My Ultimate Gacha System

RASMUS HØJLUND

"I KNEW IT!" Demien and Tolói shouted in unison, and Højlund buried his face in his hands while his shoulders shook with embarrassed laughter.

"Okay, okay, we're done," the media staff member said, waving them off while still giggling. "That was perfect. You three are natural entertainers."

They stood and walked back toward the training complex, and Højlund shoved Demien's shoulder playfully. "You didn't have to expose me like that."

"You exposed yourself," Demien shot back. "Hip thrusts to a beat. Really?"

"It was one time!"

"The card said you have a full choreography memorized," Tolói added helpfully.

Højlund groaned and walked faster toward the locker room while the other two followed behind still laughing.

Friday, September 6th, 2022 Bortolotti Training Complex 12:34 PM

The locker room buzzed with post-training energy as players showered and changed into street clothes, and Demien sat at his locker pulling his Atalanta tracksuit on over a simple white t-shirt while his kit bag sat open beside him.

The system chimed softly.

「TRAINING SESSION COMPLETE」

「Quality: Good」

「REWARD: 10 TP」

「Current Balance: 285 TP | 0 SP | 116 MP」

He dismissed the notification and grabbed his AirPods from the locker shelf, sliding them into his ears as Spotify opened on his phone, and he scrolled until he found what he wanted—"Body" by CKay and Mavo—and the beat started flowing as he zipped his bag closed and slung it over his shoulder.

The walk to the bus stop took fifteen minutes through Zingonia's quiet streets, the afternoon sun warm against his face, and by the time he reached the stop and sat on the bench the second verse was already playing.

The bus arrived seven minutes later, and Demien climbed on, tapped his card, and found a seat near the back where he could lean his head against the window and let the music carry him home.

Friday, September 6th, 2022 Demien's Apartment, Bergamo 1:47 PM

His phone buzzed as he walked through his apartment door, and he pulled it from his pocket to see a text from Højlund.

Højlund: Yo come over

Højlund: The boys are at my place we're just hanging out playing fifa

Højlund: Bring snacks if you want

Demien smiled and typed back quickly.

Demien: Address?

The location pin came through within seconds, and Demien changed out of his tracksuit into jeans and a black hoodie before grabbing his keys and heading back out.

The bus ride to Højlund's place took twenty minutes, and when Demien knocked on the apartment door he could already hear voices and laughter from inside.

The door opened and Lookman stood there with a controller in one hand and a grin on his face. "Walter! Finally! Get in here!"

The apartment was bigger than Demien's—two bedrooms, an open living area with a massive TV mounted on the wall, and a kitchen where Koopmeiners was pulling pizza from the oven while Scalvini leaned against the counter eating chips directly from the bag.

"Demien!" Højlund called from the couch where he sat beside Hateboer, both of them holding controllers and staring at FIFA on the screen. "You're on my team next match. Lookman keeps scoring sweaty goals."

"They're not sweaty if they work," Lookman said, dropping onto the other couch and unpausing the game.

Demien walked into the kitchen and grabbed a slice of pizza from the box Koopmeiners was holding, and the Dutchman raised an eyebrow. "No 'hello'? No 'thank you'?"

"Hello. Thank you," Demien said through a mouthful of pepperoni, and Koopmeiners laughed and shook his head.

"You're lucky I like you."

Scalvini offered the chip bag toward Demien. "Want some?"

"What flavor?"

"Paprika."

"Pass."

The match on screen ended with Lookman winning 3-2, and Højlund threw his controller onto the couch cushion with exaggerated frustration. "That's bullshit. Your striker has 99 pace."

"So does yours!"

"Mine doesn't glitch through defenders like yours does!"

"That's called skill, Rasmus."

Demien sat on the armrest beside Hateboer and watched the next match start—Koopmeiners and Scalvini playing co-op against Lookman and Højlund—and the trash talk filled the room immediately as controllers clicked and players on screen sprinted across digital grass.

"Pass it!" Scalvini shouted at Koopmeiners.

"I'm through on goal!"

"You're offside!"

"No I'm not—oh shit I'm offside."

The whistle blew and Lookman's team got the ball back, and within thirty seconds he'd scored again with a finesse shot from outside the box that curled past the keeper.

"SIUUUUU!" Lookman jumped off the couch and did the Cristiano celebration across the living room while everyone else threw pillows at him.

"You're the worst," Højlund said, but he was laughing.

"I'm the best," Lookman corrected, sitting back down. "There's a difference."

Hateboer leaned toward Demien. "You play FIFA?"

"Not really. I'm shit at it."

"Perfect. You're playing next."

"I just said I'm shit."

"Exactly. I need an easy win."

The afternoon passed like that—matches, trash talk, pizza, laughter—and somewhere around hour three Koopmeiners suggested they order more food because six professional athletes could clear through two pizzas in forty minutes without trying.

By the time the sun started setting through the apartment windows, they'd moved from FIFA to Mario Kart to some racing game Scalvini insisted was "the most realistic driving simulator ever made" despite the fact that nobody could figure out how to actually drive the cars properly.

Demien sat on the floor with his back against the couch, a controller in his hands and a slice of pizza on a paper plate beside him, and he looked around the room at his teammates—Lookman arguing with Højlund about racing lines, Koopmeiners and Hateboer trying to explain how gears work, Scalvini just pressing random buttons and laughing when his car spun out—and something warm settled in his chest.

This was what David Drinkwater had never really had.

Not like this.

Not teammates who invited you over just to hang out, who shared pizza and played video games and trash-talked each other without malice, who treated you like family instead of competition.

"Demien, you're up," Højlund said, handing him a fresh controller. "Try not to crash immediately."

"No promises."

The race started, and Demien's car immediately veered into a wall.

Everyone burst out laughing.

"Told you I was shit," Demien said, grinning.

"Understatement of the year," Lookman added.

And the evening continued.

Saturday, September 7th, 2022 Demien's Apartment, Bergamo 7:12 AM

The alarm went off and Demien's eyes opened immediately, no grogginess, no hesitation, because match day required a different kind of awareness from the moment consciousness returned.

He sat up slowly and stretched his arms overhead, his shoulders popping quietly, and he walked to the kitchen in bare feet to start the morning routine that every professional footballer followed on game days.

Water first—a full glass, room temperature—then light stretching in the living room to wake his muscles up properly without wasting energy.

Breakfast came next: scrambled eggs, sliced fruit, oatmeal with honey, and green tea. Simple, clean, exactly what his body needed for sustained energy without feeling heavy.

While he ate, he opened his phone and pulled up the video clips the club analysts had sent last night—Cremonese's defensive shape, their left-back's tendency to push too high, the spaces that opened when their wing-backs committed forward.

He watched each clip twice, absorbing the patterns, and by the time he finished eating his mind had already mapped where the opportunities would come.

The morning passed slowly—he took a brief walk outside to clear his head, the Bergamo streets quiet on a Saturday morning—and at eleven he drove to the Atalanta training center at Zingonia.

Players always reported there first, even for home matches.

When Demien arrived, the staff were already moving through their pre-match procedures with practiced efficiency—hydration checks, taping, quick physio assessments—and he sat on the treatment table while one of the physios checked his ankles and calves for any tightness that needed addressing.

"Good?" the physio asked.

"Good."

The squad gathered in the tactical room for a final review—Gasperini standing at the front with the projector displaying Cremonese's shape one more time, reminding them about pressing triggers and how they wanted to break the defensive block.

"Stay patient," Gasperini said, his arms crossed. "They'll sit deep. We control the ball, we move them around, and eventually the gaps appear. Don't force it."

Lunch was provided by the club—pasta, chicken, vegetables, nothing heavy—and the team ate together in the dining area while conversations stayed light and focused.

At 1:15 PM they boarded the bus for the short ride to the Gewiss Stadium, and Demien sat near the back with his headphones in listening to his pre-match playlist while Bergamo passed by outside the window.

Fans were already gathering around the gates when they arrived, black and blue scarves waving, voices calling out names as the bus pulled into the stadium's secure entrance.

Inside the dressing room, Demien settled into his routine—checking his boots, laces tight and double-knotted, socks pulled up properly, shin guards positioned correctly—and he sat at his locker with his eyes closed listening to music while the room filled with quiet intensity around him.

An hour before kickoff they headed out for the warm-up—rondos first, then sprints, passing drills, finishing patterns—and the stadium filled around them as twenty-three thousand voices rose in anticipation.

Back in the dressing room they pulled on their match kits—Demien's number eight sitting perfectly across his shoulders—and Gasperini delivered his final instructions standing in the center of the room with every player's attention locked on him.

"Cremonese are bottom of the table for a reason. We're better than them. Go out there and prove it."

They stood as one, the captains leading them toward the tunnel, and Demien walked beside Koopmeiners as they lined up in the corridor with Cremonese's players across from them.

The noise from the stadium swelled, building with every second, and when the officials gave the signal both teams walked forward into the light.

The Gewiss Stadium roared.

Commentary Box - Gewiss Stadium

"Good afternoon and welcome to the Gewiss Stadium here in Bergamo, where Atalanta look to continue their strong start to the season as they host newly promoted Cremonese. I'm Marco Cattaneo alongside Luca Marchegiani, and Luca, Atalanta sit fifth in the table with seven points from three matches—one win, one draw, one loss—but they've been impressive going forward."

"Absolutely, Marco. Ten goals scored already, and a lot of that creativity comes through that number eight you see in the center circle—Demien Walter. Eighteen years old, two goals and five assists in his opening three Serie A appearances, and frankly he's been one of the stories of the early season."

"He has indeed. And it's been an interesting week for Walter off the pitch as well—officially committing to represent England at international level despite being eligible for Italy. That decision hasn't been popular with everyone, but you can't argue with his performances on the field."

"No, you can't. The talent is undeniable. What he's doing at eighteen years old—the composure, the vision, the way he controls matches from midfield—it's rare. He's being mentioned alongside Bellingham, alongside Pedri, alongside the best young midfielders in Europe right now. That's the level we're talking about."

"Cremonese will have their work cut out for them today. They're bottom of the table, no points from three matches, and they're coming to face an Atalanta side that's averaged over three goals per game. Gasperini's system is clicking, Walter is pulling the strings, and this could be a long afternoon for the visitors."

"Let's see how it unfolds. Atalanta in their traditional black and blue, Cremonese in grey. The referee is about to get us started here at the Gewiss."

Demien took his position in the center circle, the ball at his feet, and across from him Cremonese's midfielders waited in their defensive shape.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips.

3:00 PM. Kickoff.

The whistle blew sharp and clean, and Demien touched the ball forward to Højlund as the match began.