Luka stepped off the plane and into the crisp autumn air of Zagreb, pulling his jacket tighter around himself as he descended the stairs onto the tarmac.
It had only been two days since that evening at Jude's. The conversation they'd had still lingered in his mind, along with the big decisions he knew he'd have to make soon. But for now, all of that was pushed to the back of his mind. He was here to focus on one thing: playing for his country.
Or at least, that had been the plan.
He winced slightly as he put weight on his ankle, the reminder of his injury making him grit his teeth in frustration.
As he entered the terminal, he was greeted by a group of fans who had gathered, hoping to catch a glimpse of their rising star. Luka offered them a polite smile and a wave, but his heart wasn't in it. The disappointment of missing the Cyprus game was gnawing at him, more than he'd expected.
The journey to the team hotel was a quiet one. The streets of Zagreb were familiar yet distant, the same roads he'd traveled countless times growing up, felt somewhat distant.
Croatia was in a good position in their World Cup qualifying group, with only four games left to play. They had beaten Russia, Slovenia, and Slovakia in the September matches, propelling them to the top of the group with 16 points, two points clear of second-placed Russia.
Just three games. That was all it had taken for Luka to make an impact. Five goals, three assists—he was Croatia's top scorer in the qualifiers and joint-top assister with Perišić. His performances had justified every bit of hype, every bit of faith that had been placed in him by the coaches. But it was the upcoming games that had him excited. The thought of finally stepping onto the same pitch with Modrić, was something he had been looking forward to ever since he made the decision to represent Croatia.
Modrić had missed the September games due to injury, which had been a bittersweet opportunity for Luka. It allowed him to shine, to lead the team in Modrić's absence. But now, with Modrić back and Luka sidelined with this ankle injury, he couldn't help but feel the cruel twist of fate.
It wasn't all doom and gloom however, there was still the Slovakia game on the 11th, and many more games to come. He would just have to be patient, to wait for his moment to play alongside the legend.
The hotel came into view, a familiar sight. The Croatian flag fluttered outside, and the entrance was already busy with journalists and cameras, eager to catch a word with the national team players. Luka slipped out of the car quietly, pulling his hood up as he made his way through the entrance, trying to avoid the attention.
The lobby was warm, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. As Luka walked in, he was immediately greeted by the team's media officer, who handed him a room key with a smile.
"Welcome back, Luka," she said warmly. "The team's meeting in the conference room in an hour. The physio's expecting you before then."
Luka nodded, thanking her as he headed toward the elevators. The hotel was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
His room was on the third floor, overlooking the quiet streets of Zagreb. As he stepped inside, he dropped his bag by the door and immediately headed to the window, pulling back the curtains to let in the soft, fading light. He could see the rooftops of the city, the red tiles glinting in the evening sun, and in the distance, the spire of the Zagreb Cathedral reaching up toward the sky.
He sighed, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. Everything had been going so well. The goals, the assists, the accolades… He had been on fire. And now, to be sidelined like he always is with Dortmund… to have to watch from the bench like always, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
But there was no point dwelling on it. He had to focus on recovery, on getting back to full fitness. And then, when the time came, he would be ready.
He took a deep breath, pushing away the frustration and turning his attention to the physio appointment. There was no point in delaying it. The sooner he got started, the sooner he'd be back on the pitch.
The walk to the physio room was a quiet one, the hotel's corridors hushed and empty. As he entered, he was greeted by Dragan, the team's head physio, a gruff man in his late fifties with a stern expression that softened slightly when he saw Luka.
"Ah, Zorić," Dragan said, waving him over to the treatment table. "Let's take a look at that ankle, shall we?"
Luka hopped up onto the table, wincing slightly as he extended his leg. Dragan's experienced hands began to probe gently around the joint, eliciting small grunts of discomfort from Luka.
"Not too bad," Dragan muttered, more to himself than to Luka. "But you're definitely out for the Cyprus game. We can't risk it."
Luka nodded, already resigned to the fact. "Yeah, I figured. How long do you think?"
Dragan paused, considering. "With proper treatment, you should be ready for the next game. But we need to be careful. No heroics, Zorić. We've got bigger games ahead."
Luka appreciated Dragan's bluntness. It was better to know exactly where he stood. "Understood. I'll do whatever it takes."
Dragan nodded, reaching for some tape and beginning to wrap Luka's ankle. "Good. Now, let's get you sorted."
As Dragan worked, Luka's thoughts drifted back to the qualifiers. Five goals and three assists in three games. It was a stat line that any winger would kill for, let alone someone who wasn't even a forward. The way he was linking up play, threading passes through defenses, and finishing off chances with ease, had caught everyone by surprise. Including himself, sometimes.
It was no wonder that expectations were so high. The Croatian media had already dubbed him the "next big thing," and fans were eager to see what he could do. But with those expectations came pressure, and Luka wanted to prove himself, to show that those five goals and three assists weren't a fluke, that he could do it again, and again, and again.
But all of that would have to wait. Right now, the focus was on recovery, on getting back to full fitness so that he could take his place on the pitch when it mattered most.
"There we go," Dragan said, finishing the taping and giving Luka's ankle a firm pat. "You're all set. Take it easy, and we'll reassess in a couple of days."
Luka nodded, sliding off the table and testing his weight on the newly wrapped ankle. It felt better, more stable, but there was still that nagging throb.
"Thanks, Dragan," he said, offering the physio a small smile.
Dragan nodded gruffly, already turning his attention to the next task. "Get some rest, Zorić. You'll need it."
Luka nodded at Dragan's words, sliding off the treatment table. He knew he needed to rest, but the itch to be on the pitch gnawed at him.
The conference room buzzed with energy when he arrived, filled with the familiar faces of his teammates. There was no need for introductions anymore; he wasn't the new kid anymore, well, he was still somewhat new. Luka exchanged nods and quick greetings with the others as he found a seat near the back. As he settled in, he caught sight of Modrić, who was sitting a few seats away, grinning at him.
"Ah, here's the Luka who's been doing all the work," Modrić teased, his voice carrying across the room.
Luka couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Only because you weren't there. I was just holding your place."
"Don't be so modest," Modrić replied, leaning back in his chair with an easy smile. "You've been a revelation. I'm just glad I finally get to play alongside you."
The thought of finally sharing the pitch with Modrić was surreal, Modrić had been a hero to him growing up, a player he had always admired. And now, to be his teammate—it was almost too much to process.
"Same here," Luka said, feeling a surge of pride mixed with anticipation. But then, as if sensing the weight of the moment, Modrić leaned in a little closer.
"You know," Modrić began, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "maybe we'll end up playing together at club level too. Madrid could use someone like you."
Luka felt a jolt at the suggestion. Madrid. Did they ask Modric to do this? Even so, he wasn't ready to even consider something like that. Not yet. He forced a laugh, brushing off the idea as casually as he could.
"We'll see," Luka said with a grin, though in his mind he was already dismissing the thought. "One step at a time."
Modrić just smiled knowingly, as if he had planted a seed. Before the conversation could go any further, the room quieted as Zlatko Dalić stepped up to address the team.
The head coach's presence commanded respect, and as he began to speak, the air in the room became focused and serious. Dalić went over their recent matches, highlighting what they had done well and where there was room for improvement. When he got to Luka, the coach paused, his expression softening into a smile.
"And of course, we can't overlook our young star," Dalić said, his voice filled with pride. "Luka, you've been exceptional. Five goals, three assists in three games—you've exceeded all expectations."
A ripple of applause and nods of agreement moved through the room, and Luka felt his face grow warm. He nodded in acknowledgment, but inside, he was still grappling with the weight of it all.
"Thank you, coach," Luka said simply, the words not nearly enough to express how much it meant to hear that.
Dalić nodded, then turned his focus back to the team. "But we're not done yet. We've got four games left, and Cyprus is up next. Luka's out for this one, but we need everyone sharp and ready. No room for complacency."
Luka listened intently, even though he wouldn't be playing. He needed to stay involved, to be ready when his chance came again. As Dalić wrapped up the meeting, Luka found himself replaying the coach's words in his head, letting them settle into his bones.
After the debrief, the team moved to the dining area for a meal. The room was filled with the comforting sounds of clinking cutlery and soft conversation. Luka sat between Modrić and Perišić, both of whom seemed eager to keep the atmosphere light and relaxed.
"So, did you see the way the Russian keeper reacted you were one one one with him?" Perišić said, a grin stretching across his face. "Looked like he'd just seen a ghost."
Luka chuckled, recalling the goal. "I think he thought I would have chipped him. Poor guy."
"Pure class, mate," Modrić added, nodding approvingly. "If you keep that up, you'll have defenders diving the wrong way before you even touch the ball."
After dinner, while the rest of the team headed out for training, Luka made his way to the gym for some recovery work. The gym was quiet, the kind of quiet that let you hear your own thoughts, which was both a blessing and a curse. He began with upper body weight training, focusing on strength while Dragan kept a watchful eye.
The repetition of the weights, the feel of the iron in his hands—it was grounding, pulling him out of his head and into his body. As he worked through his routine, Luka found his mind wandering back to the conversation with Modrić.
Madrid. The idea of playing for a club like that was thrilling, sure, but as he said before, Madrid would be stacked, and Vinicius already owned the left wing, his favoured position, no, unless something changed Madrid was out of the list of options.
But he put that aside and focused on the present moment, there was work to do. And Luka was ready to do it.
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Just to clarify this isn't my priority work, my other story is, this wasn't even meant to be a story, it was simply a one-shot I made for fun.