My Ultimate Gacha System

Team Bus — Leaving The Allianz

The bus was quiet in patches, the overhead lights dimmed low, some players scrolling through their phones with one earbud in, others just staring out the window at Munich sliding past dark and wet under the streetlights.

Demien sat with the award resting against his leg, and his own phone had already started buzzing steadily in his pocket — the free kick, the SIUUU, the Højlund assist, the Casemiro header, and the handshake with Adriano were all spreading online before the bus had even cleared the stadium car park.

Bruno leaned across the aisle and turned his phone screen toward him. "You really did that," he said. "In Munich. On television, for the whole world."

"The body moved before the brain," Demien said, shrugging.

A couple of the nearby players laughed properly at that, the sound loosening something in the bus that the scoreline hadn’t allowed all night, and for a moment the tiredness lifted just slightly before settling back down as the bus turned onto the motorway.

Flight Back To Manchester

Demien tried to sleep on the flight and couldn’t manage more than a doze. Every time his eyes closed, it wasn’t the free kick that came back to him behind his eyelids — it was Bayern’s third goal, the far-side runner he’d seen half a second too late, his own legs already moving and still not fast enough, the ball hitting the net while he was still two full steps away from doing anything about it.

The Man of the Match trophy sat in the overhead locker directly above his seat. It didn’t change what he kept replaying in the dark of the cabin.

Thursday, September 21, 2023

Morning

The headlines were already split by the time he checked his phone properly, sitting up in bed with the curtains still drawn.

WALTER RESCUES UNITED IN MUNICH

ONE GOAL, TWO ASSISTS — DEMIEN ANNOUNCES HIMSELF IN EUROPE

UNITED FIND A STAR BUT STILL LEAK GOALS

BAYERN 3–3 UNITED: CHARACTER SAVES TEN HAG, DEFENCE STILL UNDER FIRE

Pundits argued over it across every channel he flicked past. One said Demien had already made himself United’s most reliable midfielder after barely a month in the building. Another said no team could keep depending on a nineteen-year-old to drag them out of chaos every single week, and that United’s real problems hadn’t gone anywhere. A third said Bayern should be furious with themselves for letting a two-goal lead slip at home in front of their own crowd.

Fame and pressure had arrived on the same morning, tangled into each other so tightly he couldn’t have pulled them apart if he’d tried.

Isabella called first, before he’d even finished reading through the headlines.

"I screamed," she said, before he’d properly finished saying hello. "When that free kick went in, Demien, I actually screamed. I think I woke your neighbor."

He smiled properly for the first time since the final whistle, sitting back against his pillows. "You watched the whole thing?"

"Every single minute," she said. "I couldn’t sit down after the third goal went in against you. I was pacing the kitchen like a crazy woman." She laughed, and he could hear the pride under it plainly. "I’m proud of you. That’s all I called to say."

"Thanks, Mamma."

"Eat something proper today," she added. "Not just the shakes."

Marco called rather than texted, which told Demien something before he’d even answered, and Marco was clearly trying hard to sound composed.

"I watched the free kick maybe six times," Marco said. "The pass to Højlund, more than that. Casemiro’s header, I honestly lost count somewhere around the eighth replay."

"Only six times?" Demien said.

"I’m your agent, not your fan account," Marco said, and then, after a pause, "I shouted like one, though. In my own living room. I’ll admit that much."

Demien laughed, properly this time, and Marco let the moment sit for a second before he said the thing that actually mattered to him.

"I’m proud of you because you wanted the ball when it was 3-1 down," Marco said, his voice dropping slightly, more serious now. "Not because of what the headlines say tomorrow. That’s the part that matters to me. That’s always been the part that matters to me."

Demien went quiet for a second. That landed harder than anything the pundits had said all morning.

"We’ll talk properly about what tonight means commercially in a few days," Marco said, gentler now, the agent voice softening back into something warmer. "Today, eat something, sleep properly, and let the people who love you be happy about this without you overthinking it. You’ve earned that much, at least for one day."

"I will."

"I know," Marco said. "Talk soon."

Demien hesitated over Sophia’s name on his screen longer than he had over anyone else’s that morning. The media praise was easy enough to sit with. This wasn’t, not quite.

She picked up laughing before he’d even said a word, like she’d been waiting with her thumb over the screen.

"The SIUUU," she said. "What possessed you? In Munich, Demien, in the actual Allianz Arena?"

"The stadium was loud," he said. "I scored. My body made a decision without asking me first."

She laughed properly at that, a real laugh, and something in his chest loosened that hadn’t loosened all night despite everyone else’s calls.

Then her voice softened, quieter. "I’m proud of you."

He didn’t answer straight away. He let it sit there for a second, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the ceiling.

"You looked like you belonged out there," she said.

"Didn’t feel like that when it went 3-1," he admitted quietly.

"You didn’t disappear, though," she said. "That’s the part I saw. Whatever the scoreline says."

He didn’t have an answer for that one either, not right away, and she didn’t fill the silence for him, just let it sit until he was ready to speak again.

She didn’t let the call run too long after that. "Sleep properly tonight. Eat something real, not just the shake." He gave her a short answer back, something small and half-formed, but he’d wanted the call more than he’d expected to when he first hesitated over her name.

Friday, September 22, 2023

Carrington Training Centre

The academy boys looked at him differently walking in the next morning, heads turning a fraction longer than usual as he crossed the car park. Not worship — recognition. He wasn’t just the sixty-two million pound signing anymore, or the kid who’d broken through at Atalanta. He was the nineteen-year-old who’d dragged United back from 3-1 down at the Allianz, on television, in front of the whole continent.

A member of the medical staff handed him a recovery plan without needing to explain any of it, the paper already printed with his name at the top. A teammate clapped him once on the back walking past and muttered something about the award without breaking stride. The cameras stationed at the gate were louder and more numerous than they’d been all week, shutters going off in a cluster as his car rolled through.

Ten Hag called him over before the session started properly, standing near the edge of the recovery pitch with his arms folded.

"Excellent performance," Ten Hag said, holding his gaze steady. "But now they prepare for you differently. Opponents will know your name on the team sheet before kickoff, every week from now. And your own teammates — when a match is going wrong, they will look for you first. Every time."

Demien nodded slowly, and his hand tightened slightly around the recovery sheet without him quite meaning it to, because the praise had already turned into something heavier than praise the moment Ten Hag said it out loud.

Ten Hag looked from the recovery pitch back to him, holding the look a second longer.

"Now you learn the harder part."