Jorge Mendes leaned back in his plush leather chair, his eyes scanning the expansive office before him. The Lisbon skyline stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, around the large table sat a cadre of agents and lawyers, each poring over stacks of documents, the air thick with the scent of coffee and ambition.
"So," Mendes began, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation, "where are we with the Puma deal for Luka?"
A young lawyer, eager to impress, spoke up. "We've gone through the contract line by line, Mr. Mendes. The terms are unprecedented for a player of Luka's age. The base salary alone is staggering-"
Mendes waved a hand, silencing the room. "I know the numbers. What I want to know is, are there any potential pitfalls? Anything that could come back to bite us?"
An older agent, his hair peppered with gray, cleared his throat. "There's the performance clause on page 17. It's aggressive, even for a player of Luka's caliber. If he doesn't meet those benchmarks, Puma could potentially reduce the payout."
Mendes nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I've considered it, the international requirements certainly are difficult to meet. We'll need to renegotiate that. Luka's on an upward trajectory, but we can't risk tying too much of the deal to performance at this stage of his career."
He made a few notes on his tablet before continuing. "Now, let's talk about the real issue at hand. The contract situation."
A ripple of tension passed through the room. Everyone knew this was the crux of the matter.
"Dortmund will be pressing for an answer soon," one of the agents said. "And Manchester United... well, they're realizing the magnitude of their mistake."
Mendes allowed himself a small smile. United's blunder in setting such a low buy option for Luka had created a feeding frenzy among Europe's top clubs. It was the kind of situation he lived for.
"Luka is undecided," Mendes said, his tone measured. "But I'll ensure we have a thorough conversation during the winter break. We need to consider all angles - playing time, tactical fit, long-term development. It's not just about the highest bidder."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "I want a complete breakdown of every interested club. Financial offers, sure, but also playing style, coach's track record with young players, potential for growth. Leave no stone unturned."
One of the younger agents, new to Mendes' inner circle, spoke up hesitantly. "What about the Ballon d'Or ceremony coming up? Do you think Luka has a shot at any awards? The Kopa Trophy, maybe? Or the Golden Boy?"
Mendes shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "No, he hasn't played long enough at the top level. Those awards typically go to players who've had at least a full season in the spotlight. But don't worry - Luka's time will come."
He stood, pacing the length of the room as he spoke. "Listen, being an agent isn't just about negotiating contracts and transfer fees. It's about managing careers, shaping narratives, building brands."
His voice took on a passionate intensity. "Take Luka, for example. Right now, we're not just planning his next move - we're laying the groundwork for the next decade of his career. Every interview, every social media post, every charity appearance - it all feeds into the image we're crafting."
The room was silent, all eyes fixed on Mendes as he continued.
"We're selling a story, a dream. The boy wonder from Croatia, following in the footsteps of the greats. We're selling hope to fans, excitement to clubs, and a vision of the future to sponsors."
He paused, turning to face the group. "Do you know how much time we spend on things like boot deals? It's not just about the money - it's about finding the right fit, literally and figuratively. A player complaining about blisters doesn't perform at his best, and that affects everything else."
One of the lawyers raised a hand. "What about image rights? That's always a complex area."
Mendes nodded approvingly. "Excellent point. With someone like Luka, we're not just negotiating for now - we're thinking five, ten years down the line. Deals that allow for growth, that give us flexibility as his star rises."
He moved back to his seat. "And let's not forget the psychological aspect. These are young men, often thrust into the spotlight before they're ready. Part of our job is to be a buffer, to shield them from the pressures while also preparing them for the reality of life at the top."
The conversation flowed, touching on topics rarely discussed outside the inner circles of football's power brokers.
Another agent spoke up. "What about endorsements beyond Puma? We've had inquiries from several major brands."
"We tread carefully there," Mendes replied. "We don't want to oversaturate the market. Choose partnerships that align with Luka's image - young, dynamic, innovative. And always leave room for growth."
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The morning of the match dawned cold and clear, the crisp air Netherland's air biting at Luka's skin as Marco Rose called the team together for a pre-match meeting, his expression serious as he addressed the group. "This is it, boys. We all know what happened last time, and we all know how it felt. Today, we make it right. Today, we fight for everything."
Luka felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the pre-match jitters that always hit him before a big game. He was ready—more than ready—to make his mark.
Rose continued, pacing in front of the group, his voice rising with intensity. "Ajax will press us hard, just like they did last time. But we've been working on our response. We'll play through the middle, control the tempo, and hit them where it hurts."
Luka nodded along with the rest of the team, he may not agree with the tactical plan but he was feeling the excitement build.
But then, just as he was hyping himself up, he heard something that made his stomach drop.
"Luka, you'll be on the bench to start," Rose said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Luka froze, his mind struggling to process what he had just heard. On the bench? He looked around, half-expecting someone to correct the coach, to say it was a mistake.
He shot a look at Rose, his eyes wide with confusionf "Coach, why?" Luka asked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice but failing miserably. "Why am I on the bench?"
Rose met his gaze, his expression calm. "Luka, you're an incredible talent, but for this game, I need something different. Ajax presses hard, and we need to be solid through the middle, controlling the tempo. This match requires more physicality, more structure, and right now, you don't quite fit that plan."
Luka felt his heart sink. Doesn't fit the plan? He had been their best player so far, racking up assists and goals like they were going out of fashion. And now, in one of the most important games of their season, he was being told to sit on the bench.
He clenched his fists, biting back the angry retort that was burning on his tongue. He wanted to argue, to tell Rose that he was ready, that he could make a difference. Rose had made his decision, and there was nothing Luka could do about it.
"Fine," Luka muttered, turning away before Rose could see the anger in his eyes. He grabbed his water bottle and squeezed it hard, trying to release some of the tension. He felt like he was being pushed aside, as if all the work he had put in, all the performances he had delivered, meant nothing.
As the team prepared to leave the locker room and head out to the pitch, Luka found himself trailing behind, his mind racing with frustration.
Luka followed at a distance, taking his place among the substitutes. The tunnel was filled with the sound of studs clacking on the concrete, the murmur of pre-match nerves, and the distant roar of the fans. But for Luka, it was all a blur. He could hardly focus on anything except the fact that he wasn't starting.
He watched as the teams walked out onto the pitch, the lights of the Johan Cruyff Arena blinding for a moment as they stepped into the open air. The Ajax fans were already in full voice, their chants echoing around the stadium. Luka's heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn't the usual thrill of excitement he felt before a big game.
The Champions League anthem began to play, and Luka's eyes were fixed on the pitch, watching his teammates line up for the handshakes, feeling a sense of detachment.
The handshake line moved swiftly, the formalities observed, and then the players took their positions. Luka found himself on the bench, squeezed between two of the coaching staff, his water bottle gripped tightly in his hand.
As the referee blew the whistle to start the match, Luka's frustration reached its peak. He squeezed his water bottle so hard he thought it might burst, the plastic crumpling under the pressure of his grip. He tried to focus on the game, to push the anger aside, but it was no use.
The noise of the crowd was a distant roar, but all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and steady in his ears. The coach next to him leaned in, offering words of encouragement, but Luka barely registered them. His frustration was mounting, the tension in his chest almost unbearable.
"Relax, Luka," the coach said softly, his voice almost lost in the din of the stadium. "You'll get your chance. Just stay focused."
Luka nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He could barely hear the coach's reassurances over the rush of blood in his ears. He wasn't interested in staying calm or waiting his turn—he wanted to be out there, on the pitch, making a difference.
The coach continued to talk, trying to keep Luka's mind in the game, but each word only served to irritate him more. Luka shifted in his seat, turning his body away slightly, making it clear that he wasn't in the mood for conversation. Finally, the coach seemed to get the hint and fell silent, leaving Luka alone with his thoughts.
On the pitch, Dortmund had taken control of possession from the start. They were moving the ball with purpose, probing Ajax's defense, trying to find an opening. Dortmund was pressing high, pushing Ajax back into their own half, suffocating them with pressure.
But for all their possession, they weren't creating clear chances. Ajax was compact, disciplined, and whenever Dortmund tried to break through, Ajax's defense snapped into action, cutting out passes, intercepting through balls, and forcing Dortmund to recycle possession. The Dutch side was biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike on the counter.
In the 24th minute, Dortmund came close. Brandt, after a quick one-two with Reus, found himself in space just outside the box. He spotted Haaland making a run between the center-backs and threaded a pass through the defense. Haaland latched onto it, his first touch taking him into the box, but before he could pull the trigger, Ajax's goalkeeper Remko Pasveer was off his line, closing down the angle and smothering the ball at Haaland's feet.
The Dortmund fans groaned in frustration, and Luka clenched his fists, his frustration growing. That was close—so close—but it wasn't enough. Dortmund was controlling the game, but without that final product, it felt like they were just spinning their wheels.
And then, in the 27th minute, Ajax struck.
It started with a quick turnover in midfield. Witsel, under pressure from two Ajax players, lost the ball to Edson Álvarez, who immediately launched a counterattack. With Dortmund's midfield caught out of position, Ajax broke forward with lightning speed. Ryan Gravenberch drove through the middle, his eyes up, looking for options. He spotted Antony making a run down the right flank and played a weighted ball into his path.
Luka watched, his heart sinking as Antony sped down the wing, Wolf struggling to keep pace. Antony reached the edge of the box and, without breaking stride, whipped a low cross towards the near post. Sébastien Haller was there, having peeled away from his marker. With one touch, Haller redirected the ball past Kobel and into the back of the net.
1-0 to Ajax.
Luka's grip on his water bottle tightened, the plastic crumpling further. The frustration was almost unbearable. Dortmund had been in control, dictating the pace of the game, and yet here they were, down a goal to a perfectly executed counterattack.
Dortmund didn't lose their composure after the goal. They went right back to controlling possession, methodically working the ball around the pitch, trying to pull Ajax out of their defensive shape. But every time they advanced into the final third, they were met with a wall of white shirts. Ajax was defending with discipline and intensity, closing down space, and forcing Dortmund to play sideways or backward.
In the 34th minute, Dortmund worked the ball out to Meunier on the right wing. Meunier, seeing no immediate options in the box, played a quick pass inside to Bellingham, who was hovering just outside the penalty area. Bellingham took a touch, then swung a cross into the box, aiming for Haaland. But again, Ajax's defense was alert, and Lisandro Martínez, despite his height, rose highest to clear the danger.
The ball fell to Reus at the edge of the box, and he quickly fed it to Thorgan Hazard, who was cutting in from the left. Hazard tried to wriggle past Mazraoui, but the Ajax right-back stood firm, blocking Hazard's path and forcing him to lay the ball off to Witsel. Witsel, with no clear options ahead, played it back to Hummels, who restarted the play from the back.
They were dominating possession, yes, but it wasn't leading to anything concrete. Every time they got near the box, Ajax closed them down, forcing them to start over. And with each passing minute, Luka could see the tension building in his teammates on the pitch. The chances were few, and when they did come, Ajax's defense was there to snuff them out.
As the first half neared its end, Ajax's strategy became even clearer. They were content to let Dortmund have the ball, knowing that they could spring a counterattack at any moment. And that's exactly what happened in the 42nd minute.
Dortmund had pushed high up the pitch, with Wolf and Meunier both advanced, trying to stretch Ajax's defense. But when Bellingham's pass to Reus was intercepted by Álvarez, Ajax launched another rapid counterattack. Álvarez quickly found Gravenberch, who drove forward with purpose, before playing a through ball to Dusan Tadic, who had drifted into space on the left wing.
Luka's heart pounded as he watched Tadic collect the ball, Wolf racing to close him down. But Tadic was too quick. He cut inside, leaving Wolf trailing, and played a low cross into the box. Haller, once again, was in the right place at the right time. He let the ball run past him, fooling Akanji, before swiveling and firing a shot into the bottom corner.
2-0 to Ajax.
The stadium erupted in celebration, the Ajax fans roaring with approval. Luka sat frozen on the bench, his water bottle now crumpled beyond recognition in his hand. Dortmund had been in control for much of the half, but here they were, two goals down, both coming from devastating counterattacks.
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New Story: A Quiet Place Day One