My Ultimate Gacha System-Chapter 329 - 3: The Call up

Demien’s Apartment, Bergamo 4:47 PM

The phone was still on the coffee table where he’d left it after locking it, and the screen stayed dark while the apartment held the particular quiet of a Monday afternoon with nowhere to be and no particular reason to move.

He was looking at the ceiling when it buzzed.

Unknown number. UK area code.

He picked it up and his thumb hovered for a second before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Demien." The voice was measured and distinctly English, with the kind of considered delivery that belonged to someone who spent their professional life choosing words carefully. "It’s Gareth Southgate."

Everything in his body went still.

He sat up slowly while the phone stayed pressed to his ear, and his mouth had gone completely dry in the two seconds between hearing the name and forming any kind of response, and the ceiling he’d been staring at for the past hour became the most irrelevant thing in the room.

"Thank you for picking up," Southgate said, and his tone was easy without being casual, the way it was when he spoke at press conferences — composed, direct, warm underneath the professionalism. "I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time."

"No," Demien managed. "No, not at all."

"Good." A brief pause. "I’ll be straightforward with you because I think you’ll appreciate that. I’ve been watching you this entire season. Not just highlights — properly watching. The consistency you’ve shown at Atalanta, the way you’ve operated in Gasperini’s system, the goals, the contributions, what you did in that Coppa Italia final." Another pause, shorter than the first. "It’s been impressive, Demien. Genuinely impressive, and at your age it’s something we don’t see very often."

Demien was listening with the focused stillness of someone who understood that interrupting would be the wrong instinct, and his free hand pressed flat against his knee without him noticing.

"I want to call you up to the senior England squad," Southgate said. "We have two Euro qualifiers in June. Malta away on the sixteenth, then North Macedonia at Old Trafford on the nineteenth. I want you in that group."

The room was completely silent except for the sound coming through the phone and the traffic from the street below, and somewhere in the distance a scooter engine turned over twice before fading.

"I understand this is a step up from the Under-21s," Southgate continued, "and I want to be clear — you’re not coming as a tourist. I’m calling you because I think you can contribute. I want you to know that before you come in."

"I understand," Demien said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt, which was the thing David Drinkwater’s thirty-seven years of experience did in moments like this — his external register stayed level while everything underneath ran fast. "Thank you, Gareth. I really — thank you."

"Report to St George’s Park on the twelfth of June," Southgate said. "The official squad announcement goes out publicly tomorrow morning, so you’ll see it confirmed then. Until that announcement I’d ask you to keep it within your immediate circle." A brief beat. "Do you have any questions?"

Demien thought for a second and there were probably seventeen questions somewhere but none of them felt appropriate for this conversation. "No," he said. "I’m ready."

"Good," Southgate said, and a warmth came into his voice that had been professional before. "Welcome to the senior squad, Demien. I’m looking forward to working with you."

The line went quiet.

Demien lowered the phone from his ear and looked at the screen until it dimmed to black, and then he sat on the couch with it in both hands and did not move for approximately forty-five seconds while the afternoon continued outside the window exactly as it had been.

Gareth Southgate had called him.

Senior squad.

Old Trafford.

He opened his messages and typed to Isabella without thinking about it for very long: Senior England call-up. Southgate just called me.

The three dots appeared before he’d even set the phone back down.

I’M CALLING YOU RIGHT NOW.

5:02 PM

The phone rang and he answered immediately.

"Mamma—"

"Demien." Her voice was already elevated in the way it got when emotion arrived faster than composure could manage, and he could hear her breathing through the phone while she organised herself. "The senior team. Demien, the senior team."

"I know," he said.

"Do you understand what that means? You’re nineteen years old. Nineteen." A pause. "Southgate called you himself?"

"Yes."

"He called you himself," she repeated, and the phrase was doing something in her mind rather than asking him to confirm it again. "Your father would have — " She stopped herself, and the silence that followed lasted long enough that he didn’t fill it because he understood what had been in that sentence even without the end of it. Then she exhaled once, long and controlled, and when she spoke again her voice had settled. "I’m so proud of you. You know that. You know I am."

"I know," he said.

A pause, and then her voice shifted register — quieter, less controlled than the pride had been, which was the tell. "I’ve been reading the news," she said. "Not just today. For the past week."

He waited.

"Manchester United," she said. "Liverpool. Barcelona. Bayern Munich. It’s everywhere, all these clubs—" She stopped. "Are you actually thinking about going to England? Or Germany? Moving that far?"

"Nothing’s decided, Mamma," he said. "They’re rumors at this point. Marco hasn’t—"

"I know they’re rumors," she said, and the edge in it was gentle rather than sharp, the kind that came from someone who had been telling herself they were just rumors for several days and was finding the repetition less convincing each time. "But the England call-up is not a rumor. That’s real. And if you go to England for the camp and you play well — and you will play well — then the clubs who want you from England have even more reason to push."

"That’s true," he said, because there was no point pretending otherwise.

"You’d be so far," she said, and this part came out quieter than the rest, the particular quiet of something that had been held back and was no longer staying held. "England is far, Demien. Not Rome or Turin — England. I wouldn’t be able to see you easily. You’d be alone there, in a new country, a new language—"

"I speak English, Mamma."

"I know you speak English," she said, and the small exasperated exhale through her nose was the most affectionate sound in her whole repertoire. "That’s not the point and you know it."

He didn’t answer immediately because she was right that it wasn’t the point, and because he understood what the real concern was and it didn’t have a clean answer.

"What if you get hurt again?" she said. "Last time — the hamstring — I was on a train to Bergamo before you’d even had the scan. If you’re in Manchester, or Liverpool, I can’t—" She stopped. "I know I’m being the worried mother. I know. But you’re still my son even if half of Europe apparently wants to buy you."

He let the silence sit for a moment. "I know," he said finally. "I hear you."

"I’m not telling you not to go," she said quickly, as though she wanted to get ahead of that misunderstanding. "I’m not. Whatever is right for your career, whatever Marco says is the right decision — I will support it. I have always supported you." A beat. "I just want you to know it won’t be nothing, for me. It won’t be easy."

"It won’t be easy for me either," he said, and he said it plainly because it was true and she needed to hear it rather than hear him be strong about it.

The line was quiet for a moment and her breathing had steadied, and when she spoke again she sounded more like herself — gathered, a little embarrassed by the emotion, wanting to move forward.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I didn’t mean to make this about me. Today is about you. You should be celebrating."

"You don’t have to apologise," he said.

"Come to Florence Thursday," she said. "I’ll make dinner. We talk properly — face to face, not over a phone. About everything. The call-up, the summer, all of it. But in person." A brief pause. "I want to see you."

"Thursday," he said. "I’ll come Wednesday evening, stay over."

"Good." He could hear her standing up from wherever she’d been sitting, resuming motion in that way she had when a conversation had been handled to her satisfaction. "I love you, tesoro."

"Love you too, Mamma."

The call ended and he set the phone on the arm of the couch and looked at the window where the afternoon light had moved while they’d been talking, and the city outside was carrying on exactly as it had been before Southgate called and before his mother asked questions he didn’t yet have complete answers to.

He sat with that for a few minutes.

Then he opened his messages to Luca.

5:47 PM

Thursday night I’m in Florence for dinner with Isabella. You free Friday?

The reply came back in under a minute.

Friday works. I’ll come to Bergamo, we grab lunch and catch up properly. Been too long.

Then: Also — senior England call-up. I saw it on Twitter before you even texted me, obviously. How does it feel? And don’t say "still processing" because that’s your answer for everything.

Demien read that and typed back: Still processing.

I hate you. Congratulations. Genuinely — proud of you, brother.

Thanks. How’s Braga?

Done. Season’s finished. I’m at Dad’s place in Milan for now, figuring out what’s next. Contract situation is a bit complicated. A pause, then: Nothing dramatic, just uncertain. We’ll talk Friday.

Friday then. Bergamo. I’ll sort lunch.

Good. And Demien — the Romano stuff about the clubs. We’re talking about that too. Don’t think I forgot.

Demien set the phone face-down on the cushion beside him without replying to that last one, and the apartment was quiet again while the evening began settling over Bergamo outside the window and the coffee from two hours ago had long gone cold on the table.