Training
"Nice one, Luka!" Jude called out as he passed by, grinning widely.
Luka couldn't help but beam back, the adrenaline from the match still coursing through his veins. He made his way to his locker, where Youssoufa was already changing.
"Man, that was something else," Youssoufa said, shaking his head with a smile. "You looked like you were having fun out there."
Luka chuckled, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Yeah, it was... intense. But in a good way, you know?"
As they chatted, Marco Reus approached, a towel slung over his shoulder. "Hey, you two," he said, leaning against a nearby locker. "Good showing out there. Luka, how're you feeling after your first proper run-out?"
"Honestly? I'm exhausted," Luka admitted with a laugh. "But I loved every minute of it."
Reus nodded approvingly. "That's what we like to hear. Keep that attitude up."
As Reus moved on, Gio Reyna joined their little group, already changed into his post-match gear. "So, what's the plan now? Anyone up for a bit of FIFA back at the hotel?"
"You're on," Jude said, emerging from the shower area. "But fair warning, I've been practicing."
The banter continued as they finished changing and gathered their things. As they were about to head out, Coach Rose called out to Luka.
"Luka, a quick word before you go?"
Luka nodded, waving the others on. "I'll catch up with you guys."
He approached Rose, who was looking over some notes. "Good work today, Luka," Rose said, looking up. "How did it feel out there?"
"It felt great, coach," Luka replied honestly. "Like everything just... clicked."
Rose nodded, a slight smile on his face. "Good. Keep it up, and you might just see more playing time coming your way. We've got Bologna coming up in Austria. Be ready."
Luka's eyes widened slightly, but he kept his composure. "I will be, coach. Thanks."
As he jogged to catch up with the others, his mind was racing. More playing time? Against Bologna? The excitement was almost overwhelming.
He found the group waiting for him just outside the stadium. "What was that about?" Youssoufa asked as Luka fell into step beside him.
"Oh, you know, just some feedback," Luka said, trying to play it cool. "And, uh, he mentioned I might get some time against Bologna."
"Nice!" Jude exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. "You'll smash it, mate."
As they walked back to the hotel, the conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from the match to their plans for the rest of the evening.
"So, FIFA tournament in my room?" Gio suggested as they entered the hotel lobby.
"I'm in," Youssoufa said immediately.
"Same here," Jude added.
Luka hesitated for a moment, then grinned. "Why not? But go easy on me, yeah? I'm still riding the high from the actual match."
<>
As they piled into Gio's room, Erling Haaland and Manuel Akanji appeared behind them.
"Room for two more?" Erling asked with a grin plastered on his face.
"Always," Gio replied, tossing them extra controllers.
They sprawled across the beds and floor, setting up the tournament bracket on Gio's phone.
"Alright," Jude announced, "first round: me vs Luka, Gio vs Youssoufa, Erling vs Manuel. Winners advance."
"You're going down, Bellingham," Luka taunted playfully.
"Big talk from the new kid," Jude shot back. "Let's see what you've got then."
As they scrolled through teams, Luka's cursor hovered over Manchester United for a moment before quickly moving on.
"Ah, go on, pick your boys," Jude nudged him.
Luka shook his head. "Nah, I'm good." He selected Real Madrid instead.
"Ooh, Mardrid fan, are we?" Jude teased, choosing Liverpool.
"Maybe," Luka admitted with a grin. "Better than being a Scouse supporter."
The room erupted in laughter and mock outrage from Jude.
As their match kicked off, the banter continued.
"So, Luka," Jude said, his eyes fixed on the screen, "favorite player growing up?"
"Ronaldo, obviously," Luka replied, deftly maneuvering past Jude's defender. "You?"
"Gerrard, of course. Proper Brummie lad, unlike some."
Luka chuckled. "I'm as Manc as they come... sort of."
"Sort of?" Erling chimed in, curious.
"It's complicated," Luka said, groaning as Jude's Salah scored. "Born in Portugal, actually. Parents were on holiday."
"No way!" Youssoufa exclaimed. "That's mad."
"Tell me about it," Luka agreed. "Makes international football interesting."
"Speaking of," Manuel interjected, "who do you support in tournaments?"
Luka hesitated, then admitted, "Spain, usually. But I've got a soft spot for England too," he added, glancing at Jude.
"Traitor," Jude laughed, then cursed as Luka's Benzema equalized.
The match continued, with Luka and Jude trading goals and quips in equal measure.
"So, chip butties or balti pies?" Jude asked, attempting to distract Luka as he approached the goal.
"I already told you, Chip butties, hands down," Luka replied, scoring despite the tactic. "Though nothing beats ćevapi."
"Never had it," Jude admitted.
"You're missing out, mate."
As their game wound down, with Luka clinching a narrow 3-2 victory, Erling and Manuel's match was getting heated.
"Come on, how was that not a pen?" Erling protested.
"Clean tackle," Manuel insisted. "Not my fault you can't stay on your feet."
"Says the guy who chose Bayern," Erling grumbled.
"Scared of a little competition?" Manuel teased.
Meanwhile, Gio and Youssoufa were locked in an intense battle of their own.
"You know," Youssoufa said, "if Luka keeps playing like he did today, we might see us in FIFA soon."
"Speak for yourself," Gio laughed. "Some of us are already in."
"Yeah, yeah, rub it in," Youssoufa replied good-naturedly.
As the tournament progressed, the conversation flowed freely, touching on everything from their favorite local spots in Dortmund to their most embarrassing moments on the pitch.
"Remember that time you tripped over the ball in training?" Jude asked Erling.
"Never to speak of that," Erling protested, but he was laughing too.
"At least you didn't score an own goal in your debut," Manuel added, shaking his head at the memory.
"No way," Luka said, eyes wide. "What happened?"
As Manuel recounted the story, complete with dramatic reenactment, the room filled with laughter.
The final match came down to Luka vs Erling, with the others gathered around, offering unsolicited advice and commentary.
"Come on, Luka, do it for the little guys," Jude encouraged.
"Who are you calling little?" Luka protested, even as he appreciated the support.
"You've got this, Erling," Manuel countered. "Show him how it's done."
The match was intense, with both players showcasing their FIFA skills. As the game entered its final minutes, they were deadlocked at 2-2.
"So, Luka," Erling said, his eyes never leaving the screen, "think you'll be start against Bologna?"
"Maybe," Luka replied, trying to maintain his focus. "Rose hinted at it."
"Nice," Erling nodded. "You'll help me get a few goals, no?"
Just then, Luka's Ronaldo broke free on a counter-attack. The room held its breath as he approached the goal. With a perfectly timed finesse shot, the ball curled into the top corner. 3-2.
The room erupted in cheers and groans.
"Yes!" Luka exclaimed, pumping his fist.
"Damn," Erling laughed, shaking his head. "Good game."
As they wrapped up the tournament, the conversation turned to their upcoming friendly against Bologna.
"Heard they've got some tricky players," Gio mused.
"Nothing we can't handle," Jude said confidently.
"Especially with our secret weapon here," Youssoufa added, nudging Luka.
Luka felt a warmth spread through his chest. It wasn't just the excitement of potentially starting against Bologna, or even the thrill of winning the FIFA tournament. It was the realization that he was part of this - part of the team, part of the banter, part of the family.
As they said their goodnights and headed to their respective rooms, Jude fell into step beside Luka.
"You know," Jude said, "for a United fan, you're alright."
Luka laughed. "And you're not bad for a Brummie."
<>
As the warm summer evening settled over Dortmund, Luka found himself ensconced in his hotel room, the soft glow of his laptop screen illuminating his face. On his lap balanced a plate of grilled chicken breast, quinoa, and steamed vegetables.
Luka's fingers hovered over his phone, crafting messages to his family. To his mother, he wrote: "Mum, I did it! Made my debut today. Wish you could've been here. Love you". He could almost see her proud smile as she read it, imagining her eyes welling up with happy tears.
To his sister: "Hey sis, guess who's not just a benchwarmer anymore? 😉 Check out the Dortmund match highlights when you can!" He chuckled to himself, picturing her rolling her eyes at his cheekiness before rushing to find the highlights online.
His thumb hesitated over his father's name. The relationship had been strained lately, but surely this moment could bridge some of that gap. After a moment's contemplation, he typed: "Dad, I played today. Hope you saw it." Simple, but laden with unspoken emotion.
With a deep breath, he set his phone aside and turned his attention back to the laptop. The video player showed a freeze-frame of the match, his own figure poised on the edge of the frame, ready to come on as a substitute. Luka pressed play, and the scene burst into life.
As he watched himself jog onto the pitch, Luka felt a strange disconnect. Was that really him? The nervous energy was clear, even through the screen. He watched his first few touches, noting the slight hesitation, the fraction-of-a-second delay that betrayed his nerves.
But then came that moment - the elastico that left the Bilbao defender wrong-footed. Luka couldn't help but smile. "Not bad, Lukman," he murmured to himself, using the nickname his mother had given him as a child.
However, as the video played on, Luka's smile faded into a more contemplative expression. He began to notice things he hadn't in the heat of the moment. There, in the 83rd minute, he'd cut inside when the byline was open. He leaned closer to the screen, rewinding and replaying the sequence.
"Should've gone wide there," he muttered, making a mental note. He watched as Haaland made a run towards the near post, a run that would have been perfectly met by a cross from the byline. Instead, Luka had cut inside, and the opportunity had evaporated.
He rewound again, this time focusing solely on Haaland's movements. The Norwegian striker was like a shark, always moving, always finding space. Luka noticed a pattern - whenever he had the ball on the wing, Haaland consistently drifted into open spaces in the box. "Need to look for that more," Luka thought, his mind already racing with the possibilities.
As he continued his analysis, Luka began to see the pitch differently. He noticed how Reus often made late runs into the box when Luka had the ball wide, while Bellingham tended to hover around the edge of the area, ready for a cutback. It was like a chess game played at lightning speed, each player's movement creating opportunities and challenges in equal measure.
But it wasn't all positive. Luka winced as he watched himself get shouldered off the ball by Álvarez. The Bilbao defender had simply out-muscled him, using his superior strength to knock Luka off balance. "Definitely need to work on my strength," he said aloud.
His decision-making, too, came under scrutiny. There were a couple of instances where he'd tried to dribble past multiple defenders when a simple pass was available. "Football is a simple game complicated by fools."
As the video reached the final minutes of the game, Luka leaned in even closer, his nose almost touching the screen. He watched himself receive the ball just outside the box, with a clear shooting opportunity. Instead, he had opted for a pass. "Should've taken the shot there," he realized, a pang of regret coloring his thoughts. His shooting hadn't been tested much in the match, and Luka knew this was an area he needed to work on.
The video ended, and Luka sat back, his mind whirling like a tornado of thoughts and observations. Pride in his debut mingled with the realization of how much he still had to learn. His technical skills were strong, but his physical strength needed work. His vision was good, but his decision-making could be sharper. And his shooting, specifically finishing and volleys - well, that definitely needed attention.
He reached for his phone again, this time opening his notes app. With quick, determined taps, he began to list:
Work on strength - gym sessions with the fitness coach
Practice shooting after training
Watch more game footage - study Haaland's movements
Decision-making drills - talk to Coach Rose about this
His debut had been exciting, yes, but it was just the beginning. He had so much more to learn, so much more to improve. The path ahead was long and challenging, but Luka felt ready to face it head-on.
He glanced at his barely-touched plate of food and realized he'd been so engrossed in his analysis that he'd forgotten to eat. With a small chuckle, he took a bite of the chicken. Even as he ate, his mind raced with plans and possibilities.
<>
As the sun crested over Signal Iduna Park, casting long shadows across the meticulously maintained training pitch, Luka found himself in a familiar stance - body coiled, eyes fixed on the approaching ball. The thud of leather against grass echoed across the field as Sebastian Kehl, Dortmund's Sporting Director who often participated in training sessions, fired another volley towards him.
Luka's right foot connected with the ball, but the timing was slightly off. The shot sailed over the crossbar, disappearing into behind the goal.
"Keep your head over the ball, Luka!" Kehl called out encouragingly. "You're leaning back too much. Again!"
Luka nodded, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The July heat was relentless, the air heavy with humidity.
The next ball came sailing towards him, and Luka adjusted his body, meeting it with the laces of his boot. This time, the connection was better, but still not perfect. The ball flew straight at the young academy goalkeeper, who caught it comfortably.
"Better!" Kehl nodded approvingly. "You're getting there. Let's go again."
And so it went, for what felt like hours. Volley after volley, some finding their mark with increasing accuracy, others sailing wide or over. With each attempt, Luka felt his technique improving incrementally, it was expected as he was sure his natural technique was already at the best it could possibly be, his body quickly learned the subtle adjustments needed to control the power and direction of his strikes.
As the session wound down, Luka felt a mix of satisfaction and frustration settling over him. He'd put in the work, pushed himself hard, but the results weren't as immediate as he'd hoped. Progress, was a slow and often painful process.
But as he began to gather the stray balls scattered around the pitch, a memory stirred in the recesses of his mind. He saw himself, watching highlights of the legends of the game. Ronaldo, Messi.
He remembered stories of Ronaldo's work ethic, of how he would be the first to arrive at training and the last to leave. Even in his late thirties, when most players had long since hung up their boots, Ronaldo was still pushing himself to the limit, still scoring goals at the highest level.
And Messi, whose dedication to his craft was no less intense. Luka recalled reading about Messi's strict diet and training regimen, how he had transformed himself from a fragile young talent into a robust, unstoppable force on the pitch.
These men hadn't achieved greatness overnight. They had gone above and beyond, pushing past the boundaries of what seemed possible, day after day, year after year.
With a sudden burst of energy, Luka jogged over to Peter Hermann, one of Dortmund's experienced assistant coaches known for his technical expertise.
"Coach Hermann," he said, slightly out of breath, "do you mind if I stay back for a bit? I'd like to work on my volleys some more."
Hermann looked at him, a mixture of surprise and approval in his eyes. "Of course, Luka. But remember, improvement is a marathon, not a sprint. Don't expect miracles in a day."
Luka nodded gratefully and returned to his position on the edge of the box. As the rest of the team filed off the pitch, Hermann stayed behind, a bag of balls at his feet.
"Ready when you are, Luka," Hermann called out.
And so, as the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Luka continued his relentless pursuit of improvement. Some volleys found their mark with increasing accuracy, others went astray, but with each attempt, Luka felt himself growing incrementally stronger, more confident.
The shadows lengthened across the pitch, the floodlights flickered to life, and still, Luka pressed on. His legs burned with fatigue, his shirt clung to his body, soaked with sweat, but he refused to yield. In his mind's eye, he saw Ronaldo, pushing himself through grueling workouts long after his teammates had gone home.
As Hermann sent over what must have been the hundredth volley of the evening, Luka summoned every ounce of remaining energy. His body moved with improving fluidity, muscles working in increasingly better harmony. His foot connected with the ball, and while it wasn't perfect, it was noticeably better than where he'd started.
The ball soared through the air, curling slightly, before nestling into the corner of the net.
Hermann nodded approvingly. "That's better, Luka. But remember, mastery takes time. This is just the beginning."
Luka allowed himself a small smile, but his mind was already on the next challenge, the next area of improvement.