My Ultimate Gacha System

Friday, September 23, 2022

King Power Stadium, Leicester

Post-Match

The England squad moved through their cooldown routine on the pitch as the modest crowd continued filtering toward the exits, and the atmosphere carried that particular quality of a settled friendly where the result had been decided early and the final minutes had simply run down the clock without drama or tension.

Demien jogged slowly with the other substitutes in a wide circle around the center circle, his legs feeling the accumulated fatigue from five minutes of international football that had somehow felt longer than entire Serie A matches, and his mind replayed the sequence of his debut on loop—the hostile jeers from the Italian section when his name was announced, the dispossession on his first touch that made his chest tighten with frustration, the cleaner pass to Owen Blake that partially redeemed the mistake, and the brief words of encouragement from Carsley that acknowledged his composure without excessive praise.

Not dominant. Not spectacular. Just normal.

The words sat in his mind as he completed another lap, and he recognized them for what they were—honest assessment rather than disappointment, because debut caps weren't supposed to be spectacular, they were supposed to be professional introductions that showed you could handle the level without being overwhelmed by the occasion.

Owen Blake jogged beside him briefly before peeling off toward the England coaching staff for additional stretching, and as he passed he tapped Demien's shoulder once without words, and the gesture carried the same reassurance he'd offered on the pitch after the mistake—you're fine, shake it off, move forward.

The cooldown ended after another three minutes, and the England players began moving toward the tunnel in small groups as conversations resumed and the professional atmosphere softened slightly now that the match was officially complete, and Demien lingered near the back of the group because something about rushing felt wrong when his international debut deserved a moment of quiet acknowledgment even if nobody else was paying attention.

He glanced around the stadium one more time, taking in the sight of King Power's stands gradually emptying while maintenance staff began clearing debris from the aisles and photographers packed their equipment near the touchline, and the scoreboard still displayed ENGLAND 3-0 ITALY in bright digital numbers that confirmed what had happened even though it felt slightly unreal.

First cap. Five minutes. One mistake. One good pass. Composure when it mattered.

The summary felt accurate if unspectacular, and Demien accepted it because football wasn't always about highlight reels and dramatic moments, sometimes it was about showing you belonged at the level through simple professional execution that didn't require celebration or excessive analysis.

As he turned toward the tunnel, his eyes caught movement near the pitch-side barrier where the mixed zone typically formed for post-match media obligations, and at first he assumed it was event staff or journalists setting up for interviews, but then a figure lifted her head and their eyes met across twenty yards of grass, and recognition hit him like a physical impact that made his steps slow involuntarily.

Sophia Bianchi stood near the barrier wearing a black leather jacket over a simple white turtleneck and dark jeans, her hair pulled back in a way that made her features more striking, and she held a staff pass that hung from a lanyard around her neck, and everything about her presence felt intentional rather than coincidental because Sophia didn't attend football matches casually, she attended fashion events and photoshoots and brand launches, not U21 friendlies at King Power Stadium on Friday afternoons.

Their eyes held for a moment that stretched longer than it should have, and Demien felt his chest tighten with emotions he'd carefully boxed away over the past weeks—the quiet breakup that had followed his Adidas signing when the brand conflict became too complicated, the text messages that had gradually stopped coming, the Instagram posts he'd stopped checking because seeing her face made the distance feel heavier, and the unresolved feeling that they'd ended things for practical reasons rather than because either of them had actually wanted to walk away.

She looked cautious, uncertain, like she was debating whether approaching was the right decision, and her hand moved slightly as if she was about to wave before thinking better of it, and the hesitation in her body language suggested she hadn't planned exactly what she'd say if they actually spoke.

Before Demien could decide whether to approach or continue toward the tunnel, movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention, and Luca Bianchi jogged over from the Italian group still wearing his warm-up jacket with ITALIA printed across the chest, and his expression carried the easy confidence of someone who'd expected this moment and found it mildly amusing.

"Surprised?" Luca asked in Italian as he reached Demien, and his tone carried knowing amusement that suggested he'd been aware of Sophia's presence the entire time. "She flew in this morning. Said she wanted to watch me play."

"Just you?" Demien asked, and his voice came out more careful than he'd intended.

"That's what she told me," Luca replied with a slight grin, and he glanced toward his sister briefly before looking back at Demien. "But she's been watching you warm up for the past ten minutes, so maybe there were other reasons."

Demien didn't respond immediately because admitting he'd noticed Sophia's presence felt like acknowledging something he wasn't ready to name, and Luca seemed to recognize the hesitation because he clapped Demien's shoulder once before stepping back.

"I'm going to check in with the Italian staff," Luca said casually, and his tone suggested he was creating space deliberately rather than leaving because he had somewhere urgent to be. "You two should probably talk. Or don't. But standing here staring at each other looks stupid."

He walked away with that same knowing smirk, and Demien watched him go before turning back toward Sophia, and she was already moving closer to the barrier, and the distance between them closed to ten yards, then five, and then Demien was standing on the pitch side while she remained on the outer edge where spectators and staff were permitted, and the physical barrier between them felt symbolic in a way that neither acknowledged aloud.

"Congratulations," Sophia said first, and her voice carried warmth that felt genuine rather than performative. "First England cap. That's huge."

"Thanks," Demien replied, and he kept his tone measured because letting emotion leak through felt dangerous when he didn't know what this conversation was supposed to be. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"I came for Luca," she said quickly, and the explanation came too fast, like she'd rehearsed it. "He's been doing well at Braga, and I wanted to support him. Family, you know."

"Right. Family."

The word hung between them for a moment, and Sophia's expression shifted slightly as if she recognized that the explanation sounded incomplete, and she looked down at her hands briefly before meeting his eyes again.

"Okay, that's not the only reason," she admitted, and her voice softened. "I also wanted to see you. After everything that happened with the brands and the sponsorship mess and how we just... stopped talking. It didn't sit right with me. None of it did."

Demien felt something loosen in his chest, and he leaned slightly against the barrier because standing at full attention felt too formal for what this conversation was becoming, and when he spoke his voice carried honesty rather than defensiveness.