Just yesterday—or was it years from now?—he had been a 19-year-old football fan, celebrating Spain's Euro 2024 victory in a crowded Zagreb square. Now, inexplicably, he found himself back in time, inhabiting the body of his 16-year-old self. It was the first day of pre-season training for Manchester United's U16 team, a day that in his original timeline had marked the beginning of the end of his football dreams.
Luka's heart raced as he tried to make sense of his situation. He remembered this day all too well—the anxiety, the feeling of inadequacy, the looming specter of failure. In his previous life, he had been clumsy and uncoordinated, a disappointment to the coaches who had once seen potential in him. That version of Luka had been cut from the academy not long after this day, his dreams of football stardom shattered.
But now, as he tentatively rolled a ball under his foot, something felt... different.
Hesitantly, Luka flicked the ball up, half-expecting it to bounce awkwardly away as it always had before. To his astonishment, it rose obediently, hanging in the air as if waiting for his next command. Without thinking, he let it roll across his shoulders, a move he'd seen Neymar perform countless times but had never dared to attempt himself.
The ball nestled gently on the back of his neck, and Luka froze, scarcely daring to breathe. This couldn't be real. He had never been able to do anything like this before.
As the reality of his situation began to sink in, Luka's mind raced with fragmented memories of a future that hadn't happened yet. He recalled the extraordinary abilities he now possessed—the dribbling flair of Ronaldinho, the ball control and creativity of Neymar, the vision and passing of Kaká, the agility and speed of Garrincha, and the free-kick mastery of Juninho Pernambucano. It was as if the spirits of Brazil's football legends had chosen him as their unlikely vessel.
But along with these incredible skills came a torrent of future knowledge. Luka's mind flashed with images of Manchester United's struggles in the years to come—the managerial turmoil, the failed transfers, the dashed hopes of fans worldwide. He saw the club he loved falling short of its former glory, and a part of him ached to change that future.
Yet doubt still gnawed at him. What if this was all a vivid dream? What if he started training and found that he was still the same uncoordinated boy he had always been? The thought made his stomach churn.
Luka glanced at his watch, realizing that his teammates would be arriving soon. In his previous life, he had felt alienated from the group, his lack of skill creating an invisible barrier between him and the other players. Now, despite his apparent newfound abilities, that old insecurity lingered.
As he began to warm up alone, jogging lightly around the perimeter of the training pitch, Luka wrestled with conflicting emotions. Excitement at the possibilities that lay before him warred with the ingrained self-doubt of years of struggle. He had been given an extraordinary opportunity, a chance to rewrite his own history, but the weight of that responsibility was daunting.
Luka's feet pounded rhythmically against the lush grass as he jogged, each step a reminder of the surreal situation he found himself in. His mind wandered to his teammates, boys he had trained alongside for months but had never truly connected with. They had always been polite enough, but there was an invisible barrier between them - one built of skill disparity and quiet disappointment.
As he rounded the corner of the pitch, Luka's eyes fell to his worn boots. The once-white leather was now a dull grey, the studs worn down unevenly. These boots had been a struggle to afford, bought second-hand from a local shop in Manchester. He remembered the pride in his mother's eyes when she had presented them to him, and the guilt that had twisted in his stomach knowing how much of a sacrifice they had been for his family.
The Zorićs had never had it easy. His father worked long hours as a construction worker, while his mother juggled two part-time jobs. Luka had always known that his pursuit of football wasn't just about his dreams - it was a potential lifeline for his family. The thought of the financial security a professional contract could bring had kept him going through countless grueling training sessions and disappointing performances.
Now, as he jogged, Luka's mind raced with the possibilities his abilities presented. Could he really change not just his future, but his family's as well? The weight of that potential pressed down on him, simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.
His reverie was broken by the sound of voices approaching. Luka looked up to see his teammates and coaches emerging from the training facility. His heart rate quickened as Coach Binnion's eyes locked onto him.
"Zorić!" the coach called out, his tone sharp. "Over here, now."
Luka jogged over, trying to keep his face neutral despite the anxiety bubbling in his chest. Coach Binnion's expression was stern as he addressed the young player.
"Listen up, Zorić. I'll be blunt - your performance last season was far below the standard we expect at Manchester United. The only reason you're here today is because we believe in giving players every chance to prove themselves. But make no mistake, this is your last chance. Train with the group today, show us something, or we'll have to reconsider your place in the academy. Understood?"
Luka nodded, a mixture of old fear and new determination coursing through him. "Yes, coach. I understand."
As the team gathered for warm-ups, Luka found himself hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. The first drill was a simple jog with high knees. In his past life, this had always left him winded and struggling to keep up. But now, as he began to move, he felt... different.
His legs pumped effortlessly, each step precise and powerful. He glided past his teammates, maintaining perfect form without even trying. As they transitioned into butt kicks, Luka marveled at the ease with which his body responded. It was as if he had unlocked a cheat code for his own physicality.
Next came a series of dynamic stretches. Luka watched in fascination as his teammates struggled with lunges and leg swings - movements that now felt as natural to him as breathing. He caught Charlie McNeil, one of the team's star prospects, eyeing him curiously.
"Alright lads, partner up for passing drills," Coach Binnion called out.
Luka found himself paired with Isak Hansen-Aaroen, a talented Norwegian midfielder. As they began to pass the ball back and forth, Luka was struck by how slow and predictable Isak's movements seemed. He could read the trajectory of each pass before Isak's foot even connected with the ball.
When it was Luka's turn to pass, he had to consciously hold back. Even so, his passes zipped across the grass with pinpoint accuracy, always arriving perfectly at Isak's feet.
"Bloody hell, Zorić," Isak muttered after a particularly crisp pass. "Since when could you do that?"
Luka just shrugged, not trusting himself to speak. As the drill continued, he found himself wondering: Is this how good pros are? Has the gap always been this wide, and I just couldn't see it before?
They continued passing, with Luka effortlessly controlling even Isak's most challenging balls.
"Right, gather round!" Coach Binnion's voice cut through the air. The team huddled around him as he set up a series of cones in a zig-zag pattern. "Dribbling drill. Quick feet, close control. I want to see sharp turns and acceleration between the cones."
Luka's heart raced as he took his place at the front of the line. He could feel the eyes of his teammates boring into his back, their expectations low based on his past performances. Coach Binnion's gaze was particularly intense.
"Zorić, you're up first," the coach said, his tone suggesting he expected this to be a demonstration of what not to do.
Luka took a deep breath, feeling the worn leather of his boots against the grass. He glanced down at the faded white stripes, then back up at the course before him. Time seemed to slow as he focused on the first cone.
With a slight shift of his weight, Luka exploded into motion. His first touch was feather-light, the ball seemingly glued to his foot as he approached the cone. A quick drop of his shoulder sent his center of gravity left, but his feet moved right, the ball rolling across the outside of his boot as he changed direction with lightning speed.
The second cone approached in a blur. Luka's mind flashed to memories of Ronaldinho, channeling the Brazilian's flair as he executed a perfect elastico, the ball snapping between his feet so quickly it seemed to disappear for a moment.
As he weaved through the remaining cones, Luka felt as though he was dancing. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, his body in perfect harmony with the ball. He employed quick stepovers, subtle shifts of his hips, and explosive bursts of speed that left imaginary defenders in his wake.
Before he knew it, Luka had cleared the final cone. He looked up to see his teammates and Coach Binnion staring at him in stunned silence. The entire run had taken mere seconds, but to Luka, it had felt like an eternity of pure footballing bliss.
"Bloody hell," Coach Binnion muttered, his clipboard hanging limply at his side. "Do that again, Zorić. Now."
Luka nodded, jogging back to the start. As he prepared for his second run, he caught snippets of whispered conversation from his teammates.
"Did you see that elastico?"
"How did he move so fast?"
"Since when could Zorić dribble like that?"
With a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Luka set off again, ready to show that his first run was no fluke. This time, he added even more flair, incorporating a rainbow flick over one cone and a Cruyff turn around another. As he finished, the stunned silence from before had transformed into excited murmurs and a smattering of applause.
Coach Binnion cleared his throat, his expression a mixture of disbelief and intrigue. "Right... good work, Zorić. Everyone else, let's see what you can do."
As his teammates took their turns, Luka found himself observing them with new eyes. Movements that he would have once found impressive now seemed almost sluggish. He noticed the slight hesitations, the minor missteps, the moments of imbalance that he had never been able to perceive before.
When the last player finished the drill, Coach Binnion called out, "Alright, lads, we're moving on to shooting practice. Head over to the goal on the far side."
As the group began to jog across the pitch, Luka spotted a stray ball near his feet. Without thinking, he flicked it up with his toe and began to juggle it as he ran. The ball danced from foot to foot, then up to his thigh, his chest, and finally his head. He kept it there, running while balancing the ball perfectly on his forehead, weaving between his jogging teammates.
Charlie McNeil, running alongside him, let out a low whistle. "Mate, what's gotten into you today? You're like a different player!"
Luka let the ball drop to his feet, controlling it effortlessly as he continued to run. "Just... had a good summer, I guess," he replied with a shrug, trying to downplay his sudden transformation.
As they reached the goal, Coach Binnion was setting up a line of balls just outside the penalty area. "Right, we're working on placement and power today. I want to see shots into the corners, lads. No lazy efforts down the middle."
Luka took his place in line, watching as his teammates took their shots. Some were decent, finding the corners but lacking power. Others were struck well but flew wide or over the crossbar. The goalkeeper, a lanky boy named Tom Wooster, was making some good saves but looked increasingly frustrated as the session wore on.
When it was Luka's turn, he approached the ball with a calm that belied the excitement coursing through him. He could feel every blade of grass beneath his worn boots, could sense the slight breeze that might affect the ball's flight.
Luka's right foot connected with the ball perfectly, striking it with the inside of his boot just below the center. The ball took off like a rocket, curling away from Wooster before swerving back towards the top right corner. The keeper lunged desperately, but he never stood a chance. The ball whistled into the net, grazing the underside of the crossbar as it went in.
A chorus of "Oohs" and "Bloody hell!" erupted from his teammates. Even Coach Binnion looked impressed, nodding approvingly.
"Again, Zorić," the coach called out. "Let's see if you can do that consistently."
Luka stepped up to the next ball, this time deciding to add a bit of showmanship. As he approached, he suddenly stopped and pretended to tie his shoelace. Just as Wooster began to relax, Luka sprang up and struck the ball in one fluid motion. The shot was a carbon copy of the first, but this time it curled into the opposite corner.
Wooster threw his hands up in frustration. "Come on, that's not fair!"
As Luka jogged to the back of the line, he could feel the atmosphere around him changing. Teammates who had barely acknowledged him before were now patting him on the back, asking him how he'd done it.
As the session continued, Luka found himself at the center of attention for the first time in his football career. Each shot, each dribble, each perfectly weighted pass drew more amazement from those around him. And with each successful action, Luka felt his confidence growing.
By the time Coach Binnion blew the whistle to end training, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that something extraordinary had happened. As the team gathered their things and headed towards the changing rooms, Luka could hear his name being whispered in excited tones.
Coach Binnion approached him as he was about to leave the pitch. "Zorić," he said, his tone serious but with a hint of something Luka had never heard from him before – respect. "I don't know what's changed, but whatever you've been doing, keep it up. We'll be watching you closely in the coming weeks."
As Luka left the Carrington complex, his mind still reeling from the day's events, he hailed a taxi. The familiar sights of Manchester blurred past the window, but Luka barely noticed them. His thoughts were consumed by the training session, replaying each moment.
Where to, lad?" the driver's gruff voice broke through his reverie.
"Oh, um, Stretford, please," Luka replied, his slight Croatian accent mingling with the Manchester inflections he'd picked up over the years.
As the taxi wound its way through the city streets, Luka's phone buzzed. It was a message from his mother:
"Kako je prošao trening, dušo?" (How was training, sweetheart?)
Luka smiled, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. How could he possibly explain what had happened? He settled for a simple reply:
"Dobro, mama. Pričat ćemo kad dođem kući." (Good, mom. We'll talk when I get home.)
The taxi pulled up to a modest apartment building in Stretford. Luka paid the driver and made his way up the worn stairs to the third floor. As he opened the door to the small flat, the smell of sarma - his mother's stuffed cabbage rolls - wafted through the air.
"Luka! Jesi li gladan?" (Luka! Are you hungry?) His mother, Marija, called from the kitchen. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy bun, and there was a smudge of flour on her cheek.
"Da, mama. Umirem od gladi." (Yes, mom. I'm starving.) Luka replied, dropping his bag by the door.
As he entered the kitchen, he saw his half-sister, Emma, sitting at the small table, her homework spread out before her. At 12, she was the spitting image of their father, with her blonde hair and blue eyes - a stark contrast to Luka's darker features that favored his mother's side.
"Hey, squirt," Luka ruffled Emma's hair as he passed, earning him a scowl.
"How was training?" Emma asked, her eyes curious. Despite their complicated family history, she had always been Luka's biggest supporter.
Before Luka could answer, his mother chimed in, her voice tinged with worry. "Yes, how did it go? You seemed so nervous this morning."
Luka sat down at the table, watching as his mother bustled around the small kitchen. He thought about how hard she worked - juggling two part-time jobs while still finding time to cook traditional Croatian meals and fuss over her children. The guilt of their financial struggles weighed heavily on him.
"It was... different," Luka began, unsure how to explain the miraculous transformation he'd undergone. "I think... I think it went well."
His mother turned, surprise evident on her face. "Really? Oh, Luka, that's wonderful! I was so worried. You know how your father feels about-"
She cut herself off, but Luka knew what she meant. His father, David, had been pushing him to give up on football, to focus on more "practical" pursuits. The man's own failed dreams of football stardom had left him bitter and skeptical of Luka's chances.
As if summoned by the thought, the front door opened, and David walked in. His weathered face bore the signs of another long day at the construction site.
"Evening, all," he grunted, hanging up his jacket. His eyes fell on Luka. "How'd it go then? They finally come to their senses about you?"
Luka felt a flare of anger at his father's dismissive tone, but it was quickly tempered by the memory of his extraordinary performance that day.
"Actually, Dad, it went really well," Luka said, unable to keep a hint of pride from his voice. "Coach Binnion seemed impressed."
David's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a noncommittal grunt. "We'll see, won't we? One good day doesn't make a career."
As they sat down to dinner, the sarma steaming on their plates, Luka found his mind drifting back to the training ground. He barely tasted the food, his thoughts filled with the feel of the ball at his feet, the rush of executing perfect passes and shots.
"Luka, jesi li dobro?" (Luka, are you alright?) His mother's concerned voice broke through his thoughts.
"Da, mama. Samo razmišljam o treningu." (Yes, mom. Just thinking about training.)
As the family discussed their days - Emma's upcoming math test, Marija's difficult customers at the cafe, David's new construction project - Luka found himself impatient for the meal to end. He wanted to get back outside, to feel the ball at his feet again.
<>
As the sun climbed higher in the Manchester sky, Ole Gunnar Solskjær stood at the edge of Carrington's main training pitch, his arms folded across his chest. The Norwegian's face was filled with concentration, his eyes scanning the group of first-team players going through their warm-up routines. But his mind was elsewhere, consumed by the myriad problems facing his beloved Manchester United.
The weight of the club's expectations pressed down on Ole like a physical force. He could feel the eyes of the board, the fans, and the media watching his every move, questioning his every decision. The previous season's second-place finish in the Premier League had been a major step in the right direction, but it wasn't enough to appease the fans or the board. It was never enough.
Ole's gaze drifted to Paul Pogba, the Frenchman whose future at the club remained uncertain. The midfielder's agent, Mino Raiola, had been making noise about a potential transfer again. It was a distraction the team didn't need, especially with the new season looming.
"Bloody agents," Ole muttered under his breath, his Norwegian accent thickening with frustration.
His eyes moved to Harry Maguire, the captain he'd fought so hard to sign. The defender's form had been inconsistent, and the weight of the armband seemed to be bearing down on him. Ole knew he needed to find a way to lift the pressure off Maguire's shoulders, but how?
As the first-team session progressed, Ole found his attention drawn to the adjacent pitch, where the U16s were training. He had always been a firm believer in youth development, a philosophy ingrained in him during his playing days under Sir Alex Ferguson. But lately, he'd been feeling pushback from above whenever he suggested promoting young talent to the first team.
"We need established stars," the board had told him. "Marquee signings to compete with City and Liverpool."
Ole understood the sentiment, but it grated against his instincts. He believed in the United way, in nurturing talent from within. His gaze lingered on the young players, watching their drills with increasing interest.
Suddenly, a flash of skill caught his eye. A young player, slight of build but quick on his feet, was weaving through a dribbling drill with astonishing grace. Ole blinked, wondering if he was seeing things. The boy's close control was reminiscent of a young Cristiano Ronaldo, all quick feet and sharp turns.
"Mike," Ole called out to his assistant, Michael Carrick. "Who's that lad there? The one doing the stepover."
Carrick squinted at the U16 pitch. "Not sure, boss. One of the new intake, maybe?"
Ole watched as the young player completed the drill, leaving his teammates and coaches visibly impressed. Something stirred in the Norwegian's gut, a feeling he hadn't experienced since he'd first laid eyes on Mason Greenwood in the academy.
As the first-team session wound down, Ole found himself walking towards the U16 pitch. He caught the eye of Neil Ryan, one of the U16 coaches, and beckoned him over.
"Neil," Ole greeted him warmly. "That boy there, the one with the quick feet. What can you tell me about him?"
Ryan's eyebrows rose in surprise. It wasn't often the first-team manager took an interest in players this young. "That's Luka Zorić, boss. Croatian lad, been with us for a couple of years now."
"And?" Ole prompted, sensing there was more to the story.
Ryan hesitated. "Well, to be honest, he's been on the verge of being released. Showed promise initially, but he's struggled to keep up. Coordination issues, confidence problems. But today..." He shook his head in disbelief. "Today, he's like a different player. I've never seen anything like it."
Ole nodded, his eyes never leaving Zorić as the young player executed a Cruyff turn. "I want a full report on him by tomorrow. And get me his file from the academy."
As Ryan hurried off to fulfill the request, Ole's mind was already racing with possibilities. He knew he'd face resistance if he tried to fast-track the boy, but there was something special here. He could feel it in his bones.
Over the next few days, Ole found himself spending more time than usual at the U16 training sessions. Each time he watched Zorić play, his conviction grew. The boy's vision, his technique, his composure on the ball – it was all far beyond his years.
In a private meeting with John Murtough, the club's Football Director, Ole made his case.
"John, I'm telling you, this boy is special. We need to move him up to the U23s immediately."
Murtough looked skeptical. "Ole, I understand your enthusiasm, but we can't just promote a 16-year-old based on a few good training sessions. There's a process-"
"Damn the process," Ole interrupted, his usually calm demeanor cracking. "Sir Alex wouldn't have hesitated. If we don't act now, we risk losing him. You know how cutthroat youth recruitment has become."
The mention of Sir Alex gave Murtough pause. After a long moment, he sighed. "Alright, I'll speak to the U23 coaches. But Ole, be careful. The board is already nervous about your focus on youth. They want results now, not promises for the future."
Ole nodded, knowing he was walking a tightrope. But as he left Murtough's office, a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. He had a feeling about Luka Zorić, the same feeling he'd had about Marcus Rashford and Mason Greenwood. And Ole Gunnar Solskjær had learned to trust his feelings.
As he walked back to his office, Ole's mind was already formulating plans. He'd need to manage Zorić's development carefully, shield him from too much pressure while still challenging him. And he'd need to find a way to integrate him into first-team training sessions without raising too many eyebrows.
It wouldn't be easy, but then again, nothing worth doing ever was. And if Ole was right about Luka Zorić, it could be the key to solving many of Manchester United's problems.
Yes, Ole thought to himself, this could be the start of something special. And perhaps, just perhaps, it could be the move that would finally silence his critics and bring the glory days back to Old Trafford.
As Ole Gunnar Solskjær sat in his office, a sense of anticipation building within him, he was unaware of the machinations already in motion. The board, wary of his focus on youth development, had been working behind the scenes to undermine his plans for Luka Zorić.
Meanwhile, across the Carrington complex, Luka's heart raced as he approached the U23 training pitch. The past few days had been a whirlwind of emotion and achievement. His performances in U16 training had continued to astound, each session bringing new heights of skill and artistry. Word had spread quickly through the academy, and Luka found himself the subject of intense scrutiny and whispered conversations.
As he walked, Luka's mind flashed back to the moment Coach Binnion had pulled him aside after training two days ago.
"Zorić," the coach had said, his voice a mixture of pride and disbelief, "I've never seen anything like this. The U23s want to have a look at you. This is your chance, lad. Don't waste it."
Now, as Luka approached the U23 pitch, he was stopped by a familiar face – Tom, one of the club's youth liaison officers.
"Luka, hold up a minute," Tom called out, his expression unreadable. "There's something you need to know before you go in there."
Luka's brow furrowed. "What is it, Tom?"
Tom hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. "We've received an offer for you. From Borussia Dortmund."
Luka's eyes widened. "What? But... how is that even possible? I'm not... I mean, I've only just started performing well."
Tom nodded, understanding the young player's confusion. "Youth contracts are complicated, Luka. Essentially, until you sign a professional contract, clubs can make offers for you. Dortmund's scouts must have seen something in your recent performances."
Luka's mind reeled. "What... what kind of offer?"
"A loan with an option to buy," Tom replied. "The buy option is set at 2 million pounds."
Luka's heart dropped. Two million pounds. It was a fortune to him, to his family. But it felt... low. Like he was being undervalued before he'd even had a chance to prove himself.
As Luka tried to process this information, across the complex, Ole Gunnar Solskjær was receiving the same news. The Norwegian's face fell as Ed Woodward, the club's executive vice-chairman, explained the situation.
"Borussia Dortmund have made an offer for young Zorić," Woodward said, his tone businesslike. "A loan with a 2 million pound option to buy."
Ole's fists clenched under his desk. "Two million? That's ridiculous. The boy's potential is worth ten times that."
Woodward shrugged. "It's a good deal, Ole. We'd be getting a decent fee for a player who, until a week ago, was on the verge of being released."
Ole leaned forward, his voice intense. "Ed, you don't understand. This boy could be the future of Manchester United. We can't let him go, especially not to Dortmund. They'll develop him into a world-class player, and we'll be left regretting it for years."
As Ole fought his battle in the boardroom, Luka stepped onto the U23 training pitch, his mind still swirling with thoughts of Dortmund. The other players, all older and more physically developed, eyed him curiously.
The enormity of his situation finally began to sink in. His mind reeled, struggling to process the whirlwind of events that had brought him to this moment. Just days ago, he had been a struggling U16 player on the verge of being cut. Now, he was training with the U23s, and Borussia Dortmund—one of Europe's most prestigious clubs—wanted to sign him.
The familiar smell of freshly cut grass filled his nostrils as he took in his surroundings. The pitch seemed both larger and smaller than he was used to—larger in its importance, smaller in the way it made him feel like a child among men. The other players, tall and muscular, eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Luka could almost hear their thoughts: "What's this kid doing here?"
As the warm-up began, Luka's body moved on autopilot, his muscles stretching and loosening while his mind continued to grapple with his new reality. The sound of boots striking balls, the shouts of his teammates, the whistle of the coach—it all seemed distant, as if he were underwater.
"Zorić!" The sharp call of his name snapped Luka back to the present. Neil Wood, the U23 coach, was gesturing for him to join a group for a small-sided game. "Let's see what you can do, lad."
Luka jogged over, his worn boots leaving faint imprints in the soft turf. He found himself on a team with Hannibal Mejbri, Shola Shoretire, and Alejandro Garnacho—all highly touted prospects. Their opponents included the towering Will Fish at center-back and Anthony Elanga.
As the game began, Luka felt a familiar calm descend upon him. The ball rolled towards him, and suddenly, nothing else mattered. Not Dortmund, not his uncertain future, not the eyes watching his every move. There was only the ball, the pitch, and the puzzle of the game unfolding before him.
Luka's eyes darted across the small playing area, his brain processing information at lightning speed. He saw Elanga slight shift of weight, telegraphing his intention to press. He noticed the gap between Will Fish and the sideline, a potential avenue of attack. In the split second before receiving the ball, Luka had already formulated three possible moves.
As Elanga lunged towards him, Luka's right foot caressed the ball, using the outside of his boot to flick it between the Ivorian's legs. The nutmeg was executed so smoothly, so unexpectedly, that Amad was left grasping at air. A collective gasp rose from the watching players and coaches.
Now facing his own goal, with Amad at his back, Luka's mind raced ahead. He sensed rather than saw Will Fish charging towards him, eager to snuff out the danger. In a fluid motion, Luka dragged the ball back with his right foot, spinning on the ball of his left foot as he did so. The Cruyff turn was perfect, leaving Fish stumbling as Luka accelerated past him.
The pitch opened up before him. Luka's eyes scanned the field, absorbing every detail. Garnacho was making a run to his left, drawing the attention of the remaining defender. Shola Shoretire was positioned near the makeshift goal, marked tightly. But it was Hannibal Mejbri, ghosting into space on the right, who caught Luka's attention.
As he approached the final defender, Luka feinted left, his hips and shoulders selling the dummy. The defender bit, shifting his weight to his right foot. In that instant, Luka exploded to his right, the ball seemingly glued to his foot as he changed direction.
Now, with only the goalkeeper to beat, Luka had a choice to make. The logical move would be to slip a pass to the unmarked Hannibal. It's what the coaches would expect, what any sensible player would do. But Luka wasn't feeling sensible. He was feeling invincible.
As the goalkeeper began to come off his line, Luka made his decision. His right foot caressed the underside of the ball, lifting it gently into the air. In one smooth motion, he flicked the ball up higher with his left foot, watching as it arced over the stunned goalkeeper's outstretched arms.
Time seemed to slow as the ball descended. Luka's heart pounded in his chest, his breath caught in his throat. The ball bounced once, twice, and then nestled into the back of the net.
For a moment, silence reigned over the training pitch. Then, as if a spell had been broken, chaos erupted. His teammates rushed towards him, their faces a mixture of disbelief and joy. Even the opposing players couldn't help but smile, shaking their heads in amazement.
Luka caught sight of the sideline. Neil Wood stood with his mouth agape, his clipboard hanging limply at his side. And there, just behind him, was a familiar figure that made Luka's heart skip a beat.
Ole Gunnar Solskjær stood watching, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. As their eyes met, the United manager gave Luka a small nod of approval.
The small-sided game resumed, but something had changed. The other players now looked at Luka with respect, perhaps even a touch of fear. Each time the ball came to him, there was a palpable sense of anticipation from everyone on the pitch.
Luka reveled in it. With each touch, each pass, each dribble, he felt his confidence growing. He nutmegged Will Fish with a cheeky backheel, leaving the defender red-faced and frustrated. He played a no-look pass that split the defense wide open, allowing Garnacho to score with ease. He even pulled off a rainbow flick over Elanga's head, drawing gasps and applause from the sidelines.
As the session progressed, Luka found himself pitted against increasingly difficult challenges. Neil Wood, seemingly determined to find the limits of this prodigy's abilities, kept adjusting the drills to make them more complex.
In a possession exercise, Luka was placed in the middle of a circle of players, tasked with winning the ball back. It should have been an impossible task—one player against eight, all of them older and more experienced. But Luka moved like water, flowing between the players, anticipating passes before they were made. Within minutes, he had intercepted three passes and nutmegged two players, leaving the U23s shaking their heads in disbelief.
During a full-pitch scrimmage, Luka was marked by three players at all times. It didn't matter. He danced around them as if they were training cones, his feet moving in ways that seemed to defy physics. At one point, he received the ball on the halfway line, surrounded by opponents. In a sequence that would later be described as "Maradona-esque," Luka embarked on a mazy run that saw him beat five players before chipping the goalkeeper from the edge of the box.
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the Carrington training complex, Neil Wood finally blew the whistle to end the session. The U23 players trudged off the pitch, a mixture of exhaustion and awe evident on their faces. Many of them patted Luka on the back as they passed, murmuring words of praise and encouragement.
Luka stood alone on the pitch for a moment, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked down at his worn boots, caked in mud and grass stains, and felt a surge of emotion. These boots had been with him through his struggles, through the moments of doubt and despair. Now, they had carried him to heights he had never dreamed possible.
<>
The next morning, Luka sat at the kitchen table, spooning cereal into his mouth as he watched cartoons with Emma. The familiar antics of Tom and Jerry played out on the small TV in the corner, but Luka's mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of yesterday's training session.
Emma giggled at the cat's misfortune, but Luka barely noticed. He was lost in thought, wondering what the day might bring. Would he be training with the U23s again? Would Ole Gunnar Solskjær be watching? And what about that offer from Borussia Dortmund?
The shrill ring of the telephone cut through his train of thought. His mother, Marija, hurried to answer it, her brow furrowing as she listened to the voice on the other end.
"Yes, he's here," she said, her eyes flicking towards Luka. "One moment, please." She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and turned to her son. "Luka, it's for you."
Luka's spoon clattered into his bowl, splashing milk onto the table. Emma's eyes widened, her cartoon forgotten. With trembling hands, Luka took the phone from his mother.
"Hello?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hello, Luka," came a warm, accented voice. "This is Sebastian Kehl, Head of First Team Football at Borussia Dortmund. I hope I'm not calling too early?"
Luka's mind raced. Sebastian Kehl? The former Dortmund captain? He'd watched countless YouTube compilations of Kehl's performances.
"No, no, it's fine," Luka managed to stammer out.
"Excellent," Kehl continued. "Luka, we've been watching you closely these past few days. Your performances have been... well, extraordinary is the word that comes to mind. We believe you have a gift, a special talent that could flourish at our club."
Luka's heart pounded in his chest. He thought of Dortmund's famous yellow wall, the sea of passionate fans that turned the Signal Iduna Park into a cauldron of noise and color. He remembered the electrifying Champions League nights, how Dortmund had come so close to knocking out PSG.
"We'd like to invite you to Dortmund," Kehl was saying. "To see our facilities, meet the coaching staff, and discuss how we can help you develop your talents. We believe we can offer you a clear path to first-team football."
As Kehl spoke, Luka's mind whirled with possibilities. Dortmund was known for nurturing young talent. Jadon Sancho, who had arrived as a teenager and become one of the most exciting players in world football. And then there was Jude Bellingham, barely older than Luka himself, already a key player for the first team.
"Of course, we understand this would be a big move for you and your family," Kehl continued. "We're prepared to provide accommodations for all of you in Dortmund. Your education would be taken care of, and we'd ensure your family is comfortable while you focus on your development."
Luka's gaze drifted to the window, where he could see the grey Manchester sky. He thought of the sun-drenched pitches of Dortmund, of training alongside players like Erling Haaland and Marco Reus. He imagined himself in the famous black and yellow shirt, stepping out onto the pitch of the Signal Iduna Park.
"We're competing in the Bundesliga, of course," Kehl was saying, "but also the DFB-Pokal and the Champions League. With players like Haaland, Bellingham, Reyna, and Moukoko, we have one of the most exciting young squads in Europe. We believe you'd fit right in."
Luka's mind raced ahead. He knew Haaland wouldn't be at Dortmund forever - the Norwegian was simply too good. But if he joined now, he might have the chance to play alongside one of the most promising strikers in the world. And Bellingham... the thought of partnering the English midfielder was almost too exciting to contemplate.
"I... I don't know what to say," Luka finally managed.
Kehl chuckled warmly. "You don't have to say anything right now, Luka. We understand this is a big decision. We're offering you a chance to be part of something special here at Dortmund. To develop your skills in an environment that has produced some of the best young players in the world. But take your time, discuss it with your family. We'll arrange for you to visit us in Dortmund, and you can see for yourself what we have to offer."
As the conversation wound down, Luka's head was spinning. He thanked Kehl, promised to discuss the offer with his parents, and hung up the phone. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the now-silent receiver in his hand.
"Well?" Emma's impatient voice broke the silence. "What did they say?"
Luka turned to his sister, seeing the excitement dancing in her eyes. He looked at his mother, noting the mixture of pride and concern on her face. How could he explain the magnitude of what had just happened?
"They... they want me to visit Dortmund," he said slowly, the words feeling strange on his tongue. "They're offering me a chance to join their academy. To maybe... maybe play for their first team one day."
Emma squealed with delight, but Marija's expression was more complex. "Dortmund? But that's in Germany, isn't it? It's so far away..."
Luka nodded, understanding his mother's concern. But in his mind's eye, he was already there.
As Luka sat at the kitchen table, his mind raced with the possibilities before him. The call from Sebastian Kehl had opened up a world he had only dreamed of. Yet, as he gazed out the window at the familiar grey Manchester sky, he felt a pang of uncertainty.
On one hand, there was Manchester United, the club he had supported since childhood. The allure of playing for the Red Devils, of following in the footsteps of legends like Best, Cantona, and Ronaldo, was undeniable. But Luka's knowledge of the future cast a shadow over that dream. He knew of the struggles that exist now and would continue to in United - the managerial turmoil, the toxic atmosphere, the years of underachievement. Could he really subject himself to that, knowing what he knew?
As he mulled over his options, Luka's mind turned to the skills he now possessed. He thought of Ronaldinho's dribbling, the way the Brazilian could leave defenders spellbound with a simple shimmy of his hips. He remembered Neymar's creativity, the flicks and tricks that seemed to defy logic. Kaká's vision flashed before his eyes, the ability to see passes that no one else could, to split defenses with a single touch.
Garrincha's lightning speed and agility came to mind, the way the 'Little Bird' could change direction in the blink of an eye, leaving opponents grasping at thin air. And then there was Juninho Pernambucano's free-kick mastery, the ability to bend the ball in ways that seemed to defy the laws of physics.
As Luka contemplated these skills, a startling realization dawned on him. These abilities, combined in one player, would make him... what? Not just good, not just great, but potentially the best player in the world.
Questions began to flood his mind. How quickly could he rise through the ranks at Dortmund? Could he surpass even the achievements of players like Sancho and Haaland? What kind of impact could he have on the Champions League with these skills? And what about the Internation football
But then, doubts crept in. He noticed the gaps in his skillset - his shooting wasn't mentioned, nor his ability from the penalty spot. And what about his defensive capabilities? In the modern game, even forwards were expected to contribute defensively.
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, Luka found himself drawn more and more towards Dortmund. The chance to develop in a nurturing environment, away from the pressure cooker of Manchester United, was appealing. And with his incredible abilities, he could potentially achieve even greater things than the club had in the past.
"Luka?" His mother's voice broke through his reverie. "Are you alright? You've been staring at your cereal for ten minutes."
Luka looked up, meeting his mother's concerned gaze. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision before him.
"Mom," he said slowly, "I think... I think I want to go to Dortmund."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Emma gasped, her eyes wide with excitement. His mother's expression was unreadable, a mixture of pride, worry, and something else - perhaps a realization that her little boy was on the verge of something extraordinary.