As the crisp autumn air nipped at their faces, Luka Zorić and Erling Haaland made their way towards the training complex, the Norwegian limping slightly.
"Ey, how's the, uh... the leg thing?" Luka asked, gesturing vaguely at Haaland's lower half.
Haaland grunted, his brow furrowing. "Is... how you say... shit? But the doctor said maybe I'm ready for Mainz."
Luka chuckled, shaking his head. "Your English is getting worse, mate. You've been hanging out with Jude too much."
As they approached the entrance, they could hear the excited chatter of their teammates inside. Pushing through the doors, they were greeted by a scene of controlled chaos. Jude Bellingham stood at the center, tablet in hand, surrounded by a semicircle of players and a small camera crew.
"Oi, you lot!" Jude called out, spotting them. "Get your arses over here! We're doing the FIFA ratings!"
Luka and Erling exchanged glances, a mix of excitement and trepidation on their faces. They squeezed into the group just as Jude was pulling up a card on the tablet.
"Right, let's see what they've given the big man," Jude announced, tapping the screen with a flourish.
The tablet flickered to life, revealing Haaland's FIFA 22 card. A collective "Ooooh" rippled through the group.
"Eighty-eight overall!" Jude exclaimed. "Not too shabby, big man!"
Haaland's face remained impassive, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "Its... okay," he shrugged, fighting back a grin.
"Okay? It's bloody brilliant!" Jude laughed, scrolling through the stats. "Pace 89, Shooting 91—"
"Ninety-one?" Marco Reus interrupted, peering over Jude's shoulder. "Sounds about right. You seen this lad's left foot?"
"Ja, my left is good," Haaland nodded seriously, causing the group to burst into laughter.
"Alright, alright," Jude continued, "Passing 65—"
"Oof," Luka winced. "Bit harsh, that. You've got some nice passes in you." He commented, remembering some of the assists Haaland had provided.
Haaland grinned, clapping Luka on the shoulder. "Thanks. But I'll take the 91 shooting any day."
"Dribbling 78, Defending 45—"
"Higher than I expected," Akanji chimed in with a grin.
"Ey!" Haaland protested, a rare smile breaking through. "I defend... sometimes."
"And finally, Physical 87," Jude finished. "Well, can't argue with that one, can we?"
The group murmured in agreement, several players eyeing Haaland's muscular frame with a mix of admiration and envy.
"Right then," Jude said, swiping to the next card. "Let's see what they've given our wonder boy Luka, shall we?"
Luka felt his heart rate pick up as Jude tapped the screen. There was a moment of silence as the card loaded, then...
"Seventy-one?" Jude's voice was filled with disbelief. "Seventy-bloody-one? Are they having a laugh?"
Luka stared at the screen, his brow furrowed. The card showed a generic silver player portrait – no face scan for him yet.
"Wait, wait," Reus said, holding up a hand. "Luka, how many goals you got this season? Like, eight? Nine?"
Luka shook his head. "Eleven, actually. In thirteen games."
"Eleven in thirteen?" Jude repeated, his eyes wide. "And they give you a 71? That's mad, that is!"
"And assists?" Akanji asked, leaning in to get a better look at the card.
"Thirteen," Luka replied, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.
"Eleven goals and thirteen assists in thirteen games?" Reus exclaimed. "That's... that's a goal contribution every 45 minutes!"
"Your balls are beautiful," Haaland nodded solemnly, then frowned as the group erupted in laughter. "What? What did I say?"
"Might want to rephrase that, mate," Jude managed between guffaws, wiping tears from his eyes.
As the laughter died down, they turned their attention back to the stats.
"Right, let's see," Jude began. "Pace is... 79? Nah, that's criminal. You're rapid, mate!"
"Should be at least 85," Reus agreed. "Remember that sprint against Freiburg? Left their entire backline for dead!"
"Shooting..." Jude continued, then trailed off, his eyes widening. "Sixty-seven? Are they taking the piss?"
"Maybe they forgot to count my free-kick goals," Luka joked, trying to lighten the mood.
"How many of those you got, anyway?" Akanji asked.
Luka grinned. "Just the one. But it was a beauty, wasn't it?"
"Absolute screamer," Jude nodded. "Right, moving on. Passing 75—"
"Seventy-five?" Reus interrupted, incredulous. "With thirteen assists? That's mad!"
"Maybe they think I just get lucky," Luka shrugged, but there was a hint of frustration in his voice.
"Dribbling 82," Jude continued. "Well, at least they got something right. Sort of."
"Should be higher," Haaland grunted. "You...make defenders look stupid?"
"Make them look like mugs," Jude supplied helpfully.
"Ja, that," Haaland nodded.
"Defending 23," Jude read out, then paused. "Actually, yeah, fair enough."
Luka laughed, holding up his hands. "No arguments here. I leave that to you lot at the back."
"And finally, Physical 50," Jude finished. "Bit low, innit? You're not exactly a pushover."
"Could be higher," Luka admitted. "But I know I need to work on my strength."
As the group continued to dissect Luka's ratings, more teammates filtered in, each adding their voice to the chorus of disbelief.
"Ey, Jude," Haaland said suddenly. "What your rating?"
Jude grinned, swiping to his own card. "Seventy-nine, lads. Not too shabby for a teenager, eh?"
"Deserved," Luka nodded approvingly. "You've been brilliant."
"Cheers, mate," Jude replied, then turned to the cameraman. "Oi! How do they even come up with these numbers?"
The cameraman lowered his equipment, looking a bit flustered. "Oh, uh... I think they have analysts who watch games and compile data. But I'm not really sure of the exact process."
"Well, they need to watch more Dortmund games," Reus muttered.
As the banter continued, Luka found himself staring at his modest 71 rating. It stung more than he wanted to admit, but he pushed the feeling aside.
"You know what," he said finally, a determined glint in his eye. "This just means I've got to work even harder. Show them what I can really do."
"That's the spirit!" Jude exclaimed, clapping him on the back. "We'll have you in the 80s by the winter update, just you wait!"
"Ja, we show them on pitch," Haaland nodded seriously. "Make them eat their words."
"Spot on," Jude grinned. "Now, who wants to see Meunier's rating? Bet it's higher than all of ours combined!"
As the laughter from Jude's Meunier quip died down, the team began to disperse, heading towards the training pitch. The crisp autumn air nipped at their faces as they jogged out, cleats crunching on the grass.
Luka fell into step beside Jude, their breath visible in small puffs as they warmed up. The training session was lighter than usual, with the match against Augsburg looming tomorrow. Instead of their usual intense drills, the coaching staff had organized a series of recovery exercises and light physical work.
As they moved through a series of yoga poses, Luka could feel the tension in his muscles slowly unwinding. The gentle stretches were a welcome ease up compared to the grueling physical sessions he'd been put through earlier in the week. Two days of intense fitness work had left him feeling simultaneously stronger and more exhausted than he'd ever been.
"Alright there, mate?" Jude asked, noticing Luka's furrowed brow as they transitioned into a downward dog position.
Luka exhaled slowly, feeling the stretch in his hamstrings. "Yeah, just... processing, I guess. It's been a hell of a week."
Jude nodded sympathetically. "Tell me about it. But hey, at least we're not doing sprints today, eh?"
As they moved through the rest of their recovery session, Luka found his mind drifting. The FIFA ratings still niggled at the back of his mind, but there was something else too - a growing sense of belonging that he'd never quite experienced before.
After they'd finished their cool-down and were heading back to the locker room, Jude fell into step beside Luka once again.
"Hey, I was thinking," Jude began, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "You live alone, right?"
Luka nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. "Yea. My mum came down with me, but she decided to leave early on."
Jude's face lit up. "Perfect! I mean, not perfect that your mum's left, but... well, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out after the Augsburg game? We could play some FIFA, prove those ratings wrong and all that."
Luka felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion. "Yeah, that sounds great, actually."
"Brilliant!" Jude grinned, then his eyes widened as if struck by a sudden thought. "Wait, mate, why don't you just come over to mine? My mum's always going on about how she needs to fatten me up. I'm sure she'd love to cook for both of us."
Luka laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the now-empty locker room. "Your mum trying to turn you into a center-back or something?"
Jude chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly, mate, you have no idea. Last time I went home, she tried to feed me three full English breakfasts in one day."
Luka's eyes widened. "Three? How are you not rolling onto the pitch?"
"Metabolism of a bloody hummingbird, I swear," Jude grinned, patting his stomach. "But seriously, you'll love it. Mum's cooking is top-notch."
As they walked towards their cars, the conversation shifted, the cool autumn breeze rustling through the trees around the parking lot.
"So, how are you finding Germany?" Jude asked, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
Luka nodded, leaning against his car. "Yeah, it's... interesting. The language is a nightmare, though. How's your German coming along?"
Jude groaned dramatically. "Don't even get me started. I swear, every time I think I've got a handle on it, someone throws a word at me that's about fifty letters long."
"Tell me about it," Luka laughed. "The other day, I tried to buy a jacket and ended up with some kind of sauerkraut sandwich. Don't ask me how."
They both chuckled, the sound echoing off the nearby buildings.
"You miss England much?" Luka asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Jude's expression softened a bit. "Yeah, sometimes. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love it here. The football, the fans, the city - it's all brilliant. But..."
"But it's not home," Luka finished for him.
"Exactly," Jude nodded. "Don't suppose you're planning any trips back soon?"
Luka shrugged, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "I don't know, to be honest. It's... complicated."
Jude raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "Fair enough, mate. Well, if you ever fancy a trip to Birmingham, you're always welcome. Though I can't promise it'll be as exciting as Dortmund."
"I'll keep that in mind," Luka smiled. "Though from what I've heard, excitement in Birmingham usually involves dodging flying chairs at the Villa-Blues derby."
Jude burst out laughing. "Oi, we're not that bad! Well... maybe a little. But that's half the fun, innit?"
As their laughter died down, a comfortable silence settled between them. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the parking lot.
"You nervous about tomorrow?" Jude asked, breaking the silence.
Luka considered for a moment. "A bit, yeah. Augsburg's been in good form lately."
"True," Jude nodded. "But so have we. And between you and me, I've got a feeling about tomorrow. Think we might just smash it."
Luka couldn't help but grin at Jude's confidence. "Hope you're right. Guess we'll find out soon enough."