from the unnatural static hold, and when Elena finally said "release" his leg dropped and he moved naturally again while she reviewed the images on her camera screen.

Four hours compressed into repetition—change outfit, adjust lighting, reposition ball, freeze pose, hold position, shutter clicks, review images, repeat—and by the time the promotional stills wrapped at one-fifteen Demien’s face hurt from holding the neutral-confident expression Nike preferred for athlete campaigns and his legs were more tired from static holds than they’d been from yesterday’s practice match.

"That’s wrap," Andrea said when the final shot was confirmed, and he shook Demien’s hand again with the same professional efficiency he’d shown at the start. "Great work. We’ll have proofs to your agent within two weeks for approval before anything goes to print. Launch timeline is September so you’ll start seeing the campaign around Serie A matchday three or four." 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Demien changed back into his regular clothes—dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt that didn’t have logos or branding because off-duty meant being invisible rather than promotional—and by one-thirty he was walking out of the studio into Milan’s midday heat where his car was parked two blocks away and the drive back to Bergamo would take ninety minutes if the A4 wasn’t blocked by construction.

The drive back was smooth and he arrived at the apartment at three-ten where Luca was already sitting on the couch watching a Serie B match on television with his feet up on the coffee table and a sandwich half-eaten on the plate beside him.

"How was playing dress-up?" Luca asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Exhausting in ways that have nothing to do with football." Demien dropped his bag near the door and moved to the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the meal prep containers he’d organized Sunday night—grilled chicken, brown rice, steamed vegetables in portions measured for post-training recovery.

He ate standing at the counter while Luca’s match continued on the television and the afternoon passed in the quiet comfortable way afternoons passed when both of them had finished their work and nothing required immediate attention.

At four-thirty Luca’s phone buzzed and he checked it before looking over at Demien. "Hojlund confirmed for tomorrow. Nine PM at that bar near the Accademia. Scalvini’s bringing a couple others from the squad. Should be eight or nine of us total."

"Confirmed," Demien said, and he put his empty container in the sink before moving to the couch where he sat and pulled out his phone to check messages he’d been ignoring during the shoot.

Marco had texted at eleven: Chelsea confirmed Saturday 2 PM their Milano office near Duomo. Pochettino will be there. This completes the three meetings. After Saturday you have all information needed to make decision.

Demien typed back: Understood. Friday night I’m going out with Hojlund before he leaves for Manchester. Won’t be late.

Marco’s response came within thirty seconds: Fine. Stay professional. No videos of you drunk on social media before a transfer meeting.

Demien locked his phone and set it face-down on the couch beside him, and the afternoon continued in the same quiet rhythm while outside the apartment Bergamo moved through its Thursday and pre-season training continued building toward August thirteenth when the actual season would start and everything would matter again.

Friday Night

Bar Della Accademia, Bergamo

9:23 PM

The bar was in Bergamo’s Città Alta—upper town—where narrow streets climbed toward the old city walls and tourists mixed with locals in the piazzas that had been there since medieval times, and the specific bar Hojlund had chosen was tucked into a side street near the Accademia Carrara with outdoor seating under umbrellas that protected tables from the lights strung overhead.

Demien and Luca arrived at nine-fifteen and Hojlund was already sitting at a corner table with Scalvini and two other Atalanta squad players—Ruggeri and Soppy—and when they saw Demien and Luca approaching Hojlund stood and grabbed two empty chairs from a nearby table to make space.

"Finally," Hojlund said when they sat down, and his voice carried the specific energy that came from someone who was celebrating a major life change and needed company to process it properly. "I’ve been here twenty minutes already. Scalvini’s been talking about real estate the entire time."

"The apartment near the Accademia is a good investment," Scalvini said without missing a beat, and he took a drink from his beer before continuing. "Forty-two hundred a month is reasonable for three bedrooms in that location, and property values in Bergamo have been climbing steadily since—"

"Nobody cares," Ruggeri interrupted, and the table laughed while Scalvini shrugged and went back to his drink.

The night developed in the way these nights always developed—drinks arrived, conversations split into smaller exchanges between pairs while the group dynamic shifted every fifteen minutes as topics changed, and the noise from the street mixed with music from inside the bar while Bergamo’s evening energy built around them.

Hojlund was leaving Saturday morning for Manchester and the transfer had been finalized two days ago after weeks of negotiation between Atalanta and United, and the fee was somewhere around seventy million euros depending on which Italian sports outlet you believed, and the weight of that number sat on Hojlund in ways he didn’t fully acknowledge but everyone at the table understood because they’d all signed professional contracts and knew what expectations came attached to transfer fees.

"You nervous?" Demien asked during a quieter moment when the conversation had split and it was just him and Hojlund on one side of the table while the others were debating whether Atalanta’s fixture list was harder in the first half or second half of the upcoming season.

"Not about the football," Hojlund said, and his tone was honest rather than confident. "United’s system suits me, Ten Hag knows how to develop strikers, the Premier League is faster but I’m fast enough to handle it. That part I’m not worried about."