The muted glow of the television illuminated the living room as Luka sprawled on the couch, his legs stretched out, one socked foot resting on the armrest. The TV droned on about Jadon Sancho, the pundits dissecting every angle of his potential return to Dortmund. The conversation had looped endlessly through the same talking points: his wages, his form, the unlikelihood of the deal.
The irony wasn't lost on Luka. He knew, perhaps better than anyone in that room, that this wasn't just about Sancho's return. Dortmund's management wasn't only looking at him as a way to bolster their squad. Dortmund wasn't just looking for depth, they were preparing for contingencies.
They still thought he might leave.
Luka leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his temples. His focus drifted back to the TV.
"Idiots," he muttered, then caught himself. No, not idiots – they just didn't have his unique perspective.
Where would Sancho even fit?" one of them, the pundits, mused. "Does Dortmund shift Luka to CAM permanently? Or does Malen make way? And let's not forget Reus. There's a lot of moving pieces here."
Luka rolled his eyes. They always wanted to dissect and rearrange without considering form or chemistry.
Still, he couldn't deny that Dortmund needed reinforcements. Desperately so. At this point it didn't matter where, if they truly wanted to up their level they needed someone who would add something special to the team, that spark that could really get them going on the transition. For all their talent, they lacked depth, quality depth. They didn't have the squad to fully compete on multiple fronts without burning out, some players just weren't at the appropriate level. And Sancho? That deal wouldn't happen, it would be contingent on swapping them both and there was no reality where Luka Zorić would be outfitted in a Manchester United kit.
Who could they even sign? There wasn't an abundance of game changing players who were budget friendly.
Luka sank deeper into the couch, running through the gaps in Dortmund's squad. Defensively, they were inconsistent, hopefully the addition of Ryerson would be enough to bolster their performances in the back, key word - hopefully. In midfield, they needed more dynamism, someone who could bridge the gap between Jude's relentless energy and Can's stability.
At CAM did they truly have any game changers beyond himself and Reus? Did they have a versatile maestro capable of changing the game in a moments breath? A player competent enough to provide defensive coverage while also being a attacking threat?
Then it hit him, and he groaned aloud.
"Jesus, Luka," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples with both hands. "You're from the future. Why the hell haven't you thought about recommending someone?"
The absurdity of his own oversight made him laugh bitterly. How had he not considered this before? He literally knew players that they could get, those with untapped potential. Dortmund wouldn't need to scrape for answers if he could point them toward the right player.
Names began swirling in his mind, but one stood out above the rest. It was like a lightbulb clicking on, illuminating a path forward.
As the night stretched on, Luka found his thoughts drifting to his future. For the first time in weeks, he felt less clouded, more grounded. The initial thrill of being courted by Europe's giants had given way. His thoughts were clearer now, finally he was completely functioning off of logic. Before hand he'd been extremely reluctant to even consider speaking to the teams he'd been less than interested in.
In fact he'd completely written them off. Though, it wasn't as if he was looking at various teams, only two clubs truly resonated with him now: Barcelona and Arsenal.
Barcelona more so.
Barcelona held an undeniable allure. It wasn't just the club's history or the chance to don the same shirt as Messi, Xavi, Ronaldinho, Guardiola, Iniesta, Cruyff and many other legends of the game. It was about what the club was becoming - would become.
While he had only witnessed up to September of the 24/25 season. He didn't need to know Barcelona's performances under Hansi Flick to know they'd do well.
Flick was a generational manager despite not being an established for lonj, he'd doubt there was a single team he couldn't outclass. From the moment he'd seen Bayern lift the Champions League he had no doubt about it. Hansi Flick would be one of the greatest managers of all time, maybe he was getting in over his head but he could practically feel it in his bones. That man was different.
Barcelona was his intended destination. One hundred percent. So certain that he'd agreed to a meeting with Laporta in Germany after transfer deadline day.
The culture Hansi would be building, the reliance on young talent coming through the ranks, the sheer ambition that crackled in the air around Camp Nou, around a name like FC Barcelona.
Visca El Barça. Truly.
They were the entire reasoning behind why he wasn't opposed to learning the attacking midfielder position.
In football there were so many legendary front threes.
SFM.
SAS.
RLR.
BBC.
MSN.
In an alternate reality: RLY
Raphina - Lewandowski - Yamal
Over generations there had been a constant stream of legendary trio's, why not a Quartet?
Raphina - Lewandowski - Zorić - Yamal. They'd dominate Europe.
Arsenal, on the other hand, was a different kind of dream. The Premier League's ferocity appealed to him, and Arsenal's revival under Mikel Arteta was impossible to ignore. The idea of being part of something historic, of helping restore a sleeping giant to glory, held its own magic. Not as appealing as Barcelona but it had its own charm.
Luka leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. For now, his mind was mostly made up. Barcelona edged it for him, their project aligning with his vision for his career. But he wasn't naïve. Mendes had insisted on keeping his options open, and Luka understood the wisdom in that. His highly favorable list once only included Arsenal and Barcelona now there were a few additions: Liverpool, yes he had added them and, grudgingly, City and Real Madrid. Beyond that, he had a handful of favorables: Atlético, Chelsea, Milan, and Inter. Aston Villa had even crossed his mind, a wild card he didn't entirely dismiss.
PSG? They were dangling obscene sums of money— words about £450k a week had reached him—but money wasn't everything.
And of course Saudi came calling. Surprising but not unexpected, their European raid was in its beginning stages, with his contract expiring why wouldn't they try their hand this early.
Mendes had mentioned an inquiry from Al-Hilal, and Luka could only imagine the astronomical figure they'd attached to it. It was sick and twisted in its allure, what if he received a similar offer to that of Mbappe's… But no. That wasn't his path, not now.
His phone buzzed, dragging him from his thoughts. Mendes.
Luka answered, his voice steady. "Jorge."
"I thought you'd be asleep," Mendes replied, his tone as smooth as ever.
"Too much to think about," Luka said.
"Ah, the curse of intelligence," Mendes quipped. "So, what is it that you wanted to speak about?"
"Well, I want to inform Dortmund I plan on staying for the rest of the season," Luka said firmly. " And in return…" He hesitated, the name he'd been thinking of bubbling to the surface. "I want them to try signing someone. A loan deal. Just for the rest of the season."
Mendes chuckled, intrigued. "Go on."
Luka smiled, leaning forward, the flicker of control burning brighter now. "You'll know soon enough. But first, I need to get them to listen."
<>
The morning light filtered through the windows of Dortmund's executive conference room, casting long shadows across the polished oak table. Luka sat straight-backed in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he adjusted his position. Across from him, Sebastian Kehl's intense gaze hadn't wavered since he'd entered the room. Hans-Joachim Watzke leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"So," Watzke began, a hint of satisfaction coloring his voice, "you've decided to stay for the remainder of the season."
Mendes, seated beside Luka, offered one of his trademark smiles – the kind that revealed nothing while suggesting everything. "Luka believes in the project here at Dortmund. He's invested in the club's success."
"And beyond this season?" Kehl probed, his eyes still fixed on Luka.
Mendes spread his hands. "Football is unpredictable. We focus on the present."
"Of course," Watzke nodded, exchanging a knowing look with Kehl. "Still, we hope this could be the beginning of a longer relationship. Your performances have been exceptional, Luka. Extremely."
The praise hung in the air, but Luka's mind was elsewhere. His fingers drummed a silent rhythm on his thigh as he gathered his thoughts. "I have a suggestion," he said finally, his voice steady. "A recommendation for strengthening the squad."
The executives straightened, interest piqued. Carsten Cramer, who had been quietly observing from the end of the table, raised an eyebrow.
"Cole Palmer," Luka said simply.
A beat of silence followed. Kehl tilted his head, curiosity evident in his expression. "City's Palmer?"
"Yes." Luka leaned forward, passion seeping into his voice. "Look, I understand I'm young so my word doesn't hold much weight. understand my track record with predictions might seem... unreliable. But Palmer has everything we need – technical ability, tactical flexibility, that spark in transition. He could be the missing piece."
Watzke exchanged glances with his colleagues. "An interesting suggestion. Unexpected, certainly. But Palmer's showing promise at City. Why would they let him go?"
"A loan," Luka pressed. "Just until the end of the season. He needs playing time, and we need his quality. It's a win-win."
Cramer stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Could be challenging, but not impossible."
"Speaking of the current squad," Kehl interjected smoothly, "how are you finding working with Rose? The tactical setup seems to be evolving."
Luka caught the subtle shift in topic, his lip curving slightly. "As of right now, I have no complaints that I haven't already made known." The words carried a weight that made Mendes's eyes flicker toward him momentarily.
The meeting concluded with handshakes and practiced smiles. As Luka and Mendes walked through the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the walls, Mendes finally broke the silence.
"Palmer? That's your masterstroke?"
Luka's response was to hum a few bars under his breath: "Heart gone cold like Palmer..."
"What?"
A soft laugh escaped Luka's lips. "Nothing. Trust me, he'll be perfect."
Mendes shook his head, but his expression was fond. "Well, while you're playing talent scout, things are moving. Laporta wants to meet – February 2nd. Face to face."
Luka's stride faltered for just a moment before recovering. Barcelona. The dream crystallizing into reality.
"And tomorrow," Mendes continued, "I'm meeting with Liverpool. Their interest is... significant."
"Quite the busy schedule you've got."
"Says the man with tomorrow's Puma launch. Speaking of which..." Mendes pulled out his phone, scrolling through messages. "They're planning quite the celebration. Your own boot line – that's no small achievement."
Luka groaned softly. "Please tell me they're keeping it reasonable."
"Define reasonable," Mendes chuckled. "But don't worry – you'll survive. You always do."
They reached the parking lot, where Mendes's sleek black Mercedes waited. Before getting in, Mendes turned to Luka one last time. "Palmer, huh? You're either brilliant or mad."
"Why not both?" Luka grinned, squinting against the winter sun. The future stretched before him like an open road. Palmer potentially arriving to strengthen the squad, his own brand launching tomorrow. The pieces were falling into place, one by one.
As Mendes's car pulled away, Luka stood for a moment in the crisp air. He had six more months. Six months to leave a legacy, to help shape the club's future, to make his mark.