My Ultimate Gacha System

Chapter 347 - 21: Malta Away Preparation II

He woke to the beginning of the descent and looked out the window at the Mediterranean — proper blue, the specific blue of the central Mediterranean that was different from the Ligurian coast he’d seen from the yacht, darker and cleaner, the water colour that made sense for a sea that had been warming continuously for three months.

Malta appeared off the right wing before they turned on approach — small, flat, limestone-coloured, the Valletta harbour visible from this altitude and the streets of the capital laid out in their grid above the water, and further in from the coast the interior of the island was fields and roads and small clusters of buildings that looked nothing like anywhere he’d played before.

Ta’ Qali was visible from the approach path — a compact oval in the centre of the island, surrounded by open land, smaller than he’d expected even knowing the capacity figure, and the pitch looked decent from the air but the stands were modest and the floodlight pylons were lower than any Serie A ground he’d been to.

The bus from Malta International Airport took forty minutes through narrow roads with stone walls on both sides and the air when they stepped off at the hotel was a specific Mediterranean heat — dense, windless, the kind that pressed against you from all sides at once rather than the dry warmth of northern Italy in summer.

The hotel was on the bay at St George’s — five-star, facing the water, the Mediterranean visible from most of the rooms — and check-in took twelve minutes because the FA had pre-registered everyone and the key cards were in a labelled envelope at the desk.

New room. New roommate. Eze this time — he was already in the room when Demien got there, sitting on the bed nearest the window eating a banana with his boots by the door.

"Warm," Eze said.

"Yeah," Demien said.

They unpacked without ceremony and went to lunch.

Ta’ Qali National Stadium — 6:15 PM

The stadium looked exactly as it had from the air — compact, older, functional rather than impressive — and when the bus pulled into the secure entrance the temperature was still 28 degrees and the sun had moved behind the main stand but hadn’t cooled anything down yet.

The pitch was good. Harder surface than English pitches, dryer, and when Demien walked onto it for the warm-up jog he could feel the firmness through his boots and understood what that meant — ball would travel faster, bounces would be truer, and the distance on his long passing would change slightly in a way that required adjustment before tomorrow.

Southgate led the group around one lap at a jogging pace while the groundskeeper stood near the corner flag watching and the stadium sat empty and quiet around them, and the seats were older green plastic and the terracing on the away end was steeper than it looked from pitch level.

Kane took the first shooting practice effort and his contact was clean but the ball arrived at Pickford quicker than expected — the firmer surface removing the slowing effect that English pitches gave to ground shots. He watched three more before he understood the adjustment: slightly more lift on driven shots, trust the pace was already there.

Fifteen minutes and they were back on the bus.

Ten AM wake-up tomorrow. Noon lunch. Three-thirty team meeting. Six o’clock leave for stadium. Seven-forty-five kickoff.

Friday, June 16, 2023Team Hotel — St George’s Bay8:15 AM

The hotel restaurant at eight in the morning had the scatter pattern of a matchday breakfast — some players eating early and leaving quickly, others nursing coffees while looking at phones, nobody talking tactics because tactics had been talked and the only thing remaining was the match itself.

Demien collected eggs and toast and sat with Eze and Gallagher and Phillips at a table near the window where the bay was visible across the terrace, and the water was flat and the light was already strong enough that the sea had its morning brightness.

Gallagher was talking about the heat. "They play in this regularly, don’t they. We’re going to be running around in twenty-eight degrees at eight PM and sweating through our shirts in the first five minutes."

"It drops when the sun goes," Eze said.

"Does it though," Gallagher said.

"A bit," Eze said.

Phillips ate without contributing to the conversation and Demien did the same and the toast was fine and the eggs were fine and the Mediterranean was outside and the match was tonight.

He walked the hotel grounds afterward — the terrace, the path along the sea wall, the garden area at the far end where two of the coaching staff were having coffee and he nodded at them without stopping. The sea from down here was the same blue as from the plane, flat and still and catching the morning light at an angle that made it look painted rather than real.

He thought about the pull session. Strength at 97, reactions at 88, composure at 91, Press Resistant active, Clutch Finisher dormant until a high-pressure moment activated it. Tools waiting. Nothing he could do about them until he was on the pitch.

Back to the room at ten. Lie down without sleeping. Look at the ceiling. Think about the half-space between Malta’s fullback and their right centre-back, the window that opened for three to four seconds when England shifted them wide.

He was ready at eleven. Had been ready since Tuesday night.

Ta’ Qali National Stadium — 5:30 PM

The stadium was already filling when the bus arrived, and the home sections in the main stand and the terracing behind the goal were dressed in red and white and producing the specific noise of a crowd that knew they couldn’t win but had come to make the night difficult anyway, and the England section at the north end of the ground was a solid block of white shirts and flags and the familiar sound of Three Lions starting somewhere in the upper tier.

Inside the away dressing room the kits were laid out in two rows — starting XI in the main positions, substitutes on the outer benches — and the room was smaller than anything in Serie A and had the functional bleakness of a dressing room that existed to provide a space to change rather than to impress.

His spot was at the far left. Number 26 on the back of the white shirt. England crest on the chest, the three lions above the FA badge, and the Adidas logo because of reasons he knew better than most.

He changed slowly and laced his boots twice — the same way he’d always done before a match, the left boot first, the right boot second, pull each lace through the last eyelet twice and check the tension before tying — and the room around him filled with the twenty-two other players doing their own versions of the same routine.

Southgate came in at a quarter past six while most players were still changing, and the room settled without anyone deciding to settle it.

"Same preparation, same approach," he said. "Patient buildup, shift them wide, find the half-space when it opens. Don’t rush it." He looked along the bench row. "Subs — when you come on you’ll have energy they don’t have. Use it in the right places." He moved his eyes along each of them.

He reached Demien and held eye contact for half a second.

One nod.

That was all.

He turned and walked back out and the room exhaled and players finished changing and the corridor outside grew louder as the stadium above them filled toward its capacity.