The January sky hung low and grey over Manchester, an all to common scenery. Luka sat in a leather chair that probably cost more than his first contract, watching Jorge Mendes pace the length of the private meeting room.
"Real Madrid," Mendes said, Luka could tell he had a million thoughts spiraling in his mind. "Florentino wants to host you for a few days. Show you around the facility, let you get a feel for what could be." He paused, studying Luka's expression. "PSG's sporting director called this morning. Arsenal's Edu is practically begging for a meeting. Even Txiki at City..." He let the names hang in the air like smoke.
Luka sighed, running a hand through his hair. The gesture made him look younger than his seventeen years, a reminder of just how surreal this all was. "Jorge, we've talked about this. I'm staying at Dortmund until the end of the season."
"Of course, of course." Mendes settled into the chair across from him, a sly smile crossing his features. "But it wouldn't hurt to hear them out, would it? Sometimes, Luka, the power lies in making them want what they can't have."
Luka carefully studied his agent, noting how Mendes could make even manipulation sound like wisdom. "You know, you surprise me sometimes," Mendes continued, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. "Reminds me of Cristiano, back in the day. Everyone wanted him to rush, to grab the biggest contract, the flashiest club. But he knew when to wait." He leaned forward slightly. "Though I must say, you have a patience that even he didn't at your age."
"Different times," Luka offered, though he couldn't help feeling pleased at the comparison.
"Indeed." Mendes's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Tell me something – did you always know it would be football? For you?"
A laugh escaped Luka, unexpected and genuine. "Actually, no. You're going to think this is crazy, but I wanted to be a rapper."
Mendes's eyebrows shot up. "A rapper?"
"Yeah, had it all planned out. Move to Atlanta, join a gang, make millions. Pretty dumb I know." Luka shook his head at the memory. "I was going to call myself Mr. Rose. Had notebooks full of lyrics and everything."
"Mr. Rose," Mendes repeated, testing the name. "Well, the millions part came true, at least. Though I imagine your mother is happier with football."
"Definitely. Though the fame part isn't so different." Luka's mind drifted to the Puma event last month, his image plastered across billboards like some kind of teen idol. "That party they threw – LeBron James was there, you know? Diddy too, or Puff Daddy, or whatever he called himself."
"All good people." Jorge interrupted, drawing a nod from Luka.
"Even Olivia... Ro- Rodrigo was there." He then continued.
"Ah yes, Ms. Rodrigo." Mendes's tone shifted ever so slightly, like a card player showing just enough of his hand. "Quite the media attention that generated. You two seemed... friendly."
Luka felt his ears grow warm. "We just talked. She's nice."
"I'm sure she is." Mendes paused, choosing his next words carefully. "You know, in this business, personal relationships can be... complicated. Especially at your level. The spotlight has a way of turning everything into a story."
"I know how to handle myself, Jorge."
"Of course you do." Mendes smiled, but his eyes remained serious. "Just like you know why all these clubs are suddenly so interested. United's incompetence with that buy option..." He shook his head. "Two million. They might as well have gift-wrapped you for Dortmund."
"Their mistake," Luka said, a edge creeping into his voice. "They had their chance."
"Indeed they did. And now..." Mendes spread his hands wide, encompassing the luxury hotel room, the waiting world beyond. "Now everyone wants to correct that mistake. Florentino didn't become who he is by letting talents like you slip away. Neither did Liverpool's owners, or City's. They're all circling, Luka, like sharks who smell blood in the water."
"Let them circle."
Mendes laughed, a genuine sound of delight. "You know what your problem is, Luka? You're too smart for seventeen. Most boys your age, they see Madrid calling and they're already picking out houses in La Finca. But you..." He shook his head in admiration. "You understand something they don't."
"What's that?"
"That sometimes the power isn't in making the move. It's in making them wait for it." Mendes stood, straightening his immaculate suit. "Stay in Dortmund. Let them all drive themselves crazy wondering where you'll go next. The value only goes up, and more importantly..." He fixed Luka with a knowing look. "You get to write the story exactly how you want it."
"Like a rapper after all," Luka joked.
"Better." Mendes moved toward the door, then paused. "You know, Cristiano used to say something – 'They call it pressure because not everyone can handle it.' But you, Luka?" He smiled that wolf's smile again. "You're not handling pressure. You're creating it."
The words followed Luka into the winter twilight of Manchester, settling somewhere between his shoulders. His Mercedes purred to life, the engine's smooth rumble a somehow soothing contrast to the chaos of thoughts in his mind. Back to Germany. Back to football. Back to the beautiful simplicity of the game itself.
The drive home was quick, Manchester's streets oddly empty in these liminal hours between Christmas and New Year. His family's cars still lined the driveway of their Alderley Edge home – the Raptor, his mother's E-Class, Uncle Stefan's rental. The sight made him smile, even as a pang of preemptive homesickness touched his heart.
Inside, the house was warm with voices and cooking smells. His mother was at the stove again, probably preparing enough food to feed half of Dortmund. Emma's laughter echoed from somewhere upstairs, punctuated by the twins' deeper voices.
"Look who's back," Nina called from her perch on the kitchen counter. "How was the meeting with the shark?"
"Jorge's not a shark," Luka protested, stealing a piece of pepper from the cutting board. "He's more like... a very well-dressed wolf."
His mother turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. "And what did this wolf want?"
"The usual." He shrugged, aiming for casual but probably missing by a mile. "Everyone wants to talk."
"Of course they do," his mother said, pride and worry warring in her voice. "But first, you eat. Then pack. Germany won't wait forever."
The next morning came too quickly, the January darkness still thick when his car service arrived. The goodbyes were quick – his family had learned that drawn-out farewells only made things harder. Even Emma kept her tears in check, though her hug lasted a few seconds longer than usual.
The flight to Dortmund was a blur of sleep and half-formed thoughts about the season ahead. When he finally stepped out into the familiar German winter, the cold felt like a wake-up call, shocking his system back to reality.
His apartment, after the grandeur of the Alderley Edge house, felt almost comically modest. "From marble countertops to IKEA," he muttered, dropping his bags by the door. But there was something comforting about the space – it was his first real home away from home, where he'd started to build this new life.
Training ground. The thought pulled him out of his reverie.
The familiar drive to Brackel felt like slipping back into a well-worn routine. The training ground was already alive with activity when he arrived, staff members offering warm welcomes as he made his way inside.
Dr. Braun intercepted him before he could reach the changing room, the physician's keen eyes already assessing. "Welcome back, Wunderkind. I trust you didn't spend the entire break eating Christmas cookies?"
"Never," Luka grinned, flexing dramatically. "I even did extra sprints on Christmas Day."
"Liar," Braun said fondly, but his approving nod suggested he saw what he wanted to see.
Marco Rose caught him just as he was heading out to the training pitch. The manager's intensity hadn't diminished over the break – if anything, it seemed to have crystallized into something sharper.
"A word, Luka?"
They stepped aside, away from the flow of players and staff. Rose's expression was serious, his usual tactical contemplation replaced by something more urgent.
"This is the business end of the season now," Rose said, his voice low. "Champions League, Bundesliga – we're going to need you at your absolute best. The team..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The team looks to you now. Not just for goals or assists, but for leadership."
Luka nodded, feeling the weight of the words. The change felt earned, but also daunting.
"I understand, coach. You can count on me."
Rose clapped him on the shoulder, a rare display of physical affection. "I know I can."
Walking away, Luka couldn't help but smile. "Guess he finally warmed up to me," he murmured.
"Who warmed up to you?" Jude's voice came from behind him, followed by a playful shove. "Your new girlfriend? How was the holiday, lover boy?"
"Shut up," Luka laughed, falling into step with his friend as they headed to the pitch. "How was yours? Actually training, or just eating everything in sight?"
"Some of us don't need holidays to stay sharp," Jude shot back. "Though I hear you had quite the interesting break. Olivia Rodrigo, huh? Moving up in the world, mate."
"It was just a conversation!"
"Sure, sure." Jude's grin was infectious. "PSG was just a normal match for us last time."
Ah. He completely forgot about that, it was only last year that they were knocked out of the champions league by PSG – where almost the entire PSG team, a few players omitted like Messi, mocked Haaland's meditation pose–.
"Speaking of," Jude continued, "Champions League draw soon. I'm hoping for PSG again. Think you can dance with Mbappé?"
Luka considered it, truly considering it. Yes he had played against difficult players, Lewandowski, Muller, Davies, practically Bayern… so why not PSG? Thinking about it made a sudden wave of heat envelop him.
"You know what… Why not?" He said, betraying his hidden uncertainty.
"We'll knock them out mate," Jude assured him. "Just don't let Olivia distract you too much before then."
"I hate you," Luka laughed, but there was no heat in it. This was what he'd missed – the easy camaraderie.
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I suppose I should finally lock in on writing now.