Dortmund
As he waited for his flight to Dortmund, Luka found himself mentally comparing his current abilities to those of his former self. It was like comparing a masterpiece to a child's crayon drawing. The difference was staggering, almost unbelievable.
He closed his eyes, picturing a mental attribute chart, much like the ones he'd seen in Football Manager games. In his mind's eye, he could see the bars filling up, some stretching to their limits, others disappointingly short.
Dribbling: 20. The maximum. Luka could feel the ghost of Ronaldinho's touch in his feet, the ability to weave through defenses as if they were training cones. He remembered the look of awe on his teammates' faces as he'd nutmegged three of them in quick succession during his last training session.
Ball Control: 20. Another perfect score. Neymar's influence was clear here, the ball sticking to his feet as if magnetized. Luka recalled how he'd juggled the ball 100 times without breaking a sweat, using every part of his body with grace.
Vision: 20. Kaká's gift. Luka could see passes that others couldn't even imagine, spotting runs before they happened and threading balls through impossible gaps.
Passing: 19. The natural companion to his vision. Whether it was a delicate chip over the defense or a raking 60-yard pass, Luka could place the ball wherever he wanted with pinpoint accuracy.
Agility: 20. Garrincha's strongest ability. Luka could change direction faster than the eye could follow, his body responding to his thoughts with lightning speed.
Acceleration: 19. Another nod to the 'Little Bird'. Luka could go from standing still to full sprint in the blink of an eye.
Pace: 17. While not quite at the maximum, Luka's top speed was still breathtaking. He could outrun most defenders with ease.
Technique: 20. This encompassed so much - his first touch, his ability to strike the ball cleanly, his comfort with both feet. It was all there, a perfect blend of his Brazilian inspirations.
Flair: 20. Of course. The audacity of Ronaldinho, the creativity of Neymar - Luka had it all. No-look passes, rainbow flicks, elasticos - they were all part of his repertoire now.
Free Kick Taking: 20. Juninho's specialty. Luka could curl the ball over, under, or around walls with devastating accuracy. He'd already scored three free-kicks in training, leaving the goalkeeper rooted to the spot each time.
But as Luka continued his mental inventory, he noticed the gaps in his newfound abilities.
Finishing: 15. While not poor by any means, his ability to put the ball in the net wasn't quite at the same level as his other attacking skills. He could score, certainly, but he wasn't a natural goal-scorer like Ronaldo or Messi.
Penalties: 14. Another area where he was merely good, not great. The pressure of the spot-kick wasn't covered by his mystical Brazilian abilities.
Heading: 12. At 5'10", Luka wasn't particularly tall, and his aerial ability was decidedly average.
Strength: 10. This was perhaps his biggest weakness. Luka was slight of build, and while his agility could compensate, he knew he'd struggle in physical battles with larger opponents.
Tackling: 8. Defense had never been his strong suit, and his magical transformation hadn't changed that. He could press and harass opponents, but actually winning the ball was another matter.
Marking: 7. Similarly, his positional sense when defending was poor. He'd need to rely on his teammates to cover for his defensive shortcomings.
As Luka opened his eyes, returning to the bustling reality of the airport, he felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. His abilities were extraordinary, there was no doubt about that. But he wasn't perfect. He had weaknesses, areas where he'd need to improve.
A voice crackled over the PA system, announcing the boarding of his flight to Dortmund. Luka stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. As he walked towards the gate, his mind raced with possibilities.
Would Dortmund's coaches be able to improve his finishing? Could he build up his strength to better handle the physical demands of top-level football?
As Luka walked towards the gate, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his mother, Marija, her eyes a mixture of pride and worry.
"Are you ready, sweetheart?" she asked in Croatian, her voice soft.
Luka nodded, offering a small smile. "As ready as I'll ever be, mama."
They walked together, their footsteps echoing in the bustling airport. Luka's mind wandered to the family he was leaving behind. His father, David, had stayed in Manchester, unable to leave his construction job. Emma, his half-sister, had school commitments. The goodbyes had been tearful, but filled with hope and excitement for Luka's future.
"I still can't believe Dortmund is offering us an apartment," Marija mused as they approached the gate. "It's so generous of them."
Luka nodded, recalling the details Sebastian Kehl had shared. "They said it's fully furnished, close to the training ground. And they'll help with your job search too, remember?"
Marija squeezed his hand. "I know, but it's all so overwhelming. A new country, a new language..."
"We'll figure it out together, mama," Luka reassured her. "And remember, it's just for a few months to help me settle in. You can go back to Manchester once I'm comfortable."
As they boarded the plane, Luka closed his eyes, letting his mind wander.
Champions League nights. The anthem echoing through the Signal Iduna Park. The smell of freshly cut grass. The roar of the Yellow Wall. It was going to be incredible.
But who would he be playing with? Haaland was still there, for now. That Norwegian was a goal machine. How long before Real or City came calling? And Bellingham. Barely older than Luka, but already bossing the midfield. They could form a deadly partnership.
Rose was the new manager. He liked to play attacking football. Perfect for Luka's skills. But would he trust a 16-year-old in big games? Sancho had gone to United now. There was a spot open on the wing. Maybe that's where Luka would fit in?
Last season had been a mixed bag for Dortmund. Third in the Bundesliga. Knocked out of the Champions League by City in the quarters. They'd won the DFB-Pokal though, smashing Leipzig 4-1 in the final. Haaland and Reus must have been elated after that.
Speaking of Reus, he was still captain. Luka wondered what he was like in person. He'd heard Reus was a proper leader, having been at Dortmund for ages. Luka could learn a lot from him.
The Bundesliga was going to be tough. Bayern had won nine in a row now. Leipzig was on the rise too. But with Luka's skills... maybe they could challenge this year?
Luka hoped his German was good enough. Basic phrases wouldn't cut it in the dressing room. At least the swear words were easy to remember.
He opened his eyes, glancing at his mother. She was flipping through a German phrasebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. The poor woman was leaving everything behind for him. His father and Emma were back in Manchester. Their little flat. All for this mad adventure.
But it would be worth it. It had to be. Luka had the skills of Brazilian legends in his feet. Dortmund was one of the best clubs in Europe for young players. This was his chance to become something special.
<>
The plane touched down on German soil with a jolt, rousing Luka from his fitful slumber. As they taxied to the gate, he peered out the window, eager for his first glimpse of his new home. The Dortmund skyline was a far cry from Manchester's industrial sprawl, its modern architecture interspersed with remnants of medieval charm.
As they disembarked, the July heat hit Luka like a wall. The air was thick with the scent of summer, a heady mix of cut grass and distant barbecues. Marija fanned herself with her passport, her face flushed from the sudden change in temperature.
They made their way through customs, the stern-faced German officials eyeing their Croatian passports with mild suspicion before waving them through. In the arrivals hall, a man in a crisp black suit held a sign bearing their name: "ZORIĆ".
"Willkommen in Deutschland," the man greeted them with a practiced smile. "I am Hans, from Borussia Dortmund. We have a car waiting to take you to your new home."
As they followed Hans to the waiting Mercedes, Luka's eyes darted everywhere, drinking in the sights of his new country.
The car purred to life, and they set off through the streets of Dortmund. Luka pressed his face against the window, marveling at the mix of old and new. Medieval churches stood shoulder to shoulder with gleaming glass skyscrapers, while trams glided silently along tree-lined avenues.
As they drove, Hans pointed out landmarks. "There is the Westfalenpark," he said, indicating a vast expanse of green. "And there, the Florianturm. On a clear day, you can see all of Dortmund from the top."
But it was when they turned onto a particular street that Luka's heart began to race. There, rising above the surrounding buildings like a yellow and black cathedral, was the Signal Iduna Park. Even from a distance, its presence was awe-inspiring.
"Home of the Yellow Wall," Hans said with pride. "You will see it soon enough, young Luka. It is... something else."
They drove on, leaving the stadium behind. The neighborhoods became more residential, the streets lined with a mix of modern apartment blocks and charming old houses. Finally, they pulled up in front of a sleek, modern building.
"Here we are," Hans announced. "Your new home."
The apartment was on the fifth floor, with a view that took Luka's breath away. From the large windows, he could see the city spread out before him, the spire of the Reinoldikirche piercing the sky in the distance.
The interior was a far cry from their cramped Manchester flat. Spacious and airy, with modern furnishings and state-of-the-art appliances. Luka's room was a teenage footballer's dream, complete with a large TV and gaming setup.
But it was what hung on the wall that caught Luka's attention. There, in pride of place, was a framed Borussia Dortmund jersey. And on the back, in bold letters: ZORIĆ.
As Marija explored the kitchen, exclaiming over the fancy coffee machine, Luka stood before the jersey, his heart pounding. This was real. This was happening. He was a Borussia Dortmund player now.
Hans cleared his throat. "In an hour, we will take you to meet the team and sign a few documents. For now, I'll let you settle in."
As the door closed behind Hans, Luka turned to his mother. Her eyes were wide, taking in their new surroundings. For a moment, the reality of what they had done seemed to hit her, and Luka saw a flicker of fear cross her face.
But then she smiled, that fierce, proud smile that had seen them through so many hard times. "Well, my son," she said in Croatian, "it seems your journey has truly begun."
<>
Luka stood by the large window in the living room, taking in the view of Dortmund once more. The city sprawled before him, a mix of old and new, with the spire of the Reinoldikirche piercing the sky in the distance. He pressed his hand against the cool glass, feeling the weight of the moment.
Behind him, his mother Marija was exploring the apartment, her exclamations of surprise and delight echoing through the rooms. "Luka, come see this!" she called from what he assumed was the master bedroom.
He tore himself away from the view and followed her voice. The bedroom was spacious, with a large, comfortable-looking bed and tasteful, modern furnishings. Marija was standing in front of an open closet, her eyes wide.
"Look at this," she said, gesturing to the rows of hangers and shelves. "It's bigger than our entire flat in Manchester!"
Luka chuckled, but his laughter faded as he noticed a small tremor in his mother's hands. The reality of their situation was setting in for both of them. They were in a foreign country, far from everything familiar, all because of his extraordinary abilities.
"Mama," he said softly, taking her hand. "Are you okay?"
Marija turned to him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'm fine, my love. It's just... it's all happening so fast. Yesterday, we were in Manchester, and now..." She gestured around them.
Luka pulled her into a hug, feeling her slight frame against his. Despite his newfound skills, in this moment he felt like a child again, seeking comfort from his mother. "We can go back if you want," he murmured into her hair. "We don't have to stay."
Marija pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. "No, Luka. This is your chance. Your father and I have always known you were special. Now the whole world will see it too." She smiled, a mix of pride and determination on her face. "We'll make this work. Together."
A knock at the door interrupted their moment. Hans' voice called out, "Luka? It's time to go meet the staff at the training ground."
Luka took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. "Coming!" he called back. He turned to his mother one last time. "Will you be okay here?"
Marija nodded, shooing him towards the door. "Go, go. Make us proud."
As Luka followed Hans to the waiting car, he felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness bubbling in his stomach. The drive to the training ground was a blur of unfamiliar streets and buildings. Before he knew it, they were pulling up to a modern complex with the BVB logo prominently displayed.
Hans led him through the entrance, past security, and into a large, open area. Luka's eyes widened as he took in the state-of-the-art facilities. Everywhere he looked, he saw the black and yellow colors of Borussia Dortmund.
"Ah, here he is!" a familiar voice called out. Sebastian Kehl strode towards them, a warm smile on his face. "Welcome to Dortmund, Luka."
Luka shook Kehl's hand, trying to ignore the slight tremor in his own. "Thank you, Mr. Kehl. It's an honor to be here."
Kehl laughed. "Please, call me Sebastian. Now, let me introduce you to some people."
As they walked through the facility, Kehl pointed out various staff members and players. Luka's head was spinning with all the new names and faces. He recognized some from his knowledge of football, but others were completely new to him.
They approached a group of men deep in conversation. As they turned to greet the newcomers, Luka's breath caught in his throat. He recognized Marco Rose, the new head coach, and his assistants Alexander Zickler and René Marić.
Rose stepped forward, extending his hand. "Willkommen, Luka," he said with a smile. "Wie geht es dir?"
Luka blinked, his mind racing to translate. He knew some German, but Rose's rapid speech caught him off guard. Not wanting to appear rude, he smiled and nodded. "Gut, danke," he replied, hoping it was an appropriate response.
Rose continued speaking, gesturing animatedly. Luka caught words here and there - "Training," "Taktik," "Spielsystem" - but much of it went over his head. He maintained his smile, nodding at what he hoped were the right moments.
Kehl, noticing Luka's slightly glazed expression, smoothly interjected in English. "Marco is very excited to have you join us, Luka. He believes your skills will fit perfectly into our system."
Luka breathed a sigh of relief at the switch to English. "Thank you, Mr. Rose. I'm excited to learn from you and the team."
As they moved on, Kehl leaned in and whispered, "Don't worry about the language. You'll pick it up quickly. And many of the players and staff speak English."
They continued their tour, meeting more staff members and players. Luka's head was spinning with all the new information. He met Michael Zorc, the sporting director, who spoke about the club's philosophy of developing young talent. Edin Terzić, now technical director, talked enthusiastically about Luka's potential role in the team.
As they walked past the medical facilities, Kehl mentioned casually, "You'll have your medical examination here tomorrow. Just a formality, of course."
They arrived at a large, oak-paneled door. Kehl paused, his hand on the handle, and turned to Luka with a reassuring smile. "Ready to make history, young man?"
Luka nodded, swallowing hard. As the door swung open, he was greeted by a sight that made his heart skip a beat. Gathered around a long table were some of the most influential figures in German football. Hans-Joachim Watzke, the club's CEO, sat at the head of the table, his piercing gaze softening as it fell upon Luka. Michael Zorc, the sporting director, was engaged in hushed conversation with Marco Rose, both men turning to regard the young Croatian with undisguised curiosity.
"Gentlemen," Kehl announced, "may I present Luka Zorić."
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Luka. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back, acutely aware of the weight of expectations resting upon his shoulders. Watzke stood, extending a hand across the table.
"Welcome to Borussia Dortmund, Luka," he said, his voice warm but tinged with the gravitas of his position. "We've heard remarkable things about you."
Luka shook the offered hand, surprised by the strength in the older man's grip. "Thank you, sir. It's an honor to be here."
As Luka took his seat, Zorc slid a thick document across the table. "This is the contract we've negotiated with Manchester United," he explained, his tone businesslike. "It's a loan deal for the upcoming season, with an option to buy set at 2 million pounds."
Luka's eyes widened at the figure. It seemed both enormous and, paradoxically, far too small for what he knew he was capable of. He scanned the document, his eyes catching on key phrases: "...loan period of one year...", "...option to buy can be exercised at any time during the loan period...", "...player to be registered with the U23 squad..."
At this last point, Luka looked up, his brow furrowed. "U23 squad?" he asked, unable to keep a note of disappointment from his voice.
Rose leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with understanding. "It's standard procedure, Luka," he explained. "You'll train with the first team during pre-season, of course. But for competitive matches, you'll start with the U23s. It gives you time to acclimatize, to adapt to our style of play."
Luka nodded, but inside, a fire was kindling. They didn't know. They couldn't possibly understand the extent of his abilities. A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought, 'They'll see. Once pre-season starts, they won't even think of putting me anywhere except the starting lineup.'
As if reading his thoughts, Kehl interjected, "Of course, nothing is set in stone. Exceptional performances will always be rewarded at Borussia Dortmund. We have a proud history of giving young talents their chance."
With a deep breath, Luka picked up the pen. The room seemed to hold its breath as he lowered the nib to the paper. In that moment, as the ink began to flow, Luka felt the weight of destiny upon him. This wasn't just a contract; it was a bridge to a future he had always dreamed of but never truly believed possible.
As he signed his name with a flourish, applause broke out around the table. Watzke stood, raising a glass of water in a toast. "To Luka Zorić," he proclaimed, "may your time with Borussia Dortmund be long and successful!"
The others joined in the toast, but Luka's mind was already racing ahead. He pictured himself on the pitch at Signal Iduna Park, the famous Yellow Wall roaring his name. He imagined threading passes to Erling Haaland, leaving defenders in his wake as he danced through the midfield. This was just the beginning, he knew. Soon, very soon, they would all understand just what kind of player they had signed.
As the meeting concluded and hands were shaken once more, Rose approached Luka. "We have a photographer waiting," he said. "Time to get you in our colors. But first, let's sort out your number."
Kehl joined them, a thoughtful expression on his face. "We usually reserve lower numbers for first-team players," he explained. "For now, we've given you the number 37."
Luka nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. The high number was a reminder of his status as a youth player, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he'd earn a lower one.
Before heading to the photo shoot, Zorc pulled Luka aside to go over the contract details one last time. "As we discussed, this is a loan deal with an option to buy," he began, his tone serious. "Your base wage will remain the same as your Manchester United youth contract - 280 pounds per week, which we'll be paying on their behalf."
Luka nodded, remembering the modest sum from his United contract.
"However," Zorc continued, a glint in his eye, "we've added some performance bonuses. For every first-team appearance, you'll receive 2,000 euros. Each goal or assist with the first team will net you an additional 1,500 euros. If you make it into the starting lineup for a Bundesliga match, that's another 3,000 euros."
Luka's eyes widened at the figures. These weren't life-changing sums for a club like Dortmund, but for a 16-year-old from a modest background, they were significant.
"There are also clauses for Champions League appearances and a special bonus if we win any trophies with you in the squad," Zorc added. "Of course, these are all on top of your base wage."
Luka nodded, trying to maintain a composed expression despite the excitement bubbling inside him. These bonuses were clearly designed for a youth player expected to make occasional first-team appearances. Little did they know, he thought, that he intended to trigger every single one of these bonuses, and frequently.
With the contract details fresh in his mind, Luka followed Rose to the room set up as a makeshift studio. A backdrop bearing the BVB logo hung behind a simple stool. A rack of kits stood to one side, the famous black and yellow shirts gleaming under the studio lights.
The photographer, a jovial man with a bushy beard, greeted Luka warmly. "Ah, our new number 37!" he exclaimed. "Let's get you looking the part, shall we?"
Luka was handed a home kit, the black and yellow fabric feeling almost sacred in his hands. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror. The number 37 was emblazoned on the back, large and white against the yellow background. The sight of himself in Dortmund colors, even with the high number, sent a shiver down his spine. This was real. This was happening.
The photo shoot began, with Luka being directed through a series of poses. Holding the ball, arms crossed, pointing to the badge on his chest. With each click of the camera, Luka felt more and more like a Borussia Dortmund player.
As the shoot was winding down, the photographer paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "You know," he mused, "there's something about you, young man. Something special. I've photographed many players over the years, but there's an aura about you. Like you know something we don't."
Luka couldn't help but smile. If only they knew, he thought. If only they could see what he was capable of. That number 37 wouldn't be on his back for long, and those performance bonuses? They'd soon realize they were getting a bargain.
As he changed back into his regular clothes, Luka caught sight of his reflection once more. The boy who stared back at him seemed different somehow. Older, more confident. A boy on the cusp of becoming something extraordinary.
Kehl was waiting for him as he exited the studio. "Well, Luka," he said, clapping a hand on the young player's shoulder, "welcome to the family. Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow, we introduce you to your new teammates."
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Get this to 100 collections and I'll drop another chap