Chapter 63: Chapter 62: Chelsea Vs Atalanta [III]
Mount’s right foot swung through, and the contact was clean—perfect technique, perfect weight, the ball curling away from his foot with vicious spin.
Carnesecchi saw it late, reacted late, dove full stretch with his right hand extended. His fingertips grazed the ball, but not enough to change its path.
The ball clipped the inside of the post—that metallic sound again—and spun into the net.
Chelsea 2-1 Atalanta (28’)
The stadium exploded. Stamford Bridge roared its approval, the noise washing over everything like a physical force.
Demien exhaled slowly, watching Mount wheel away toward the corner flag with his arms wide. That’s the quality difference. He found the space, just like Gasperini warned. One touch to turn, one touch to shoot, and it’s in. World class.
Malinovskiy, sitting beside him, shook his head with something like admiration. "That boy is special. Did you see how he created that space? The first touch took him away from Pessina, and suddenly he’s got room to shoot."
"And Carnesecchi almost saved it," Moretti added.
"Almost doesn’t count," Demien said quietly. "At this level, you either save it or you don’t."
Gasperini was furious on the touchline, screaming at Pessina for allowing Mount to turn, at Scalvini for not stepping out sooner. But the damage was done.
Atalanta kicked off again, now chasing the game for the second time.
At the 35th minute, Atalanta pushed forward hard.
The press caught Chelsea off guard.
Sterling received the ball in midfield, tried to turn away from de Roon, but the Dutch captain read it perfectly. De Roon’s tackle was clean and strong, winning the ball without fouling, and suddenly Atalanta had possession in a dangerous area.
The ball fell to Pessina ten yards behind de Roon. The Italian midfielder looked up immediately, saw space ahead, and drove forward with the ball at his feet.
Chelsea’s defense scrambled to recover. Their fullbacks had pushed high in attack, and now Atalanta had numbers going forward. Mæhle sprinted down the right wing, his pace taking him past Alonso with ease.
Pessina played it wide to Mæhle with his right foot, and the Danish wingback didn’t break stride. He took one touch to control, one to push it forward, and suddenly he was at the byline with Silva and Koulibaly both caught in the middle.
Mæhle looked up, saw bodies in the box, and delivered the cross low and hard across the six-yard box.
Miranchuk had timed his run perfectly. The Russian attacker peeled away from Silva’s shoulder, his movement taking him across the defender’s blind side. Silva tried to turn, tried to track him, but Miranchuk was already past.
The ball arrived at Miranchuk’s feet at the penalty spot. His first touch was clean, controlling it instantly, and his second was the shot—right-footed, low, aimed at the far corner.
The contact was good, but the direction was slightly off. The ball flew past Mendy’s right post by inches, missing the target by the smallest margin.
Miranchuk dropped to his knees immediately, both hands on his head, frustration written across his face. So close. Should have scored.
Demien watched the Russian midfielder slowly get back to his feet, and David’s experience whispered in his mind: That’s the difference at this level. You don’t get many chances against teams like Chelsea. When you get one, you have to take it. Miss, and they punish you.
The away section behind the goal groaned collectively, the sound of opportunity lost.
Gasperini clapped from the touchline, encouraging, but his face showed disappointment. He knew, just like everyone else—that was the chance.
At 42:00, the chance came for Chelsea.
The team won a throw-in deep in Atalanta’s half, and James jogged over to take it quickly. The wingback picked up the ball, wiped it once on his shorts, and threw it hard to Sterling ten yards away.
Sterling tried to turn Tolói immediately, his quick feet dancing on the ball, but the Italian defender stayed with him. Tolói’s experience showed—he didn’t dive in, didn’t commit, just stayed close and forced Sterling wide.
Sterling tried one more feint, but Tolói wasn’t buying it. The defender stepped in, timed his tackle perfectly, and won the ball cleanly.
Tolói looked up immediately, saw Pašalić ahead, and played it forward with his right foot.
Pašalić controlled on his chest and tried a first-time pass to Zapata, who was making a run toward the halfway line. The pass had the right idea—catch Chelsea’s defense high up the pitch—but the execution was slightly off.
The ball was too loose, traveling too slowly, and Kanté read it instantly.
The Frenchman intercepted with two quick steps, his positioning so perfect that it looked effortless. One touch to control, one to steady, and suddenly Chelsea were attacking again.
Kanté drove forward, covering twenty yards in seconds. Pessina tried to close him down, but Kanté’s acceleration took him past. De Roon slid in from the side, but Kanté shifted the ball onto his left foot, evading the challenge without breaking stride.
Thirty-five yards from goal, Kanté looked up. Havertz had drifted wide on the left, dragging Zappacosta with him. The space opened up in the channel—that gap between Atalanta’s right center-back and their wingback.
Kanté’s pass was perfect. Weighted with precision, played into the space where Havertz wanted to run, not where he was standing.
Havertz controlled it smoothly with his first touch, his long legs eating up the ground as he drove toward the penalty area. Scalvini tried to step out to meet him, but Havertz was already cutting inside onto his right foot.
The shot came from eighteen yards, low and hard, aimed at the far corner.
It should have been a comfortable save, but Moretti stuck out a leg trying to block it, and the deflection changed everything. The ball looped off his shin, spinning high and slow, arcing over Carnesecchi’s outstretched hand and dropping under the crossbar into the net.
Chelsea 3-1 Atalanta (42’)
Demien watched Kanté jog back into position, barely breathing hard despite covering half the pitch. Thirty-seven years as David Drinkwater taught him what he was seeing: Players like Kanté are different. He covers every blade of grass. That interception was pure reading of the game—he knew what Pašalić would do before Pašalić did.
The deflection was unlucky, but the goal came from Chelsea’s quality. From Kanté winning the ball, from his drive forward, from Havertz’s movement and finish. Even with the deflection, the goal was earned.
Atalanta’s players looked deflated now. Two-one had felt manageable. Three-one, three minutes before halftime, felt like a mountain.
Gasperini was shouting from the touchline, his arms waving frantically, trying to keep his team’s heads up. But the damage was done.
Then the 45th minute arrived.
The fourth official held up his board on the touchline, the electronic numbers glowing: +2.
Two minutes of added time.
Atalanta tried to push forward one more time, desperate to get a goal back before the break. Zappacosta received the ball on the left touchline and drove forward, his legs pumping hard as he took on Azpilicueta.
The Spanish fullback stayed with him, not committing, forcing Zappacosta wider and wider until the wingback had no choice but to cross.
The ball came in high toward the back post. Zapata had made his run, beating Koulibaly to the space, rising high above the defender to meet it with his head.
But Silva had read it. The Brazilian defender stepped across, perfectly positioned, and his header sent the ball looping back toward the halfway line.
The clearance fell to Jorginho, who was already in position, always in position. He controlled it with his chest, let it drop, and looked around calmly as if he had all the time in the world.
Pessina sprinted toward him, trying to press, but Jorginho simply turned away from the pressure and played it square to Kanté five yards away.
Kanté shielded the ball with his body, feeling Pessina’s presence behind him but not panicking. He took one touch to control, another to set himself, and then just held possession, his stocky frame creating a wall between the ball and the pressing Italian midfielder.
The referee checked his watch.
Kanté kept the ball, rolling it under his foot, waiting.
The whistle blew—sharp and final.
HALF-TIME: Chelsea 3-1 Atalanta
Demien stood with the other substitutes and walked toward the tunnel. His legs felt restless, his hands tingled, and his mind was racing through everything he’d just watched.
Sterling’s movement off the ball. Mount’s technique and vision. Kanté’s reading of the game, his ability to be everywhere at once. Jorginho’s control and composure.
This is the level. This is what Premier League and Champions League football looks like. Every mistake gets punished. Every touch has to be clean. Every decision has to be right.
And in fifteen minutes, he’d be out there.
His heart hammered as he followed his teammates down the narrow corridor toward the away dressing room, and the thought repeated itself with every step: You’re going to play. Against Chelsea. At Stamford Bridge.
The door to the dressing room loomed ahead, and Demien walked through it with his pulse racing and his mind already preparing for what came next.