Hollywood
"Left here," he directed the driver, the words feeling strange in his mouth. Strange because the last time he'd given directions in Manchester, he'd been a United academy player with dreams in his eyes and nothing in his pockets. Now he was returning as... well, what exactly? A Dortmund star? Puma's golden boy? A teenager with a monthly paycheck that made his head spin?
The first installment from Puma had landed in his account just days ago – €500,000 before taxes. The number still didn't feel real, like Monopoly money or something from a video game. Jorge's voice echoed in his head: "First rule: don't be dumb with it."
The car turned onto a tree-lined street in Alderley Edge, where houses sat back from the road like shy giants. Through the rain, Luka could make out the modernist lines of their new home – all glass and sharp angles, softened by tasteful landscaping. Two-and-a-half million pounds worth of architectural statement.
"Here we are, Mr. Zorić," the driver announced, pulling up to the electronic gates.
Inside, the house was alive with noise. Emma's squeals echoed off the high ceilings as she raced down the spiral staircase, her socks sliding on the polished wood. "Luka! Luka! You have to see my room! It's got a balcony!"
His mother appeared from what he assumed was the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel that probably cost more than their old monthly rent. "Luka, darling! Come, come! I've made sarma – though this fancy oven, I tell you, it took me ages to figure out all the buttons!"
His father emerged more slowly, hands in his pockets, trying to look unimpressed but failing miserably. The sight of him in casual clothes instead of his construction uniform was still jarring. "Son," he nodded, then broke into a grin. "Want to see the garage? It's bigger than our old apartment."
"Actually," Luka said, fighting back a smile, "we might need that space. I thought we could go car shopping."
His father's eyebrows shot up. "Car shopping?"
"Well, I can't exactly drive in Germany yet, and that Puma money isn't going to spend itself..." He trailed off, watching his father's face. "Plus, I heard there's a Ford dealership nearby. They might have a Raptor in stock."
The transformation on his father's face was worth every penny he hadn't spent yet. "A Raptor? The F-150?"
"Unless you'd prefer something else?"
Two hours later, they were standing in a dealership showroom, his father circling a gleaming black Ford F-150 Raptor like a kid at Christmas. The salesman, who had been skeptical of the teenager in sweats at first, was now practically bouncing on his toes.
"The 2021 model comes with a 3.5-liter V6 EcoBoost engine," he was saying, though Luka suspected his father wasn't listening anymore. "450 horsepower, 510 pound-feet of torque..."
"We'll take it," Luka said, trying to sound casual, like he bought trucks every day. The salesman's eyes widened slightly at the lack of negotiation, but Luka had learned from Jorge – sometimes the power move was not playing games at all.
"Excellent choice, Mr. Zorić. And for yourself?"
Luka glanced at his mother, who had been quietly taking everything in. "Actually, I was thinking about a Mercedes. E-Class, maybe? The AMG E 53?"
His mother's hand flew to her mouth. "Luka, no, that's too much—"
"Mom," he cut her off gently, "consider it an early Christmas present. Plus, someone needs to drive me around when I'm home, right?" He winked, and she shook her head, but he could see her eyes shining.
The Mercedes dealership was next door – convenient for the super-rich of Cheshire, Luka supposed. The E 53 they found was a deep obsidian black, its lines somehow both aggressive and elegant. His mother ran her hand along its smooth flank, pretending not to care but failing as badly as his father had with the Raptor.
"You know," she said, trying to sound casual, "I did always want to learn to drive something fancy."
By the time they finished with the paperwork – significantly expedited by his status and the lack of financing needed – the rain had stopped. They drove home in convoy: his father in the Raptor, riding high and probably grinning like a teenager, his mother in the Mercedes, pretending she wasn't testing out every feature, and Luka in the Range Rover, watching his family's joy through the rain-streaked windows.
Back home, Emma was bouncing off the walls. "Can we go for a ride? Please, please, please?"
"Tomorrow," their mother promised. "Right now, the sarma is getting cold, and your brother needs to pack."
Right. The USA. The commercial shoot. Puma's grand plans for making him their new face, their post-Neymar future. The World Cup breakthrough they were planning, the campaigns, the billboards...
"It's just for a few days," he assured them, watching Emma's face fall. "I'll be back before Christmas. Promise."
Later that night, after Emma had finally gone to bed and his parents had retired to their new master suite, with its heated floors and rain shower that his mother couldn't stop talking about, Luka stood on the balcony of his own room.
His phone buzzed – a message from Jorge: "All set for tomorrow's flight. Don't forget what we talked about with the money."
Luka smiled. He'd only spent about half of his first Puma payment, and most of that was on his family. The rest would go into investments, savings… maybe some clothes?
Another buzz this time from Jude: "Mate, found you the perfect girl. Her name's Sarah, she's gorgeous, smart, and she supports Arsenal so you know she's used to disappointment 😂"
Luka groaned, but couldn't help laughing. Some things never changed, whether you were worth millions or not. Friends would still try to set you up, family would still fuss over you, and Manchester rain would still find a way to soak you to the bone.
He took one last look at the city lights before heading inside.
He just hoped he remembered to pack sunscreen for LA. Knowing his luck, he'd probably get sunburned in December.
….
The Los Angeles sun hit different than anything Luka had experienced before. It wasn't the gentle warmth of a European summer, but rather an assertive presence that seemed to demand attention. He stood outside Puma Biotechnology's headquarters, squinting despite his newly purchased Ray-Bans.
"Ready for the shoot?" Maria asked, clipboard in hand. She'd traded her corporate attire for something more LA-appropriate: flowing linen pants and a crisp white blouse that somehow managed to look both casual and expensive.
Luka nodded, adjusting his Puma training kit. The fabric felt different – lighter, more breathable than what he was used to. Everything in LA seemed designed to accommodate the relentless sun.
"Okay, so it's simple," Maria continued, gesturing toward the building's modernist facade. "Bradley will throw the ball from the fourth-floor balcony. You'll trap it, look up, give us that million-dollar smile, and then a thumbs up to Camera B. Think you can handle that?"
"I trap balls for a living," Luka said with a grin. "Though usually not from quite so high up."
The first take went smoothly – too smoothly, according to the director, who insisted they needed "more drama." By the seventh take, Luka was beginning to understand why footballers rarely became actors.
"Beautiful!" The director finally called out after take twelve. "That's the one. The way the sun caught your face when you looked up? Pure magic."
Björn materialized from somewhere in the building's air-conditioned depths, looking pleased. "Excellent work, Luka. Now, about tonight's event..."
The "event," as Luka would soon discover, was less of a party and more of a collision between various spheres of celebrity. Puma had partnered with several luxury brands for a charity gala at the Chateau Marmont, benefiting youth sports programs in underprivileged communities.
"The guest list is quite impressive," Björn explained as they walked through the building's vast atrium. "Kim Kardashian confirmed this morning. Leonardo DiCaprio's team says he'll stop by. LeBron will be there – he's especially interested in meeting you, by the way. Something about his son being a fan?"
Luka tried to keep his expression neutral, but his heart rate picked up at the mention of LeBron James.
"Oh, and speaking of basketball," Björn continued, "we've arranged courtside seats for tomorrow night's Lakers game. Consider it a little Christmas present."
They spent the afternoon in Puma's development lab, where Luka watched in fascination as technicians worked on prototypes of his signature boot. The attention to detail was staggering – every stitch, every curve seemed to be the subject of debate.
"The challenge," one designer explained, showing him various sketches, "is maintaining optimal ankle support without compromising touch sensitivity. We're experimenting with a new kind of knitted material here..." He pointed to a complex diagram that might as well have been written in Sanskrit for all Luka understood it.
Later, with a few hours to kill before the gala, Luka convinced his security detail, that puma forced on him, to let him explore a bit. They walked down Rodeo Drive, where he was surprised to find himself recognized more often than he expected – though not always accurately.
"Oh my god," he overheard one teenager say to another, "isn't that the guy from England? Umm… KSI?"
….
The suit felt foreign on his skin. Luka adjusted the collar for what must have been the hundredth time, studying his reflection in the Chateau Marmont's gilded bathroom mirror. The braids were new – a suggestion from Puma's styling team that he'd reluctantly agreed to, though now, seeing the final result, he had to admit they suited him better than his usual untamed afro. The fabric of the custom Tom Ford suit whispered against his skin as he moved, sharp and cool.
"You clean up nice, kid," a voice behind him said. Luka turned to find Björn, looking appropriately Hollywood in his own designer suit. "Ready to make your LA debut?"
Luka's throat felt dry. Without Jorge here, he felt oddly exposed, like a footballer without shin guards. "As ready as I'll ever be."
The Chateau's ballroom was a collision of worlds – sports, entertainment, fashion, all swirling together in a champagne-fueled carousel of fame. Luka felt the eyes on him as he entered, though he couldn't tell if it was because they recognized him or because of the massive photographs of himself that Puma had somehow managed to plaster across half the hotel's exterior without his noticing.
"Yo, young fella!"
The voice boomed across the space, and suddenly Luka found himself in the presence of LeBron James, immediately a immense… pressure? Strangulated him. The NBA star's height hit different in person – Luka, not exactly short at 5'10", felt like he was standing at the base of a mountain. A cloud might have actually passed over him; he wouldn't have been surprised.
"My boy Bronny can't stop talking about you," LeBron continued, his handshake firm but friendly. "Your goal against Bayern? Pure heat, young king."
Luka managed to string together a coherent response, though his mind was screaming I'm talking to LeBron James! on repeat. They chatted about the pressure of being young in the spotlight, and LeBron gave him some advice about handling fame that Luka knew he'd be turning over in his mind for weeks.
As he navigated through the crowd, a shorter man in sunglasses, indoors, at night, approached him with the confidence of someone who owned the building. "They call me Love," the man said, placing a hand on Luka's shoulder. "Or Puffy, Puff Daddy. I love football, young king. The beautiful game."
Luka nodded politely, having absolutely no idea who he was talking to but sensing it would be catastrophically uncool to admit that.
The evening continued its surreal trajectory when Tom Holland and Zendaya approached. Tom, being a Spurs fan, immediately launched into his pitch.
"Mate, you've got to come to Tottenham," Tom insisted, his eyes bright with possibility. "The stadium? Incredible. The fans? Best in the world. And Kane needs someone to pass to!"
Luka laughed, though the idea wasn't entirely absurd – he had considered Spurs among his options. "Maybe," he said diplomatically, enjoying how easy it was to talk with Tom about England, about being young and suddenly famous, about the weird space between their normal lives and... whatever this was.
"I'm talking to Spider-Man," Luka thought to himself, fighting back a grin.
Then she appeared.
He didn't recognize her at first – just registered a pretty girl in a vintage-inspired dress, making her way toward him with purposeful steps. His leg started its tell-tale nervous shake, and he forced it still, grateful for the nearby high-top table he could casually lean against.
"Hi," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Olivia. I love what Puma's done with the place." She gestured to one of the massive photographs of him mid-kick, football suspended in the air like a satellite.
"Oh, god," Luka muttered, feeling heat creep up his neck. "I hadn't even noticed those until an hour ago. Bit strange, seeing your face that big."
She laughed, and something in the genuine warmth of it helped his shoulders relax. "Try having your face on billboards in Times Square. The first time I saw it, I nearly walked into traffic."
"Times Square?" Luka's brow furrowed. "Are you..."
"A singer," she filled in, looking amused rather than offended at his lack of recognition. "Though I guess I should be asking for your autograph. My little cousin won't shut up about you, and apparently, you're about to be everywhere." She nodded toward another photo of him, this one capturing a moment of celebration, arms spread wide, joy pure on his face.
"That's what they keep telling me," Luka said, finding his rhythm now. The nervousness was still there, but it had shifted into something more like excitement. "Though I have to admit, I'm rubbish at the whole social media thing. If it wasn't for my social media manager, my Instagram would probably be nothing but pictures of my sister's dog."
"You have a dog?" Her eyes lit up. "What kind?"
And just like that, they were off, conversation flowing easily from dogs to life in the spotlight to the weird reality of having strangers know your name. His English accent, which usually made him self-conscious, seemed to fascinate her, and he found himself leaning into it a bit, enjoying the way she smiled when he said certain words.
"So you're really not on social media much?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Even with like, what, a million and a half followers?"
Luka shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "Football's enough for me. All this..." he gestured at the room, at the photographs, at the whole surreal evening, "it's nice, but it's not why I play."
She studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly. "That's... actually really refreshing."
The conversation meandered through topics – her music, which he promised to listen to, his upcoming Bundesliga and Champions League matches, which she promised to watch, the strange experience of being young and watching your life transform in real-time.
"It's weird, isn't it?" she said, both of them now comfortably settled at a quiet corner table. "Like, one day you're just... normal. And then suddenly..."
"Suddenly you're on the side of a hotel," Luka finished, making her laugh again.
The evening wound down gradually, the crowd thinning as Hollywood's finest drifted away to their next obligations. As Olivia Rodrigo, or Olivia as she preferred, was called away by her team, she hesitated for a moment.
"You should definitely post more dog pictures," she said with a smile. "Your social media manager will thank you."
Later, in the back of his car heading back to his hotel, Luka scrolled through his phone, finally looking up the girl he'd spent the evening talking to. His eyes widened at the stream of achievements, awards, and accolades.
"You alright there?" his driver asked, catching his expression in the rearview mirror.
"Yeah," Luka said, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. "Just realizing I spent two hours talking to one of the biggest pop stars in the world and had no idea."
As the car pulled up to his hotel, a message came through – from his sister: "OMG DID YOU MEET OLIVIA RODRIGO??? I SAW THE PICTURES!!!! MOM SAYS YOU HAVE TO GET ME AN AUTOGRAPH! NOW!!!"
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New Fanfic By Me - Ashes and Snow (GOT)