July 14th, 2018 — Varese, Lombardy, Italy
Centro Sportivo Milanello
The black gates of Milanello opened slowly, like the entrance to a sacred temple.
Not just for training, but for transformation.
Enzo Sky Vito sat in the back of the black SUV, his headphones around his neck and his eyes locked on the sprawling green fields ahead. The AC Milan crest stood tall on a red-and-black sign as they passed it. It wasn't just a logo anymore.
It was real.
"Buona fortuna, piccolo alieno," his older brother Luca said from the driver's seat with a grin, ruffling Enzo's blond hair before he could protest. "Go do what you were born to do."
Enzo nodded, grabbed his duffel, and stepped out into the humid morning air.
He inhaled deeply.
Grass, leather, sweat, and legacy.
This was where legends had bled. Maldini. Baresi. Pirlo. Kaka.
And now, him.
Inside the facility, he followed the signs to the main reception, heart pounding with every step. Every corner of Milanello was pristine — modern halls, glass displays of trophies and shirts, historical photos lining the walls. It felt like walking through time.
"Name?" asked the receptionist without looking up.
"Enzo Sky Vito."
The woman looked up then — a pause, a flicker of recognition.
"Ah. You're the one Gattuso called up. One moment."
She handed him a sleek black folder and nodded. "Welcome to the first team.
Locker's already assigned — 39."
Thirty-nine.
His first official number. Not glamorous, not famous.
But his.
And that was enough.
As he walked into the changing room, the noise hit him like a wave — voices bouncing off the walls, music playing, boots being laced, bottles popping open. Real pros. Full-grown men. Some of them legends.
He paused in the doorway.
There they were.
Donnarumma, laughing as he boxed playfully with Abate.
Romagnoli, taping his ankles.
Kessié, already drenched in sweat.
Cutrone, fixing his hair in the mirror for the third time.
And sitting quietly in the corner, scrolling through his phone, was Hakan Çalhanoğlu.
For a second, Enzo just stood there.
Then Donnarumma spotted him.
"Sky!" he shouted across the room. "The golden kid's here!"
Heads turned. Some curious, some skeptical.
Enzo gave a small nod, walking toward his locker — his name already printed above 39.
He sat down, slowly opening his bag. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Çalhanoğlu stand up and walk over.
"You're the boy with the bicycle kicks, yeah?" Hakan said, smiling. "I've seen the academy tapes."
Enzo blinked. "You have?"
"Of course," Hakan chuckled, sitting next to him. "Gattuso showed us. Said you play like you're possessed by someone who hates defenders. I like that."
He held out a hand.
"Don't worry. You'll be fine. Just play your football."
Enzo shook it.
Right then, the nerves started to melt away.
He didn't need to prove he was someone else.
He just needed to be himself.
TRAINING
The first session wasn't a warm welcome.
It was a trial by fire.
Gattuso was loud. As always.
"Press! Press! Move, cazzo! You're not here for Instagram videos!"
Enzo was placed as a left winger in a tight rondo drill. Three touches. Limited space. No time to think.
Bonucci closed him down.
Enzo flicked it between his legs with a blind backheel — straight to Çalhanoğlu.
Gasps. Laughter.
Gattuso paused.
"Don't overdo it, ragazzo… but nice."
By the second hour, Enzo was drenched in sweat but buzzing with adrenaline. He'd held his own. Created chances. Scored a cheeky near-post flick in a mini-match.
Not bad for a teenager with blond hair and nerves.
Later That Day
As the sun began to fall over Milanello, Enzo walked out onto the grass by himself, wearing just his training kit and cleats.
He placed a ball down at the edge of the box, took a few steps back, and hit a curling strike that bounced off the post and in.
He grinned.
The silence was peaceful. The wind kissed the trees. His heart was calm now.
He turned and walked toward the locker room.
He had arrived.
But he hadn't begun yet.