Weeks
Dr. Braun sighed, setting down his clipboard and meeting Luka's anxious gaze. "The good news is that it's not a severe injury. No fractures or ligament tears. But there is significant swelling and bruising. You need time to rehabilitate properly."
Luka shook his head vehemently, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles whitened. "No, no, no. You don't understand. We have the last Champions League group stage match against Besiktas in three days. I have to play. The team needs me."
The fluorescent lights of the medical room seemed to buzz louder in the tense silence that followed. Dr. Braun pulled up a stool and sat down, his weathered face etched with concern. "Luka, listen to me. Pushing yourself too hard right now could lead to a much worse injury. One that could sideline you for months, not just a week."
But Luka wasn't really listening. His mind raced with scenarios, Dortmund losing to Besiktas, Sporting winning their match, the goal difference evaporating.
"You don't get it," Luka muttered, more to himself than to Dr. Braun. "If we don't win, if the other results don't go our way... we could end up in the Europa League. All that work for nothing."
Dr. Braun leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "Luka, you're placing too much responsibility on yourself. Football is a team sport. Your teammates are more than capable of securing the result without you for one match."
Luka's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "But what if they're not? What if-"
"What if the sun doesn't rise tomorrow?" Dr. Braun interrupted, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. "Luka, this level of worry, this constant catastrophizing - it's not healthy. Have you considered speaking with someone about these anxieties?"
Luka's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"
Dr. Braun took a deep breath before continuing. "I think it might be beneficial for you to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. This isn't just about football anymore, Luka. The stress you're putting on yourself-"
"I'm fine," Luka cut him off sharply. "I just want the team to win. That's all."
Dr. Braun stood up, moving to a nearby cabinet. "I'm going to give you some anti-inflammatory medication and a detailed rehab plan. Ice the ankle for twenty minutes every two hours. Rest as much as possible." He turned back to Luka, his eyes softening. "And please, think about what I said. There's no shame in seeking help, Luka. It doesn't make you weak. If anything, it makes you stronger."
Luka nodded numbly, barely registering the instructions. As he limped out of the medical room, leaning heavily on his crutches, the world seemed to blur around him.
He made his way to the locker room, hoping for some solitude, but found Jude already there, packing up his gear after training.
"Hey, mate," Jude called out, his smile fading as he took in Luka's dejected expression and the crutches under his arms. "Shit, is it bad?"
Luka slumped onto the bench, wincing as he elevated his ankle. "A week, maybe more. I'll miss the Besiktas match."
Jude sat down next to him, concern etched on his face. "That's rough, but it could've been worse, right? At least you'll be back for the knockout stages."
"If we even make it that far," Luka muttered darkly.
Jude's brow furrowed. "What are you on about? One more win and we're through."
"And what if we don't win?" Luka snapped, immediately regretting his harsh tone. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. "Sorry, I just... what if we lose and Sporting wins? We could end up in the Europa League."
Jude was quiet for a moment, studying Luka's face. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically serious. "Luka, mate... don't take this the wrong way, do you really think we can only win with you in the team? Mate, maybe you're worrying a tad bit to much"
Luka let out a humorless laugh. "You sound like Dr. Braun. He thinks I need a 'psychiatric evaluation' or something."
To Luka's surprise, Jude nodded slowly. "Maybe he's got a point. I mean, don't get me wrong, I get stressed about matches too. But you... sometimes it seems like you're trying to carry the weight of the whole club on your shoulders."
Luka opened his mouth to argue, but found he didn't have the energy. Instead, he leaned back against the lockers, closing his eyes. "I just want us to succeed. Is that so wrong?"
Jude shifted uncomfortably on the bench beside Luka, clearly trying to find the right words. "Look, mate," he started slowly, "I know you want to be out there. But you gotta trust the rest of the team. Believe in the others, yeah? We can do it without you."
Luka's eyes snapped open at that, his mind racing. Without me? He didn't say anything, but those words hit him harder than they should have. He felt a surge of offense rise in his chest. It wasn't like he thought he was bigger than the team, but the idea of them doing it without him felt like a challenge. A part of him knew Jude was just trying to help, but another part—stubborn and prideful—recoiled.
Jude, noticing the silence, shifted in his seat, giving Luka a soft pat on the shoulder. "Look, I know it's hard to sit out. But we'll hold it down. You need to take care of yourself first."
Luka nodded slightly, but inside, his frustration deepened. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him, immediately followed by shame. He hated that he was making this about himself. It felt like he was letting his ego get the better of him, and that realization only made him feel worse.
As Jude stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, he gave Luka a small smile. "Just relax. Focus on getting better. The rest will take care of itself."
Luka watched him go, the door closing with a soft click behind him. He stared down at his injured ankle, feeling a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical pain.
Just a few months ago, he had been a kid who could barely secure a spot on a U16 team. He'd fought tooth and nail to get where he was at the time, to prove himself. And with a flash of the supernatural he had risen so fast, and now here he was, sidelined with an injury, unable to help his team when it mattered most. It was like the universe was reminding him that he was still just a kid, still prone to falling, to failing.
With a resigned sigh, Luka grabbed his crutches and hobbled out of the locker room. His apartment felt cold and empty when he arrived home, the silence doing nothing to calm his racing thoughts. He slumped onto his couch, carefully propping his injured ankle on a cushion with an ice pack strapped to it.
The idea of sitting out for a week gnawed at him. What was he even supposed to do for a whole week, just sitting here? He wasn't going to bore himself all day with the charity work and learning finance.
Luka glanced at a stack of books sitting on his coffee table, all neatly lined up—books that Mendes, had sent over the last week or so. Business books, biographies, self-help books, things that were supposed to keep him sharp off the pitch. He hadn't touched them ye. But now, staring at his crutches and the ice on his ankle, he figured he didn't have many other options.
He reached for the top book in the pile—Doing The Impossible—and flipped through the first few pages, though his mind wasn't fully engaged. The words on the page felt distant, like they were meant for someone else. How was he supposed to read about doing the impossible when all he wanted was to be back out there playing? He wasn't interested in hearing motivational quotes right now. He wanted to solve the problem.
Luka tossed the book onto the coffee table, frustrated. What am I even doing? he thought to himself, sinking deeper into the couch.
…
Jorge Mendes entered the Manchester United boardroom. The sound of rain tapping against the large windows of Old Trafford mirrored the tension simmering beneath the surface. Joel Glazer sat at the head of the table, his expression tight, trying to appear in control. To his right, Ed Woodward shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tapping a pen against his papers. Ole sat further down, though, Mendes was slightly perplexed by his presence as the ongoing rumours were that he was well on his way to the exit door.
Lastly John Murtough, the club's director of football, sat in the far end of the room, glancing up from his documents nervously as Mendes settled in.
They had been preparing for this meeting for weeks, knowing that Mendes was not someone to be trifled with. This was about Luka, the player they were focused on currently. And now, with seven months left on his contract, Manchester United had a problem on their hands—the once "unpolished" academy prospect was close to slipping through their fingers.
"Jorge, thanks for coming in," Joel Glazer began, trying to set a professional tone, his American accent cutting through the nervous energy in the room. "We need to discuss Luka and his future with Manchester United."
Mendes gave a courteous nod, sitting down and folding his hands in his lap. His face was impassive, revealing nothing. "Of course, Joel. It's an important conversation."
They were desperate, and Mendes knew it. He thrived on this kind of scenario—where everyone around the table knew he held the cards, but no one could openly admit it.
Glazer cleared his throat. "Luka's been doing… very well at Dortmund. 24 games, 16 goals, 19 assist. We've all seen the numbers."
Mendes' expression didn't change. He already knew the numbers. He knew every detail of Luka, every single one. "Yes, he's been quite exceptional. I'm sure you're aware this isn't something that just happened overnight," Mendes replied, his voice calm, but with a slight edge. "Luka has always had this potential. It was just about finding the right environment to help him flourish."
Ole leaned forward, finally unable to contain himself. "I saw it too. I wanted him integrated into the first team last season. But the decision was made to loan him out." The frustration in Ole's voice was clear.
Joel raised his hand to stop Ole from continuing. "We've been over this. At the time, we were focusing on signing the best talent available, and we felt Luka would benefit from more playing time elsewhere."
Mendes saw his opening. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking on Joel's. "And yet, there was no clear communication with Luka or myself about the club's long-term vision for him. You sent him away to Germany with no clear pathway back to the first team. No assurances. No explanation of what his role would be if he did return."
Woodward jumped in, trying to regain control of the narrative. "Jorge, with all due respect, we've been monitoring his progress closely. We have plans for Luka. But you understand that we have a squad filled with top talent. Lingard, Rashford, Elanga, Sancho, Greenwood, Ronaldo… we have to balance playing time across all these players."
Mendes allowed himself a small smile. "Balance? Ah yes, balance. That's an interesting way to phrase it, Ed." He leaned back, his voice measured but razor-sharp. "You're saying Luka—a player who has outperformed nearly every player in Europe—would be 'balanced' with others for playing time?"
Glazer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Mendes noticed. "Are you telling me, Ed," Mendes continued, "that Manchester United is looking at players like Declan Rice and Leon Goretzka and considering them as comparable prospects to Luka? Because if that's the case, we need to reassess this entire conversation."
Woodward looked visibly rattled. He hadn't expected Mendes to bring up specific targets, let alone dismiss them so easily. "That's not what we're saying, Jorge. But we do need to consider the future of the club. We're building something long-term here."
Mendes leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing. "Long-term? How interesting. Because the way I see it, your club hasn't treated Luka as part of any long-term plan. You sent him to Dortmund without giving him any assurance of a role here. And now, after seeing what he can do in a real team, you're scrambling to bring him back. But let's be honest, gentlemen—you're only panicking now because that £2 million option to buy is looming over you. Not because you had a plan for him."
Ole, who had been silent, finally spoke up. "Luka can fit into our system, Jorge. He's versatile. He can play across the front three, maybe even as a number 10 in the future. But like I said, there's competition. We've got Ronaldo, Rashford, Sancho—"
Mendes cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Competition? Rashford and Sancho are talented, but none of them are doing what Luka is doing at his age. None of them have the numbers he's put up in Germany. Are you really suggesting that Luka, who is making headlines across Europe, should come back to sit on your bench and fight for scraps?"
Ole opened his mouth to respond but closed it again, knowing he couldn't argue with the facts. Mendes wasn't here for negotiations; he was here to manipulate the situation in his favor, and they all knew it.
Joel Glazer tried to step in, his voice strained but trying to stay in control. "Jorge, we understand Luka's potential. We do. But we can't just ignore the structure of the club. We have stars here. We can't break that structure for a 17-year-old."
Mendes' smile returned, more wolfish this time. "Structure? Joel, let's be clear. This isn't about wages, or playing time, or stars alone. Luka doesn't want to come back to a club where there's no clarity, no vision for his future. Where he's being treated as an afterthought. And let's not pretend that Manchester United isn't already paying astronomical wages to players who aren't delivering."
Glazer's face tightened, but Mendes wasn't finished.
"You've made poor decisions regarding Luka's development from the start. You've over-invested in stars and now you're hoping that by throwing money around, it'll fix everything. Luka has seven months left on his contract. Seven. Do you really think that if you try bringing him back in January, you can convince him to stay?"
Woodward spoke up, trying to salvage some control. "We're prepared to discuss renewing his contract. But it has to be within reason, Jorge. We can't jeopardize the entire squad for one player."
Mendes raised an eyebrow. "The reasonable thing would have been to provide a clear development plan for Luka from the beginning of the season. The reasonable thing would have been to show him that Manchester United values him. Instead, you sent him to Dortmund and hoped he wouldn't shine too brightly. Well, now he has, and you're all scrambling because you know what comes next."
Joel Glazer tried again, desperation creeping into his voice. "We've nurtured his talent, Jorge. We've given him the foundation. Manchester United has played a massive part in his development."
Mendes' smile widened, and he leaned forward, trapping Joel with his gaze. "Oh? You gave him the foundation? Because from where I'm sitting, it was Dortmund who gave him the platform to show his talent. It was Dortmund who treated him like a first-team player. Manchester United... you treated him like an afterthought."
Joel's face flushed with frustration, but he couldn't refute it. The truth was right there, in black and white, in Luka's performances for Dortmund. He had been a revelation in Germany, and it had very little to do with Manchester United's "nurturing."
Mendes stood, clearly ready to end the meeting. "You've got two choices. Either you let Luka see out his loan and be bought by Dortmund or even walk free in seven months—because let's be honest, there's no way you convince him to stay at this point. Or you can recall and try selling him in January for a fee that'll be significantly higher than £2 million but far lower than his real value."
Woodward stood as well, panicking now. "We can't just let him go for a pittance, Jorge. He's worth more than that."
Mendes turned, his expression sharp and unforgiving. "Then you shouldn't have put yourself in this situation. Luka is a generational talent, and you let him slip through your fingers. Now, you're paying the price."
And with that, Mendes walked out, leaving the boardroom in stunned silence, knowing full well he had the upper hand. Manchester United was desperate, but desperation would only make them weaker, and Mendes would make sure Luka got what he deserved—whether that was at Dortmund or elsewhere.