My Ultimate Gacha System-Chapter 323 - 310: Close the Season

Thursday, May 15, 2023

Demien’s Apartment, Bergamo

7:44 PM

The phone buzzed against the kitchen counter for the third time in a minute and they both heard it from the couch where the television was on low, and Demien looked toward the kitchen once before looking back at the screen.

Sophia glanced at him. "You’re going to have to deal with it at some point."

"Not tonight," he said.

"It was fine saying that at noon," she said. "It’s been six hours."

The phone buzzed again and this time it didn’t stop after two pulses — it ran and ran, which meant a call rather than a message, and the name on the screen when he finally walked over and picked it up was Marco Benetti.

He took it into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed while the door stayed half-open.

"Marco."

"Demien." Marco’s voice was composed in the way it always was when he was working, which was most of the time. "How are you feeling?"

"Good. Still processing."

"You’ll be processing it for a while," Marco said, and the warmth in it was genuine without being excessive. "What you did last night — I’ve been in this job a long time. That was something else."

"Thank you," Demien said, and he meant it simply.

There was a brief pause and then Marco shifted register in the way he did when they were past pleasantries. "I need you to understand what this morning looked like from my end," he said. "My phone has not stopped since approximately nine PM last night. I’ve had twelve calls from journalists wanting statements. Three from brand partners who want to extend. Two from award committees. And—" he paused, "—several inquiries from club representatives that I’m not going to get into tonight."

Demien was quiet for a moment. "How serious?"

"Serious enough that I want to handle them correctly," Marco said. "Which means not rushing. Not reacting. Not letting any of this run ahead of where we actually are." He let that sit for a second. "You have two league matches left. Champions League qualification is still not confirmed. That is the only thing that should be in your head until the final whistle against Parma."

"I know," Demien said.

"I mean it," Marco said, and the firmness was clear without being harsh. "Not because I don’t want to have these conversations — I do, and we will — but because the position we negotiate from in June is significantly stronger if you finish this season right. Secure Champions League football. Play well. Don’t give anyone a reason to lower their number. Then we sit down and we make decisions properly."

"What do you want me to say publicly?" Demien asked. "Journalists are going to come at me in Genoa."

"You say what you always say," Marco told him. "Focused on the team. Focused on the season. Everything else waits until June. Short answers, nothing specific. Don’t confirm or deny anything about clubs. Don’t discuss contract situations. If they push harder, you walk away — that’s what mixed zones are for."

"Understood."

"Good." There was a pause and Demien could hear Marco moving somewhere on the other end — a door closing, the ambient sound dropping. "The Golden Boy committee reached out today as well. Your odds have moved considerably since last night."

"That’s not something I’m thinking about."

"I know," Marco said, "and that’s exactly the right answer. But it’s something we need to manage carefully. I’ll handle communication on that side. Nothing from you directly."

"Fine," Demien said.

"Enjoy tonight," Marco said, and the warmth came back into his voice. "You’ve earned it. But tomorrow you’re a footballer with two matches left. That’s it."

"Yeah," Demien said. "I’ll talk to you this week."

He ended the call and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment while the bedroom was quiet and through the half-open door he could hear the television and the faint sound of Sophia shifting on the couch, and the phone in his hand had fourteen notifications that had arrived during the four minutes of the call alone.

He set it face-down on the nightstand and walked back into the living room.

******^*

Sophia was cross-legged on the couch with her own phone in her hands and the television was still on but her attention was on the screen in her palm, and when he sat down beside her she tilted the phone toward him without saying anything first.

His name was in the trending section.

She scrolled slowly through it. An article from La Gazzetta with a full-page graphic comparing his hat-trick goals to archival footage of Pelé’s 1958 World Cup final performance — the headline was in Italian but the comparison wasn’t subtle. Below it a BBC Sport piece with frame-by-frame analysis of the third goal, showing the drag-back turn and the contact point and the ball’s trajectory toward the corner, the kind of breakdown that usually appeared days after a match but had arrived within hours because the goal had earned it. Below that a Twitter thread from a tactical analyst with sixty thousand followers walking through his heat map from the match, red zones clustered between the lines in exactly the areas Gasperini had designed for him.

Then the Golden Boy odds. His name had moved from sixth to the outright favourite overnight.

He read it all without expression and she watched his face rather than the screen.

"Say something," she said.

"I don’t know what to say," he said, and he wasn’t being evasive — the comparison to Pelé specifically was the kind of thing that required distance before it meant anything.

"What does it feel like seeing your name up there like that?" she asked.

He thought about it properly rather than answering quickly. "Strange," he said. "Like it’s someone else they’re writing about. I know it’s not, but the distance between what I actually experienced last night and what they’re describing it as is quite large."

"That distance won’t close for a while," she said.

"I know."

She lowered the phone and turned slightly toward him on the couch, and her voice when she spoke next was quieter and more direct. "Can I tell you something without it coming across wrong?"

"Go on," he said.

"All of that—" she nodded toward the phone, "—is real. The goals happened. The record happened. People aren’t making it up." She held his gaze. "But I also know you spent thirty minutes before the second half lying on the grass in the Olimpico telling yourself you were going to be sick from nerves, and you overthought the pre-match warm-up to the point where Ederson had to tell you to slow down, and you checked the scoreboard four times in the first half when you were three-nil down like looking at it again would change the number." She paused. "The world sees the hat-trick. I know the person who was terrified for ninety minutes before it happened."

He didn’t answer immediately and she let the silence sit.

"That’s not a criticism," she said. "I’m saying it because you need someone to say it. You’re still just you. None of this changes the actual person. Don’t let them make it bigger than you can carry."

He looked at her. "I’m not sure whether that’s reassuring or deflating."

"Both," she said, and the corner of her mouth moved. "That’s why it’s useful."

He laughed, which was the first time he’d genuinely laughed since before the match, and she settled back against the cushions while reaching over to take the remote and find something on the television that had nothing to do with football, and outside the apartment Bergamo continued moving through Thursday evening with no particular interest in either of them.

They watched two films back to back and ordered food somewhere around nine and ate it from the containers on the coffee table, and at no point did either of them use the word football again.

She stayed the night.

******^

Friday, May 16, 2023

Demien’s Apartment, Bergamo

9:53 AM

Her driver was a black E-Class that arrived on the street below at five minutes to ten, and she had her bag packed before it pulled up because she’d done it the previous night before the films ended rather than rushing in the morning.

They stood at the door of the apartment while she pulled the bag’s strap over one shoulder and checked her phone once, and the day was already bright through the hallway window.

"Milan shoot tomorrow at seven," she said, "which means I need to be back today."

"I know," he said.

"And dinner with my father Friday evening." She looked at him. "Which I actually cannot reschedule again."

"Go," he said.

She reached up and put her hand against the side of his face briefly, and the gesture was simple. "Genoa on Saturday," she said. "Stay focused. Don’t read anything. Don’t listen to anything Marco hasn’t already cleared." She dropped her hand. "And don’t overthink the warm-up."

He smiled slightly at that. "I make no promises."

"Two matches," she said. "Close the season properly and then we deal with everything else."

"Yeah," he said.

She kissed him once and picked up the bag and walked down the hallway toward the staircase, and at the top of the stairs she turned back once. "Call me after Genoa," she said.

"I will," he said.

She went down the stairs and he stood in the doorway until the sound of the building door closing carried up from below, and then he stepped back inside and shut the apartment door and the space became quiet in the specific way it did after she left, which was not uncomfortable but noticeable.

He moved to the kitchen and made coffee and drank it standing at the counter while the phone sat face-up on the surface with the notifications muted, and outside the window the city was going about its morning.