My Ultimate Gacha System

"The brand conflict was real," he said carefully. "I wasn't trying to make things difficult when I signed with Adidas. It just happened that way."

"I know," Sophia replied, and she nodded once. "And I handled it poorly. The agencies were pushing me to distance myself from anyone connected to competing brands, and I let that pressure become more important than what actually mattered. Which was stupid."

"It made sense at the time," Demien offered, though the words felt hollow even as he said them. "Your career, my career. Sometimes timing just doesn't work."

"Maybe," Sophia said, and she looked at him directly. "But I don't think it was just timing. I think we both panicked when things got complicated instead of actually talking about it. And then it became easier to just... drift apart rather than deal with the uncomfortable parts."

The assessment felt accurate in a way that made Demien uncomfortable because acknowledging they'd both contributed to the breakup meant accepting responsibility rather than blaming circumstances, and he'd spent weeks telling himself that the brand conflict had been the reason when maybe it had just been the excuse they'd both used to avoid having harder conversations.

"So what now?" he asked, and the question came out more vulnerable than he'd intended.

"I don't know," Sophia admitted, and her honesty felt refreshing after weeks of careful distance. "I'm not here to fix everything or pretend like we can just pick up where we left off. But I wanted to see you. I wanted to say that how we ended things was wrong, and that I'm sorry for my part in it."

"I'm sorry too," Demien said, and he meant it because even if the circumstances had been complicated, the way they'd handled it had been cowardly. "For not fighting harder. For letting the brand stuff become an excuse to avoid the real conversation."

Sophia smiled slightly, and the expression carried relief mixed with uncertainty, and she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear in that unconscious gesture she always made when she was processing something emotional, and Demien felt the familiarity of it settle over him like muscle memory.

"Walter!" A voice called from near the tunnel entrance, and Demien turned to see one of England's coaching staff gesturing for the remaining players to head inside. "Let's go! Bus leaves in twenty!"

He raised a hand in acknowledgment before turning back to Sophia, and the moment felt fragile in a way that made him want to extend it but also recognize its natural endpoint, and when he spoke his voice carried both warmth and practicality.

"I should go," he said. "Team obligations."

"I know," Sophia replied, and she stepped back from the barrier slightly. "But maybe we could talk more later? Not tonight, I know you probably have team stuff. But tomorrow? Or this week?"

"Yeah," Demien agreed, and relief washed through him because the door staying open felt better than forcing closure. "I'll text you."

"Okay," Sophia said, and she smiled properly this time, and the expression reached her eyes in a way that made Demien's chest tighten. "Go. Don't keep them waiting."

He nodded once and turned toward the tunnel, and as he walked away he felt her eyes on his back, and the weight of it carried something between hope and uncertainty that he couldn't quite name but also couldn't ignore.

Luca appeared at the tunnel entrance as Demien approached, and his expression carried knowing amusement mixed with genuine curiosity, and when Demien reached him Luca fell into step beside him as they moved into the cooler concrete corridor that led toward the dressing rooms.

"So?" Luca asked in Italian, and his tone suggested he already knew the broad strokes but wanted details. "You two work everything out? Kiss and make up? Dramatic reunion?"

"We talked," Demien replied, and he kept his voice neutral because giving Luca too much information meant dealing with endless teasing. "That's it. Just talked."

"But you're going to talk more," Luca pressed, and he grinned. "Because if you're not, then my sister flew to Leicester for nothing, and she's going to be insufferable on the ride back to the hotel."

"We'll figure it out," Demien said, and the vagueness was intentional because he genuinely didn't know what came next, and forcing answers felt premature when the conversation had barely reopened. "One step at a time."

"Fair enough," Luca conceded, and he clapped Demien's shoulder once before gesturing back toward where the Italian squad was gathering. "I should go. Team bus and all that. But hey—good debut, even with the fuck-up. You recovered well."

"Thanks, brother."

"And Demien?" Luca's expression turned more serious for a moment. "Whatever happens with you and Sophia, just actually talk this time. Don't do that thing where you both pretend everything's fine until it's not."

The advice landed with weight because Luca knew both of them well enough to recognize their patterns, and Demien nodded once in acknowledgment before Luca jogged back toward the Italian group, and then Demien continued alone toward England's dressing room where the rest of the squad was already changing and preparing for the journey back to St. George's Park.

As he pushed through the door, the familiar sounds of post-match banter filled the space—players laughing, music playing from someone's phone, showers running in the background—and Demien moved to his designated spot and began changing out of his match kit while his mind stayed partially elsewhere.

First England cap. Five minutes. One mistake corrected. One conversation reopened. Possibilities left undefined.

The summary felt more complete now, and as Demien pulled on his tracksuit and laced his trainers, he recognized that debut days weren't just about what happened on the pitch, sometimes they were about everything that happened around the margins—the hostile reception that reminded him his international choice had consequences, the brief moment with Luca that confirmed their friendship transcended national team rivalries, and the unexpected conversation with Sophia that suggested some endings weren't as final as they'd seemed.

He grabbed his kit bag and followed his teammates toward the tunnel exit where the team bus waited, and as he climbed aboard and found a seat near the back, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and saw a message from an unsaved number that he recognized immediately.

Unknown: It was good seeing you today. Really good. Let's talk properly when things settle down. xx

Demien stared at the message for a moment before saving the contact—Sophia—and typing a response.

Demien: Yeah. It was. We'll figure it out.

He sent it and pocketed his phone, and as the bus pulled away from King Power Stadium and merged onto the motorway toward St. George's Park, Demien leaned his head against the window and let exhaustion settle over him while satisfaction mixed with uncertainty created a feeling he couldn't quite name but also didn't mind carrying.

Normal.

Exactly what a debut day should be.