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January

Luka stood near the edge of the training pitch, his boots crunching against the frost-laced grass. Jude's words hung in the back of his mind like a stubborn echo. PSG, huh?

A small shiver ran through him, but it wasn't from the cold. His breath fogged in the air as he began a slow jog along the touchline, trying to shake the weight of what those three letters—PSG—meant.

Dortmund against PSG. Last season when the two teams had met in the champions league it had turned out to be an unarguably exhilarating affair. He may not have been part of Dortmund then, but it felt as though he had.

Haaland's stunning rocket from outside the box was the kind of goal that lived in highlight reels forever. Luka had watched it from his family's small living room, jumping out of his seat, adrenaline coursing through him as if he were on the pitch himself.

He really had wanted Dortmund to defy the odds and win in that game.

But the second leg was something else entirely. It wasn't surprising that PSG had won, their team had a collection of demigods in football boots. Luka remembered how they mocked Haaland after scoring with grins plastered across their faces. Neymar had been particularly theatrical about it, cupping his hands around his mouth to taunt the Dortmund fans.

Luka's jog slowed as his mind unraveled the nightmare that PSG was on paper.

The front three. Mbappé. Neymar. Messi.

He let out a low breath, his lips tightening. Just saying their names in his mind felt daunting.

Mbappé was like a storm – uncontainable, devastating, and relentless. He didn't just run past defenders; he left them gasping in his wake, struggling to even comprehend the speed at which he moved. Pace with technic is a lethal combination and Mbappé had them both

And Neymar? The man was pure artistry. It was sort of interesting, in terms of archetypes he'd say his most resembles Neymar's. Their shared ability to be unpredictable was their greatest weapon.

Then there was Messi. Luka swallowed hard. He could feel an emanating aura just from saying his name alone. Messi is the game itself, condensed into human form. Watching Messi play was like seeing music take shape on a football pitch. His vision, his decisiveness, his composure, his ability to see what no one else could—it was incomprehensible. Even now, at his age, Messi was still terrifying, still able to break teams apart with a single flick of his left foot.

Luka rubbed a hand over his face, the cold nipping at his fingertips. How could any team beat that? Sure. PSG lacked chemistry sometimes and more often than not they seemed more like a collection of individuals than a cohesive unit.

Truly, it was a shame how disappointing PSG could be. He'd chalk it up to their complacency from dominating Ligue 1 for what has been years on end, but even Bayern were fiercely competitive in the Champions League, they won the competition in 2020, much deservedly.

An unbalanced team, riddled with egocentric, lazy players who were highly unprofessional are incapable of creating and sustaining lasting success. Just ask Manchester United.

While he wouldn't categorize PSG as a team that was filled with unprofessional players, although their antics last year would say otherwise. Players don't become world-class by riding the wave until they've reached the pinnacle of professional football. And PSG had many world-class players. Superstars like Mbappé were hardworking, highly ambitious and competitive, extremely competitive. If they weren't, they wouldn't be football superstars.

He thought back to Dortmund's current lineup, turning it over in his head like a puzzle.

Up front, Haaland was the obvious answer. Power, speed, and precision wrapped into one player. His ability to find the net from any position was second to none, and his physicality made him nearly impossible to handle. For scoring goals Luka couldn't imagine a better striker in world football.

On the right, he'd go with Malen, and though Luka still felt strange admitting it, Malen's performances had been consistent as of late. He was direct now, running at his opponents, causing havoc with his movements upfront, and most importantly he could finally FINISH. He might not have the star power of PSG's front three, but his work rate and knack for finding space could be just as valuable.

Reus still had the magic at attacking midfield. Luka admired his composure in tight situations, the way he always seemed to make the right decision under pressure.

The midfield was where the debate began. Jude was an automatic choice, his energy and box-to-box work ethic unmatched. But the second midfield spot was up for grabs. Brandt had the technical ability and flair, while Can provided grit and defensive stability that he found they needed. Reyna brought creativity, but he was still maturing. Luka shook his head, imagining Rose agonizing over the decision.

The defense? That was another story entirely, their performances had been very inconsistent at the back. At left-back, Guerreiro was the clear choice when fit, his ability to join the attack as a secondary playmaker making him indispensable. With Guerreiro as support, Luka could confidently cut inside when on the left, killer balls, through balls, crosses, Luka could rely on Guerreiro to provide when needed. The center-back pairing was likely Akanji alongside Hummels, though Luka sometimes worried about Hummels' lack of pace against quicker forwards. And right-back? That was a weak spot. Meunier might be the best they had, but Luka had his reservations.

The formation practically built itself: 4-3-3.

He exhaled deeply, his breath clouding the crisp air. Even with that lineup, how were they supposed to stop Mbappé, Neymar, and Messi? It felt like trying to patch a dam with duct tape.

But as the doubts swirled in his mind, Luka forced himself to think of something else. Believe in your teammates, Luka.

He jogged again, letting the thought take root. It wasn't just about him. Dortmund had made it this far as a team, and they'd go even further the same way. The question wasn't how to stop PSG. It was how Dortmund would assert themselves against them.

As he jogged, the thought creeped into his mind once again, one he couldn't quite ignore: Why had PSG, for all their power, never won the Champions League?

That arrogance they had, this unshakable belief that their talent alone would carry them to glory. Teams with less talent but more hunger had outworked them, outthought them. PSG always seemed to falter when it mattered most.

They were demonic in their brilliance, yes, but demons could be outwitted.

Luka stopped jogging and leaned against the sideline railing, catching his breath.

<>

"And welcome to Deutsche Bank Park, where Eintracht Frankfurt host Borussia Dortmund on this crisp January evening," Peter Drury's distinctive voice carried through the broadcast. "Martin Tyler alongside me tonight. Martin, interesting tactical shift from Marco Rose, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed, Peter. Luka Zorić starting in the number 10 role again, we all remember that impressive showing against Bayern before the break. Malen shifted to the left, Reus to the right. Rose clearly trying to explore tactical variations before the champions league knockout stages."

"Speaking of that Bayern match, Martin, the young Croatian's been quite the revelation this season, hasn't he? Sixteen goals, twenty-one assists across all competitions. Remarkable numbers for a seventeen-year-old."

"Extraordinary, Peter. Though what fascinates me most is his versatility. We've seen him terrorize fullbacks from the left wing all season, but his performances at CAM... there's something different about how he operates in central areas."

The match began with Frankfurt pressing aggressively, trying to disrupt Dortmund's rhythm. Zorić dropped deep repeatedly, seeking the ball, all quick turns and explosive accelerations.

"Look at how he uses his body there," Tyler observed as Zorić shielded the ball from Sow, spinning away from pressure. "He's still slight, but there's a canniness to his physicality now. Reminds me of Hazard in his Chelsea days."

"Though I must say, Martin, I still prefer him wide left. When he's isolated against a fullback, with that explosive first step..."

"Interesting point, Peter. His defensive numbers tell a story too. Only seven interceptions all season, despite his work rate. Perhaps that's why Rose typically keeps him wide, where his defensive responsibilities are more straightforward."

In the 34th minute, Zorić collected the ball in midfield, turning sharply past Jakić. He accelerated through the center, defenders converging, before slipping a perfectly weighted pass to Malen. The Dutchman's shot whistled just wide.

"The vision there!" Drury exclaimed. "That's what he gives you centrally - those defense-splitting passes. Though you're right, Martin, you do lose something of his direct dribbling when he's not wide."

"The numbers are staggering, Peter. Since October, he's created more chances than any player in Europe's top five leagues. At seventeen! The comparisons to R9 aren't just hyperbole anymore."

Dortmund eventually broke through in the 67th minute, Bellingham finishing after a patient build-up. They added another through Haaland late on, securing a comfortable 2-0 victory.

Three days later, at a freezing Schwarzwald-Stadion, Freiburg proved a different challenge entirely.

"Zorić again in the number 10 role," Tyler noted. "Though Freiburg's compact defensive structure might make this more challenging than Frankfurt."

He was proved right. Freiburg's disciplined middle block gave Zorić little space to operate. Every time he received the ball, two or three defenders collapsed on him, forcing him to play sideways passes.

"This is good game management from Streich," Drury observed in the 35th minute. "They're basically man-marking Zorić with their entire midfield. Forcing others to create."

"It's a compliment, really," Tyler added. "You don't deploy these tactics against ordinary players. Though I wonder if Rose might consider moving him wide in the second half, where he'd have more space to operate."

Rose did exactly that after the hour mark, switching Zorić and Malen. The change nearly paid immediate dividends, Zorić beating two defenders on the left before his cross just evaded Haaland.

Dortmund eventually won 1-0 through a scrappy Haaland goal, but the talking point was Freiburg's successful nullification of their teenage star.

The day after Luka layed back on one of the massage tables in the physio room, ice wrapped tightly around his ankle while a recovery machine hummed beside him. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and eucalyptus, a strange combination of sterility and calm.

He scrolled absentmindedly through his phone, catching snippets of transfer rumors. Dortmund's financial struggles weren't exactly a secret—they'd been operating with razor-thin margins. Even so, it felt surreal to see articles about it when you were part of the team.

"Dortmund bolster defense with the signing of Julian Ryerson for €8 million." Luka paused on the headline. Ryerson, the Union Berlin fullback, had a solid reputation—versatile, hardworking, capable of playing on either flank. It wasn't a flashy signing, but it was smart.

He sighed, setting the phone down. There had been whispers about Jadon Sancho coming back on loan, but Luka had already dismissed them. Besides knowing the move wouldn't happen, he understood nostalgia and practicality rarely aligned in football. Sancho was a United player, for now. But what did he know, maybe his existence would cause changes and cause the loan move to happen earlier than it would. That would be interesting, very interesting. Dortmund had gotten to the champions league final with Sanco, now imagine if they had him.

"Daydreaming again?" a voice cut through his thoughts. It was Sophie, one of the younger physios. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a teasing smile on her face. "Or just planning your next highlight-reel goal?"

Luka chuckled, shaking his head. "Neither. Just reading the news. Ryerson's a good addition."

"Smart choice," Sophie agreed, stepping into the room and checking the timer on his machine. "And you? Feeling sharp for tomorrow?"

"Always," Luka replied automatically, though his mind lingered on the weight of expectation. The next game was against St. Pauli in the DFB-Pokal, a competition Dortmund couldn't afford to take lightly.

The stadium in Hamburg was smaller than they were used to, but what it lacked in grandeur, it made up for in energy. The St. Pauli fans were relentless, their chants reverberating around the compact ground, creating an atmosphere that felt far larger than the venue itself.

Dortmund's starting eleven was filled with younger players and squad members, while key starters sat on the bench. Luka found himself among the substitutes, bundled in his jacket, watching intently as the game kicked off.

From the beginning, St. Pauli pressed high and hard. They weren't intimidated by Dortmund's reputation, and it showed. The hosts played with an urgency that unsettled Dortmund's backline, and in the 23rd minute, they capitalized.

A misplaced pass from Meunier—again, Luka thought bitterly—was intercepted just outside the box. St. Pauli's striker, a wiry player with a knack for finding space, curled a shot past Kobel into the top corner. The crowd erupted, their joy palpable as the scoreboard read 1-0.

"Sloppy," Marco Rose muttered on the touchline, pacing furiously. Luka could see the frustration etched into his manager's face. Dortmund struggled to respond, their movements disjointed, their passes either too heavy or too hesitant.

By the 60th minute, Dortmund was still trailing, and Rose had seen enough. He turned toward the bench. "Luka, warm up. You're going in."

Luka stood, stripping off his jacket and jogging to the sideline. He felt the familiar hum of adrenaline as he stretched, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. Just as the substitution board went up, signaling his entry, disaster struck again.

A hopeful cross from St. Pauli deflected off Akanji's knee, falling perfectly into the path of their striker. With a simple tap-in, the score became 2-0. The home fans roared, their chants now deafening.

Luka stepped onto the pitch amidst the chaos, his heart pounding. The odds were stacked against them, but he wasn't here to dwell on probabilities. He was here to change the game.

From the moment he touched the ball, Luka's intentions were clear. Positioned on the left wing, he collected a switch from Brandt and immediately drove at the defender in front of him. A quick drop of the shoulder sent the defender one way, while Luka exploded the other, his pace leaving them in his wake.

The crowd's collective gasp followed his movements as he cut inside toward the box. Two more players closed in, but Luka stopped abruptly, flicking the ball back between his legs before spinning away. The third defender lunged, desperate to intervene, but Luka skipped past him with a deft touch, now running along the edge of the box.

He saw Haaland gesturing for the ball near the penalty spot, but the passing lane was too tight. Instead, Luka opted for the shot. He drilled it low and hard, the ball skimming the turf like a stone across water.

The keeper dove, fingertips grazing the ball, but it wasn't enough. The net rippled, and the stadium fell momentarily silent before the traveling Dortmund fans erupted in cheers.

"Luka Zorić! The Croatian starlet strikes again!" Peter Drury's voice soared over the commentary. "He takes on three defenders, creates the space, and delivers the finish Dortmund desperately needed!"

Luka didn't celebrate extravagantly. He grabbed the ball from the net and jogged back to the center circle, his expression focused. There was no time to revel in the moment. Dortmund had work to do.

The final thirty minutes were relentless. Dortmund poured forward in waves, searching for an equalizer. Luka was everywhere, he cut inside, took on defenders, and played clever through balls, but St. Pauli's defense held firm.

In the dying moments of added time, Dortmund won a free kick just outside the box. Luka stepped up, this was a place he thrived, yet despite his perfect effort, the ball curling over the wall, the somehow managed to pull off a wonder save, his finger tips barely reaching the ball as he parried it wide.

The final whistle blew, and the St. Pauli players celebrated as if they'd won the competition itself. Dortmund players dropped to their knees, frustration etched into their faces.

Luka stood in the center circle, hands on his hips, staring at the scoreboard. 2-1. It wasn't enough. His goal had been a spark, but Dortmund needed fire.

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