As Luka continued to explore Zagreb, soaking in the sights and sounds of the city, he felt an inexplicable sense of belonging. The cobblestone streets, the aroma of fresh pastries wafting from local bakeries, and the distant chime of church bells. He had experienced it numerous times, but being here again felt so- refreshing.
He found himself drawn to Dolac Market and as he wandered through the stalls, sampling local cheeses and fruits, Luka felt more at home than he ever had in Manchester or Dortmund.
Meanwhile, across Europe, the football associations of England and Portugal were in a state of quiet turmoil.
In the plush offices of St. George's Park, Gareth Southgate sat with his head in his hands, watching highlights of Luka Zorić's recent performances for Dortmund on a large screen. The room was silent save for the occasional gasp or murmur of appreciation from the gathered coaching staff.
"I can't believe we let him slip through our fingers," muttered Lee Carsley, the England U21 manager. "Look at that close control. And that vision! He's threading passes like he's got eyes in the back of his head."
Southgate lifted his head, his face a mask of frustration. "We made a mistake. A big one. But hindsight is always 20/20, isn't it?"
John McDermott, the FA's Technical Director, couldn't contain his exasperation. "With all due respect, Gareth, this wasn't hindsight. We told you he was special. We urged you to make a move."
Southgate bristled. "And I said he seemed too foreign, didn't I? Well, maybe that's the problem with English football. Maybe we're too insular, too set in our ways."
The room fell silent, everyone stunned by Southgate's admission.
"So what do we do now?" asked Carsley, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
Southgate sighed heavily. "We watch. We wait. And we pray that Croatia doesn't cap-tie him in these upcoming matches. If there's even a sliver of a chance, we need to be ready to pounce."
As the English FA grappled with their regret, a similar scene was unfolding in Lisbon.
Fernando Santos paced back and forth in the Portuguese Football Federation's boardroom, his eyes flicking occasionally to the screen displaying Zorić's highlights.
"We should have been more aggressive," he muttered. "We should have offered him a spot in the senior squad right away."
The Technical Director nodded solemnly. "Croatia beat us to the punch. They made him feel wanted, valued. We were too cautious."
Santos stopped pacing, his face etched with determination. "We need to make contact. Today. Now. Before it's too late."
"But he's already with the Croatian squad," one of the coaches pointed out. "It might be seen as... inappropriate."
Santos waved dismissively. "I don't care about appropriate right now. We're talking about potentially losing out on a generational talent. A player born in Portugal, for God's sake! We need to at least try."
As the Portuguese scrambled to formulate a last-minute strategy, back in Zagreb, Luka remained blissfully unaware of the international tug-of-war he had inadvertently sparked.
He found himself once again at the small restaurant.
"You know," she said, her eyes twinkling, "this place has been in my family for generations. My great-grandfather started it as a small tavern, serving local wines and simple meals to workers and travelers."
The owner continued, her eyes sparkling with pride. "During the Yugoslav Wars, this restaurant became a haven for people from all walks of life. We served soldiers, refugees, and locals alike. It was a place where differences were set aside, if only for a moment, over a warm meal and a glass of rakija."
Luka nodded, feeling a strange familiarity with the tales. As he left the restaurant, his phone buzzed with a message from the manager: "Big game tomorrow. Slovenia."
The significance wasn't lost on Luka. This would be his third cap for Croatia, officially tying him to the nation and closing the door on representing any other country. As he made his way to the team hotel, a sense of anticipation built within him.
The next day, as Luka walked onto the pitch at Stadion Maksimir for his first home game with Croatia, the roar of the crowd was deafening. The absence of Modrić, still recovering from injury, meant all eyes were on the young prodigy.
As the referee blew the whistle to start the match, Luka felt a surge of confidence. This was his stage, his moment to shine.
In the 12th minute, Luka received the ball near the halfway line. A Slovenian defender rushed to close him down, but Luka's first touch was magical. He flicked the ball over the defender's head, spun around him, and caught it on the other side. The crowd gasped in amazement.
"Shades of Ronaldinho there!" exclaimed the commentator. "Zorić is toying with the Slovenian defense!"
Luka continued his run, weaving through two more defenders with quick feet and mesmerizing stepovers. As he approached the box, he spotted Perišić making a run. With the outside of his boot, Luka delivered a perfectly weighted pass that curled around the defense and into Perišić's path. The winger made no mistake, slotting it past the keeper to give Croatia the lead.
The stadium erupted in cheers as Luka's teammates mobbed him. "That assist was world-class!" the commentator shouted over the noise. "Zorić is showing why he's being hailed as the next Croatian superstar!"
As the first half progressed, Luka's confidence grew. In the 34th minute, he received the ball on the right wing. Faced with two defenders, he pulled off a quick elastic which sent the first defender stumbling, then a rapid series of stepovers left the second rooted to the spot. Luka burst into the box, drew the keeper out, and chipped the ball delicately to the far post where Vlašić was waiting to head it in.
"Another assist for Zorić, not that it will count since a defender deflected it, but still!" the commentator exclaimed. "He's running this game like a seasoned veteran, not a 17-year-old in his third international match!"
The halftime whistle blew with Croatia leading 2-0, both goals courtesy of Luka's brilliance.
As the second half kicked off, Slovenia came out with renewed determination, but Luka was in no mood to let up. In the 58th minute, in one fluid motion, he turned defense into attack, spinning away from his marker and launching a counterattack.
Luka surged forward, the ball seemingly glued to his feet as he danced past challenges. As he approached the box, he found himself surrounded by three Slovenian defenders. The crowd held its breath, expecting him to pass.
But Luka had other ideaso. He drew back his weaker foot and let it rip, this was his range. The ball rocketed towards the top corner, leaving the goalkeeper rooted to the spot.
The stadium exploded in disbelief and joy. Luka himself looked stunned for a moment before being engulfed by his ecstatic teammates.
"Wow!" the commentator screamed. "Luka Zorić has just scored one of the most outrageous goals you will ever see! That curve on the ball was outrageous"
As the match entered its final stages, Luka showed no signs of slowing down. In the 76th minute, he received the ball deep in his own half.
Luka accelerated past one defender, then another. He nutmegged a third, leaving him on the ground. As he approached the box, he faced a wall of Slovenian defenders. With quick feet and even quicker thinking, he pulled off a rainbow flick over the entire defense, ran around them, and collected the ball on the other side.
The stadium was on its feet, scarcely believing what they were seeing. Luka, with the goal at his mercy, unselfishly squared the ball to Kramarić, who tapped in Croatia's fourth.
"Unbelievable!" the commentator gasped. "Zorić could have had his second, but he chooses to set up his teammate instead. What a player, what a performance!"
In the dying minutes of the game, Luka put the final nail in Slovenia's coffin. Receiving the ball 30 yards from goal, he looked up and spotted the keeper slightly off his line. Without hesitation, he unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot that dipped and swerved in the air before nestling in the top corner.
The final whistle blew with Croatia winning 5-0, Luka having contributed two assists and two goals, each more spectacular than the last.
As Luka was surrounded by his teammates and the adoring home crowd, the magnitude of what he had just accomplished began to sink in. He had not just played a game; he had put on a show for the ages.
In the post-match interview, Luka, still breathless from the exertion and emotion, spoke with a maturity beyond his years:
"This is a dream come true. To play for Croatia, to wear this shirt, it means everything to me. I'm just happy I could contribute to the team's success. This is only the beginning. We have big dreams, and I'm honored to be part of this journey."
<>
Luka slumped into his seat on the team bus, his body aching from the match. He'd put on another stellar performance, but the toll was starting to show. As the Croatian countryside rolled by outside the window, he couldn't help but chuckle to himself.
"Ronaldinho's flair, Neymar's creativity, Kaká's vision... whoever gave me this really went all out, didn't they?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in amusement. It was still surreal to him, possessing skills of the greatest Brazilian legends. But with great power came great exhaustion, apparently.
Eight goal involvements in three games for Croatia. Twenty-one in eight games overall. The numbers were staggering, even to him. But as he shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position for his tired muscles, Luka wondered if this pace was sustainable.
"Maybe Rose had the right idea," he mused, thinking back to the times his Dortmund coach had kept him on the bench. At the time, it had frustrated him. But now, as fatigue seeped into his bones, he was beginning to understand.
The constant travel was wearing him down. From Dortmund to Zagreb, to Russia, to Slovakia, to Zagreb and now back to Dortmund - it was a grueling schedule. Luka closed his eyes, longing for his bed back in his apartment.
"I definitely need to rest more," he said to himself, barely stifling a yawn. "All these Brazilian superpowers, and they couldn't throw in some kind of recovery ability?"
As the bus pulled into the airport for their flight back to Germany, Luka gathered his things, his movements sluggish. The thought of another plane ride made him groan internally.
"Home sweet home," Luka mumbled as he finally stumbled through the door of his Dortmund apartment. He dropped his bags unceremoniously in the entryway, too tired to care about tidiness.
His eyes fell on the modest gym setup in the corner of his living room. Usually, he'd be itching to get in some extra training. Now, the mere sight of it made his muscles protest.
"Sorry, little gym," he said, patting the nearest weight as he shuffled past. "You're getting a break today. Your owner needs to remember he's human... mostly."
Collapsing onto his couch, Luka let out a long sigh. The familiar surroundings were a comfort, but they also highlighted how much his life had changed. Just a few months ago, he was an unknown kid with big dreams. Now, he was... well, still a kid, but one with the football world at his feet and the skills of Brazilian legends in his arsenal.
"Garrincha's speed, Juninho's free-kicks," he listed off, chuckling weakly. "Great for the highlight reels, not so great for the old energy levels."
As he lay there, Luka's mind wandered to the upcoming Bundesliga fixtures. Part of him was eager to get back on the pitch, to dazzle the crowds. But another part, the part that felt every ache in his body, whispered cautions about burnout and injuries.
"Alright, alright," he muttered to no one in particular. "Message received, body. Time to actually listen to the physios and get some proper rest."
With a herculean effort, Luka dragged himself off the couch and towards his bedroom. As he fell into bed, not even bothering to change out of his travel clothes, he made a mental note to talk to the coaching staff about a more balanced schedule.