The St. Pauli players' celebrations echoed across the pitch, their joy a cruel mockery of Dortmund's failure. Luka stood rooted to the spot, his boots caked with mud and defeat. The water bottle by the dugout caught his eye – such an innocent thing, yet in that moment it beckoned to him. One kick, one moment of release. His muscles twitched with the urge, a primal need to externalize this crawling sensation beneath his skin.
But he didn't move. The cold Hamburg air filled his lungs instead, each breath a deliberate act of restraint. Around him, his teammates were, dejected and disappointed. They'd been here before, hadn't they? Always close, never quite enough.
"Fucking hell," someone muttered behind him. The words carried on the wind, lost in the noise of St. Pauli's triumph.
In the tunnel, reality settled like dust after an explosion. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, turning everyone into washed-out versions of themselves. Marco Rose waited for them in the locker room, his angered expression already setting the tone for the meeting.
"This isn't good enough," Rose began, his voice low but carrying weight. "Not for Borussia Dortmund. Not for any of us." He paused, scanning the room. "But tomorrow, we work. Tomorrow, we fix this."
The words should have been inspiring. They should have lit a fire. Instead, they felt like ashes in Luka's mouth.
The shower did nothing to wash away the game. Hot water pounded against his shoulders, but his mind kept replaying moments. Not that he wanted it to, he couldn't stop it from doing so. The free kick at the end – he should have put more curl on it, should have aimed for the other corner. Should have, could have, would have. The holy trinity of failure.
So many regrets he had, why couldn't he have scored twice?
Outside, the night had settled into that peculiar shade of urban darkness. The taxi driver recognized him but, mercifully, said nothing. Just another defeated footballer heading home.
His apartment felt foreign when he entered, he moved through the space like a ghost, muscle memory guiding him to the kitchen where he filled a glass with water he didn't really want.
The cold refreshment did little to quench the hidden flame held deep in his gut. It was screaming in his ear, wanting to break something, remove the reigns on his anger.
He had to calm himself.
The living room window offered a euphoric view of Dortmund's twinkling lights, each one representing someone who probably cared too much about today's result, it wasn't all about him. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, letting out a breath that fogged the pane.
Second place. Always second place. The thought crystallized with bitter clarity. Second in the Supercup to Bayern, watching Lewandowski lift the trophy while confetti rained down. Second in their Champions League group, scraping through by the skin of their teeth. Seven points behind Bayern in the league, with Leipzig breathing down their necks like hungry wolves.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table – probably his mother, or maybe Emma, ready with words of comfort he didn't deserve. He let it ring.
The temptation to externalize blame rose like bile. Meunier's defending had been tragic, again. The midfield lacked coherence. The finishing was wasteful. But each accusation felt hollow, what about himself?
The living room felt desolate in its silence. Why did he feel as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders? Why is it that he felt as if there were a thousand faces, eyes that seemed to pierce the soul, all endlessly staring at him. Judging him.
Luka moved to his bedroom, where a poster of Modrić hung on the wall, a Christmas gift from his uncle. His countryman's calm eyes seemed to mock him now. How many defeats had Luka Modrić endured before lifting the Champions League? How many setbacks before becoming a legend?
Who hasn't struggled? Failed? Who hasn't encountered setbacks on their journey? R9 had his injuries. Christiano was just a teen when he left Madeira, his family, to embark on his journey as a footballer. Messi has growth hormone deficiency. And Luka was just a poor kid from Manchester with dreams as high as the stars.
He couldn't help but chuckle. Its sound no less harsher than his thoughts. It seemed that those who stood at the top were the ones who's paths were the most arduous.
The bed welcomed him, but sleep remained elusive. His mind wandered to Manchester, to the academy fields where he'd first learned what it meant to lose. The coaches there had a saying: "You learn more from one defeat than ten victories."
His phone buzzed again. This time, he reached for it.
A message from Jude: "You up?"
Luka typed back: "Unfortunately."
"Stop overthinking it. We go again."
The simplicity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. Instead, he set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
The truth was, he didn't know how to process failure. Not really. Failure had been his friend, and success was all to unfamiliar and when he finally got a taste… it was sweet and inviting so much different from the bitter taste that failure left on his tongue. Now he had became obsessed with it. Success had come so naturally, so consistently, that defeat felt like a foreign language now – all harsh consonants and unfamiliar rhythms.
A car horn blared somewhere in the distance, startling him from his thoughts. The digital clock on his nightstand blinked 1:17 AM. Tomorrow – no, today – there would be training. The machine would keep turning, indifferent to their pain.
"To win, you have to fail," he whispered to the darkness, the words tasting like a lie.
Sleep finally came, but it brought no peace. In his dreams, he took that free kick again and again, each attempt sailing just wide of glory.
<>
@FabrizioRomano
🚨 EXCLUSIVE: Borussia Dortmund have approached Manchester United to bring Jadon Sancho back on loan until the end of the season. Dortmund willing to cover 80% of wages, no loan fee. 🟡⚫️ #BVB
United currently reluctant - believe Sancho can turn situation around. Discussions ongoing. Here we go soon? 🤝
@MarkGoldbridge
If we let Sancho go back to Dortmund we might as well rename ourselves to Charity FC. 120 million down the drain and now we're supposed to subsidize his holiday in Germany? Glazers masterclass yet again.
@UtdTrey
We really spent £73m on Sancho just to watch him play like Welbeck and potentially loan him back to Dortmund... This club man 😭
@BVBxHaaland
Where would Sancho even fit in our lineup?
Luka - Haaland - Reus - Malen is working well
Unless... Luka at CAM? And Reus goes to CM👀
@DortmundGirl
@BVBxHaaland Luka at CAM leaves us exposed in midfield, no idea why Rose plays him there he's so bad defensively. Rather see Sancho take Malen's spot on the right. My dream lineup:
Luka - Haaland - Sancho
Reus
Bellingham - Can
Guerreiro - Akanji - Hummels - Ryerson
@TacticalBundes
Let's be real - if Sancho comes back, Malen gets benched. Simple as that. Question is whether we want to stunt Moukoko's development for a 6-month rental.
@FabrizioRomano
🚨 UPDATE: Interesting twist in Sancho saga. Man United considering possibility of recalling Luka Zorić in exchange for Sancho loan with reduced wage contribution (20%). Dortmund immediately rejected. Deal only possible if Zorić accepts. Previous answer "No". More to come… ⌛️ #MUFC #BVB
@RR1witha9
United trying to recall Zorić 😭😭😭 We really never learn do we
"ACHOO!"
The sneeze echoed through the weight room, startling even Luka himself. Matthias Weber, one of Dortmund's strength and conditioning coach, looked up from his clipboard with mock concern.
"Bless you, princess."
Luka wiped his nose with his training shirt, earning a disapproving look from Weber. "Haven't sneezed in ages," he muttered, repositioning himself under the bar.
"Yeah, well, you haven't done a proper squat in ages either," Weber shot back, eyeing Luka's form with professional disdain. "When you first came here, you had chicken legs, now they're just skinny."
Luka completed his set before responding. "That was months ago. Look at these quads now – they're practically works of art."
"Works of art?" Weber snorted. "The only art I see is how artfully you avoid going below parallel. And speaking of parallel, that's about as close as you've gotten to a woman too, isn't it?"
The weight room erupted in laughter. Even Julian Brandt, doing cable rows in the corner, couldn't suppress a grin.
"Low blow, coach," Luka groaned, but he was smiling too. These sessions with Weber had become a highlight of his routine – equal parts torture and comedy show.
"Speaking of low blows," Weber continued, helping Luka add more plates to the bar, "heard about Sancho possibly coming back?"
The mention of Sancho sobered Luka's mood slightly. He'd seen the tweets, of course – impossible to miss them when your name was being thrown around in the same conversations.
"Nothing concrete yet," he replied, settling under the bar again. "Just Twitter being Twitter."
"Hmm." Weber spotted him as he began his next set. "You know what I think? I think United's got buyer's remorse. Spent all that money on Sancho, now they're trying to fix their mistake by chasing you."
Luka focused on his breathing, on the burning in his quads. Anything to avoid thinking about United. That chapter was closed – or at least, it was supposed to be.
"Their loss," he grunted between reps.
"Their loss indeed." Weber helped rack the weight, then fixed Luka with one of his rare serious looks. "Listen, kid. You've come a long way since those chicken legs walked in here. Not just physically – mentally too. Don't let all this noise get in your head. Yesterday's game was rough, but that's football. Today we lift, tomorrow we play."
Luka nodded, grateful for the unexpected moment of wisdom. Then Weber's familiar smirk returned.
"Besides, you think Sancho could squat this? Man's built like a FIFA career mode player with skinny arms selected."
The banter continued through the rest of the session, but Luka's mind kept drifting back to the Sancho situation. It wasn't just about the potential return of Dortmund's prodigal son – it was about what it meant for the team's dynamics, for his own position, for everything they'd built this season.
Sancho was Sancho, with confidence he'd say he was- is one of the best wingers in the world. The electricity he brought to every match was unparalleled. They were different players, sure, but the comparisons would be inevitable.
As he finished his cool-down stretches, his phone buzzed with another notification. Probably more transfer speculation, more hashtags, more noise. He left it in his bag. Right now, he had weights to lift and a game to prepare for. The rest was just Twitter being Twitter.
Weber's voice cut through his thoughts one final time: "Oi, Zorić! Next time you sneeze, try putting as much force into it as you do your squats. Might actually clear your sinuses then."
Luka flipped him off good-naturedly as he headed for the showers. Next up Hoffenheim.
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I swear everything on this app is MLA garbage. Either way, I'm planning, key word 'planning', an original/fanfic like CTK.