My Ultimate Gacha System

Chapter 357 - 32: Theatre of Dreams

Monday, June 19, 2023

The Lowry Hotel, Salford

8:00 AM

The restaurant filled with players moving through the buffet line in the quiet that came before match days, and the energy was different from yesterday’s training session because today was real and tomorrow didn’t exist yet, and everyone ate with the focus that came from knowing the next twelve hours would determine whether the evening ended in satisfaction or frustration.

Demien took oatmeal with berries, scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, and water, and he found a seat at a table where Eze and Mount were already eating while the room filled with the low sound of cutlery against plates and occasional conversation that stayed professional rather than casual.

Southgate entered at eight-fifteen and his presence changed the room’s atmosphere without him saying anything, and he walked to the front of the restaurant and stood there while conversations stopped and faces turned toward him, and when the room was completely silent he spoke without preamble.

"Morning," he said. "Lineup for tonight."

The room went completely still.

"Starting eleven," Southgate continued, and his voice was level and professional without dramatic emphasis. "Pickford. Walker, Stones, Maguire, Shaw. Rice, Henderson. Saka, Foden, Rashford. Kane."

Expected. The standard England XI that had qualified through the group so far. Demien felt nothing particular because he’d known since yesterday’s training session that he wouldn’t start, and being on the bench was part of being nineteen years old in a squad full of Premier League starters.

"Bench," Southgate said, and he read the names without pause or emphasis on any individual. "Ramsdale, Trippier, Dunk, Mings, Phillips, Grealish, Eze, Wilson, Mount, Walter."

He looked around the entire bench group without his eyes stopping on anyone specifically. "Subs—stay ready. Match flow will dictate changes. North Macedonia are strong, organized, experienced. They beat Ukraine two-nil in their last qualifier. We’ll need everyone tonight."

That was it. No promises. No favorites. Professional squad management.

"Enjoy breakfast," Southgate finished. "Team meeting at eleven. Bus departs at five-thirty."

He walked out and the restaurant’s sound level returned to its previous state, and Demien went back to his oatmeal while the starting eleven processed their confirmation and the substitutes processed their role.

Rice appeared with his tray and sat down across from Demien without asking, and his plate had double portions of everything because his body required more fuel than most players, and he ate three forkfuls before he spoke.

"First Old Trafford experience tonight," Rice said.

"Yeah," Demien said.

"Different beast from Ta’ Qali," Rice continued between bites. "Seventy-five thousand capacity. When it’s full and they’re behind you, it’s unlike anywhere else. Just stay ready if you get the call."

"I will," Demien said.

Rice nodded and went back to his food, and the brief exchange was acknowledgment without promises because nobody knew what match flow would bring, and staying ready was the only control substitutes had.

Kane walked past the table where the younger players sat and his eyes found Demien’s for a second, and he gave a brief nod that acknowledged nothing specific but confirmed presence, and then he continued to his own table where the senior players gathered.

Equal treatment. No favoritism. Professional environment.

Room 412

11:30 AM

The match was eight hours away and Demien lay on his bed with his hands behind his head while Phillips sat at the desk reviewing opposition notes on his iPad, and the room was quiet except for the low sound of traffic from the street below and the occasional page turn from Phillips’ screen.

"You nervous?" Phillips asked without looking up.

"No," Demien said. "Focused."

"Good," Phillips said, and he turned a page before adding, "They’re better than Malta. Elmas is Serie A quality. Napoli’s midfielder. If you get on, he’ll test you. Won’t give you easy space like Malta did."

Demien already knew this from yesterday’s tactical session and from watching Elmas on video, but hearing it from someone who’d played against him directly meant something different, and he filed the information away with the other preparations.

His phone sat on the nightstand face-down and he’d left it there since breakfast because match day wasn’t the time for social media or messages or anything that pulled focus away from what the evening required, and the discipline came easier now after Malta had shown him what external noise felt like when it was overwhelming.

He closed his eyes and ran through the mental preparation that David Drinkwater’s thirty-seven years had taught him—first touch needs to be clean under pressure, Press Resistant will activate but the execution still matters, decision-making must be instant because hesitation gets punished at this level, skills are ready when the moments arrive but forcing them creates mistakes.

The system could provide tools but using them correctly was still his responsibility.

Team Bus

5:30 PM

The bus pulled away from The Lowry Hotel with police escort and the squad sat in their suits looking out windows at Manchester’s evening traffic, and the streets were busy with people heading toward Old Trafford because kick-off was just over two hours away and seventy-five thousand seats didn’t fill themselves.

Demien sat beside Eze near the back and neither spoke much because the atmosphere on match day buses was different from training day buses, and the silence between them was comfortable rather than awkward while the city passed outside.

Old Trafford appeared in the distance and the floodlights were already on even though the sun hadn’t set completely, and the stadium glowed against the grey Manchester sky in ways that made it look bigger than it had looked yesterday during the walkthrough.

The bus turned onto Sir Matt Busby Way and the crowds thickened immediately with thousands of fans streaming toward the stadium from all directions, and red shirts were everywhere because Manchester United’s color dominated even when England was playing, and white England shirts mixed through the crowd while flags and scarves created movement and color and the specific energy that came before big matches.

"THREE LIONS" was audible even inside the bus and the sound grew louder as they approached the stadium, and Phillips from across the aisle turned toward Demien without his expression changing.

"First time at Old Trafford for a match?" Phillips asked.

"First time playing here," Demien said.

"Special place," Phillips said. "Wait till you see it full."

He paused before adding, "If you get on."

That IF sat there between them because nobody knew what the match would bring, and Demien nodded once to acknowledge the reality while the bus entered the secure area behind the stadium and players began gathering their belongings.

They disembarked into the controlled chaos of pre-match preparation with security everywhere and FA staff guiding them toward the England dressing room, and the walk through the back corridors felt different from yesterday’s empty walkthrough because now it was real and the crowd noise filtered through the walls even this far from the pitch.

England Dressing Room

6:15 PM

The kits were laid out with the precision that came from years of FA protocol, and the starting eleven occupied the center positions while substitutes lined the outer benches, and Demien’s spot was far left with his number twenty-six kit folded neatly and the white shirt with the three lions crest sitting on top.

He changed slowly because the routine mattered even when the routine was simple, and the suit came off and the base layer went on and the shirt followed and the shorts and socks and shin guards all went to their proper positions while around him the rest of the squad did the same thing with their own variations.

Kane sat with headphones on and his eyes closed and his body completely still in the way that came from visualization, and Saka stretched on the floor near the physio’s table while Rice taped his own wrists with the efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times, and Henderson was getting his ankles taped by the physio while Rashford checked the studs on his boots and adjusted them with a small tool.

The substitutes prepared differently because their role was different, and Mount listened to music through earbuds while Eze stretched methodically in his corner, and Phillips sat quietly already changed and ready, and Grealish chatted with Wilson about something that made them both laugh briefly before returning to their preparations.

Everyone had their routine and the room accommodated all of them without judgment.

Demien laced his boots—the same Predators that had scored against Malta—and his fingers went through the familiar pattern automatically while his mind stayed on the evening ahead, and when the laces were tied and checked he stood and tested his movement and everything felt right.

Southgate entered at six forty-five and the room’s noise level dropped immediately, and he stood at the center and waited for complete silence before speaking.

"Right," he said. "Listen up."

The room went completely still.

"North Macedonia beat Ukraine two-nil in their last match," Southgate continued. "They’re organized, experienced, professional. They’ll press intelligently. They’ll fight for every ball, every second ball, every duel. We need to match that intensity first, then use our quality to break them down."

He looked around the room and his eyes moved across faces systematically. "Seventy-five thousand people out there tonight. Home crowd. Use that energy. Let it lift you, don’t let it pressure you."

His eyes found the starting eleven. "Starters—first twenty minutes are crucial. Set the tone early. Get them on the back foot. Make them defend rather than attack."

Then his eyes moved to the bench and he looked at everyone equally without singling anyone out. "Subs—be ready when called. Stay warm. Stay focused. Match flow determines everything. When your number comes up, make it count."

No names mentioned. No promises made. Professional management.

"Team prayer," Kane said, and everyone stood and moved into a circle with hands coming together in the center, and Kane led it with the brief words that acknowledged the moment without making it bigger than it needed to be.

The circle broke and the energy shifted from preparation to readiness, and Southgate walked toward the door while the team settled into the final minutes before walking out.