Luka stood at the edge of his penthouse terrace, morning light washing over Dortmund as the city stirred to life beneath him. Twenty-seven floors below, people moved like chess pieces on a board—their patterns predictable, their lives unfolding according to routines uninterrupted by the chaos of sudden celebrity.
He sipped his espresso, savoring the bitter perfection. After three weeks, the penthouse had begun to feel like his space, though the sheer scale of it still occasionally struck him as absurd.
The floor-to-ceiling windows, the Italian marble, the custom furnishings—all calibrated to create an atmosphere of understated opulence. Different from the Manchester property. This place was sleek, modern, suspended between earth and sky.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass—hair still damp from the shower, features sharper as teenage softness gave way to definition. The face looking back at him had become valuable in ways that still felt disconnected from his sense of self. That face now sold boots, energy drinks, watches. That face now appeared on billboards and Instagram feeds. That face was becoming a global brand while he was still learning how to be a man.
The Chelsea match replayed in his mind—not just the goals or the assist, but the texture of the entire ninety minutes. The weight of James's shoulder against his during their physical battles. The precise sensation of his foot striking the ball for the volley, the sweet spot of connection that sent it arcing into the top corner. The roar of the Yellow Wall as the net bulged. These were the moments he lived for, the reason he endured everything else that came with his rapidly expanding profile.
His phone vibrated on the marble countertop, Jorge Mendes' name flashing on the screen. The fourth call this morning. Luka let it go to voicemail, not yet ready for what awaited on the other end. The decision. The future. The next step in a journey that had accelerated beyond anyone's expectations, perhaps even beyond his control.
He moved from the terrace into the main living area, his bare feet silent against the cool stone floor. The space was meticulously designed, all clean lines and neutral tones creating a canvas of calm that contrasted with the frenetic pace of his public life. A stack of contracts awaited his attention on the coffee table—endorsement deals, appearance fees, investment opportunities. The administrative burden of becoming not just a footballer but a corporation.
Luka settled onto the sofa, pulling his laptop toward him. His email inbox had become a digital representation of the forces now competing for pieces of his life: agents, marketers, sponsors, financial advisors, lawyers.
His personal inbox contained a series of messages from Jake, the tenacious fan-turned-business-associate whose enthusiasm remained undiminished even after Luka had changed his mind on the cryptocurrency concept. Not that he wanted to but after consulting various financial advisors, the smarter option was investing in an already established coin, which he did—bitcoin.
The kid still was nothing but persistent. Each dismissal simply channeled his energy in new directions—now toward the clothing brand and automotive venture that had captured Luka's imagination.
The latest email contained detailed projections for the LZ clothing line, complete with manufacturing partners, sustainable material options, and projected profit margins. The thoroughness was impressive for someone who had, until recently, been just another social media pest with a penchant for terms like "alpha" and "sigma." Jake was learning, adapting, professionalizing at a pace that mirrored Luka's own accelerated development.
The automotive workshop could be operational within six months, Jake had written. Manchester location makes perfect sense given your connections there. Starting with high-end customization before expanding to racing team management. Formula 1 remains the ultimate goal, but GT3 offers a more accessible entry point. Documentary series potential is enormous—streaming platforms desperate for authentic sports content with built-in audiences.
The Manchester connection gave Luka pause. His relationship with the city was complicated—the place that had shaped him also housed the club that had discarded him, the organization that had failed to recognize what he might become. Going back there, establishing a business there, felt like both a homecoming and a reckoning.
His thoughts were interrupted by another call, this time from Klaus. Luka answered, knowing his security chief's persistence.
"Your physiotherapist is downstairs," Klaus informed him without preamble. "Shall I send him up?"
"Give me ten minutes," Luka replied, glancing at the time. "And I'm taking the Ferrari out after."
"I'll have it brought up from the garage."
The call ended with Klaus's typical efficiency. Luka set the phone down, stretching muscles still carrying the fatigue of the Chelsea match. The physiotherapist—Magnus, recommended by Haaland—had become an essential part of his routine, implementing a preventative program designed to extend career longevity. Seventeen-year-old knees became twenty-seven-year-old injury problems without proper management, as Haaland had warned from.
Luka changed quickly into athletic shorts and a fitted t-shirt, standard attire for the therapy sessions that had transformed from painful necessity to welcome ritual.
As he prepared the treatment room adjacent to the indoor pool, Luka's mind wandered back to the offers Mendes had outlined in their last conversation.
Real Madrid: Four hundred and fifty thousand per week. Seventy-two million signing bonus.
Manchester City: Four hundred and fifty thousand per week. Seventy-five million signing bonus.
Newcastle United: Three hundred thousand per week. Seventy-five million signing bonus.
Atletico Madrid: Two hundred and eighty thousand per week. Sixty-five million signing bonus. Simeone's personal guarantee of tactical adjustments to accommodate his style.
Tottenham: Two hundred and seventy thousand per week. Sixty-eight million signing bonus.
Arsenal: Two hundred and ten thousand per week. Sixty-five million signing bonus.
Barcelona: One hundred and seventy thousand per week. Fifty million signing bonus. Restrictive image rights structure.
Dortmund: One hundred and eighty thousand per week. Sixty million signing bonus.
Each offer represented not just financial terms but different visions of who Luka Zorić might become. Real Madrid meant galáctico status. City offered the Guardiola philosophy, technical development under football's most respected tactician. Newcastle represented the new frontier of Saudi investment, the chance to define a rising power's identity.
"Saudi ownership," Mendes had explained. "They're building something significant. And they're the Bin Salman group, not the Qataris—so no complication with your PSG history. Different royal family, different fund."
He hadn't even considered Newcastle—when speaking to the Saudi's, he thought it more likely that they intended for him to join the Saudi Pro League, but it made sense. The Saudi Public Investment Fund had transformed the once-struggling club into a financial powerhouse. Still, the sporting project remained unproven.
Atletico's proposal had surprised him most. Simeone wasn't known for flexibility or attacking football, yet he was apparently willing to evolve his approach for a seventeen-year-old. The message transmitted through Mendes had been clear: Luka wouldn't be adapting to Atletico's style—Atletico would adapt to his.
Arsenal appealed to something deeper—a connection to the club's historic emphasis on technical, expressive football. Their financial offer couldn't match the superpowers, but their vision aligned with how Luka saw himself as a player. Barcelona offered similar philosophical alignment but with even greater financial constraints, their image rights demands particularly problematic given his expanding commercial portfolio.
And then there was Dortmund. Staying meant continuity, comfort, the brotherhoods formed here, but Haaland would leave at the end of the season and so would Palmer, Bellingham not too long after would become a galáctico.
Staying here meant a clear path to the Champions League semifinals if they could finish the job against Chelsea. It meant being part of a Bundesliga title race that had narrowed to a single point separating them from Bayern. But it also meant accepting a financial package far below market value.
The elevator's quiet chime announced Magnus's arrival. The physiotherapist entered with his typical understated confidence, carrying equipment in a sleek black case.
"How's the hip flexor today?" he asked without preamble, setting up his portable table with practiced efficiency.
Luka's session with Magnus lasted ninety minutes, a comprehensive treatment that left him feeling simultaneously drained and rejuvenated. The physiotherapist had an almost supernatural ability to identify muscular imbalances and address them before they developed into problems, his hands detecting weaknesses Luka himself hadn't yet registered.
"You're carrying tension in the left adductor," Magnus observed at one point, applying pressure that produced a wince. "Compensating for that tight hip. Creates a chain reaction through the kinetic system that ultimately affects the knee."
By session's end, Luka had a refined maintenance program and a deeper appreciation for the machine that was his body. The fine margins between health and injury, between longevity and burnout, were measured in these seemingly minor details—the small disciplined choices that accumulated over time.
With Magnus departed, Luka showered again before dressing in jeans and a simple black t-shirt. The Ferrari beckoned.
The secure parking facility beneath the building hummed with quiet efficiency as he approached the scarlet hypercar. Unlike his first time behind the wheel, Luka now slid into the driver's seat with comfortable familiarity, the leather embracing him like a second skin as he pressed the ignition.
The V8 awakened with a mechanical snarl that resonated in his chest, the sound alone triggering a spike of adrenaline. He guided the Ferrari toward daylight, nodding to the security guard who raised the barrier with a grin of recognition. The man had grown accustomed to the spectacle of teenage football prodigy departing in luxury vehicles—just another day in the increasingly surreal world of Luka Zorić.
Dortmund traffic required restraint, the Ferrari's potential temporarily leashed as he navigated through the city center. Pedestrians pointed, smartphones raised to capture evidence of the sighting. Luka had learned to ignore the attention without appearing to do so—acknowledging fans with a quick nod when eye contact was made, but otherwise maintaining focus on the road.
It wasn't until he reached the autobahn that the SF90 could express its true character. The road opened before him, traffic thinning, and he downshifted, foot pressing more firmly against the accelerator. The response was immediate and physical—the surge of acceleration pushing him back into the seat as the speedometer climbed with alarming enthusiasm.
One hundred. One-thirty. One-sixty.
The world outside compressed and blurred, wind noise increasing as he pushed deeper into the Ferrari's capabilities. At 185 kilometers per hour, still well within the car's potential, Luka sensed rather than saw the police motorcycle appearing in his peripheral vision.
"Fuck," he muttered, immediately easing off the throttle and signaling his intention to pull over.
The officer dismounted and approached with measured steps, removing his helmet to reveal a man in his mid-forties with close-cropped hair and the weathered complexion of someone who spent significant time outdoors. His expression remained professionally neutral until recognition dawned, eyes widening as they moved from the license to Luka's face.
"You're Zorić," he said, the professional demeanor immediately softening. "That volley against Chelsea was unbelievable. My son hasn't stopped talking about it."
Luka offered a grateful smile. "Thanks. It felt pretty good."
"One-eighty-five in a one-twenty zone," the officer continued, though his tone had lost its edge. "That's sixty-five over the limit."
"Sorry about that," Luka replied, genuinely contrite. "Car gets away from you if you're not careful."
The officer glanced appreciatively at the Ferrari, then back to Luka. "Listen, I should be writing a serious ticket right now, but..." He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and extracted a small notepad. "My son would kill me if I didn't at least get an autograph. He's got your poster on his wall."
Luka signed with a mixture of relief and amusement. The officer added, "Consider this a warning, but take it easy out there. We need you in one piece for the title race." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Bayern's been lucky for too long. It's Dortmund's year."
With the unexpected encounter behind him, Luka continued at a more moderate pace, the Ferrari's capabilities restrained to legal limits. He found himself smiling at the exchange—another small indication of how his status in Dortmund had evolved.
Returning to the penthouse, Luka found a message from Rose confirming what he'd already suspected: he would start on the bench against Stuttgart. The rotation made tactical sense with Reus finally recovered and the Chelsea return leg looming, but the competitive part of him still bristled slightly at the decision.
The message was characteristically direct—no excessive justification or coddling, just professional respect and tactical reasoning. Rose treated him as an adult now despite his age.
He replied with simple acknowledgment, assuring Rose he would be ready when called upon. Then he turned his attention to Mendes's latest message, which demanded decisions regarding which clubs to advance to serious negotiations.
After consideration, Luka typed his response: Start advanced talks with Atletico, Arsenal, City, Real, Newcastle, and Tottenham. Tell Barcelona they need to significantly improve their offer and image rights position to remain in contention.
The decision felt like a milestone—narrowing the field, moving from abstract possibility toward concrete reality. Each of the selected clubs offered a different vision of the future, a different environment in which to continue his development. The choice would ultimately extend beyond football to lifestyle, culture, personal growth.
As evening approached, Luka's thoughts turned toward London and the return leg against Chelsea. His parents would travel down from Manchester. Jenna would be there, her filming schedule allowing her to attend.
The prospect of introducing Jenna to his family produced an unexpected flutter of nerves. Not because he feared disapproval—his parents respected his judgment—but because it represented another step into this new existence.
He messaged Jenna: Looking forward to seeing you in London. My parents are coming down from Manchester for the match. Thought it might be a good time for you to meet them if you're comfortable with that.
Her response came quickly: Finally! I was beginning to think you were keeping me a secret. I'll bring my best "impress the parents" game. Just tell me they're not City fans or this could get awkward...
Luka smiled at her response, the tension in his chest easing.
Dad's a United fan, Mum doesn't really follow football. You're safe.
As night fell over Dortmund, Luka found himself drawn back to the terrace, the city transformed into a constellation of lights spread across the darkness below. The air carried the first hints of spring, winter's grip loosening incrementally with each passing day.
The offers would continue to evolve as negotiations advanced. At some point within this month, or the next—a decision would be required.