Capítulo 55: Clubs
The commentator's voice crackled through the television speakers, excitement palpable even through the tinny audio. "And there's the final whistle! Borussia Dortmund secures a hard-fought one-nil victory over Besiktas, guaranteeing their spot in the Champions League knockout stages. They'll finish second in the group, but what a campaign it's been for the Black and Yellows!"
Luka sat motionless on his couch, the glow of the TV screen casting flickering shadows across his face. His teammates' jubilant celebrations felt a world away from the quiet of his apartment. He should have been there, on that pitch, sharing in their triumph. Instead, he was here, ankle propped up, ice pack slowly melting against his skin.
He reached for the remote, clicking off the TV and plunging the room into silence.
With a sigh, he hauled himself up, hobbling to the kitchen on his crutches. The fridge door opened with a soft whoosh, the cool air a momentary relief from the stuffy apartment. Luka's eyes scanned the shelves, landing on a protein shake he'd prepared earlier. He grabbed it, letting the door swing shut as he made his way back to the couch.
As he settled back down, his gaze fell on the stack of books on the coffee table. He'd made some progress over the past few days, more out of boredom than genuine interest. The top book – "Mindset: The New Psychology of Success" – stared back at him accusingly.
He took a long swig of the protein shake, grimacing at the chalky taste. Is this what being a professional feels like? he wondered. Watching from the sidelines, drinking shakes, and reading self-help books?
Luka's mind drifted back to a time that felt like a lifetime ago. He'd been nobody then, just another face in the Manchester United youth setup, dreaming of making it big but never quite believing it would happen. Now, here he was, hailed as the next Messi, the next Ronaldo, the next goat.
He'd never asked for this. Never imagined he'd be capable of the things he could now do on a football pitch. It had all happened so fast, this... transformation. One moment, he was struggling to make the U16s, and the next, he was pulling off moves that made professionals look like schoolboys.
Luka's hand clenched around the protein shake bottle, plastic crinkling under the pressure. He'd worked hard, of course. Trained relentlessly. But deep down, in a place he barely dared acknowledge, he knew the truth. This wasn't all him. These abilities, this... gift, it had come from somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn't explain.
And that terrified him.
What if it disappeared as quickly as it had come? What if he woke up one day, and it was all gone? The skills, the vision, the control – what if it vanished, leaving him exposed as the fraud he sometimes feared he was?
Luka shook his head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts. His eyes landed on his phone, and almost without thinking, he found himself opening Twitter. It was a masochistic habit he'd developed lately, scrolling through mentions and comments, drinking in the praise and criticism in equal measure.
@OneBigYouth22: "Did you see that Dortmund game? Imagine if Zorić had been playing. They would've smashed Besiktas!"
@AkonPlays: "Hot take: Dortmund is better without Zorić. More team-oriented."
Luka tossed his phone aside, the clatter as it hit the coffee table startlingly loud in the quiet apartment. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, mind racing.
He thought back to his conversation with Dr. Braun. A psychiatric evaluation. The words had stung at the time, feeling like an accusation of weakness. But now, in the lonely quiet of his apartment, Luka wondered if maybe the doctor had a point.
Was this normal? This constant pressure, this fear of failure, this... emptiness even in the face of success? He'd achieved more in the past few months than most young players would in their entire careers. So why did he feel so... hollow?
Trying to pull himself out of this downward spiral, Luka glanced at the TV remote, then at his phone. Both offered distractions, but they felt hollow. He needed something mindless, something to drown out the noise in his head without demanding too much of him.
His thumb hovered over the YouTube app, and almost without thinking, he clicked on a series he'd been watching: BarfieBoy's Macclesfield Town RTG series. It wasn't much—a FIFA career mode where a Youtuber, BarfieBoy, took over the struggling English club and slowly built it up.
"We've made it people, after giving West Brom a good seeing to. Four nil at Wembley. We've made it, this is the big time, this is the top flight, this is the Premier League. We worked so hard to get here, its all about staying here now. This is Macclesfield Town career mode, RTG, episode 5. Lets get to work."
Luka let himself sink into the couch, his mind drifting as BarfieBoy rambled on about tactics ad transfers. It was comforting, in a way.
A few days passed, and the storm outside seemed to mirror the one in Luka's head. The team had just drawn 1-1 with VfL Bochum, a result that left Dortmund further from the top of the table and closer to 3rd. Luka had watched the game from his apartment again, his ankle slightly improved but not yet fully healed. The draw only deepened his frustration. He needed to be out there. He needed to do something.
When the team returned to training, Luka was finally cleared to return to the field. The medical room was quiet as Dr. Braun looked over his ankle for the last time, nodding in approval.
"You're good to go, Luka," Dr. Braun said, handing him a fresh wrap for the ankle. "But don't push it too hard today. Ease back in."
Luka nodded, though his mind was already on the pitch. As he left the medical room, he bumped into Jude, who was on his way to the gym.
"Hey, mate! Look who's back," Jude greeted him with a wide grin, slapping Luka on the shoulder. "You ready to get back out there? We've missed you, man."
Luka smiled, grateful for the warmth in Jude's tone. "Yeah, I'm ready. Just need to shake off the rust."
Jude chuckled. "Don't worry, Haaland's been hogging all the chances anyway. You'll fit right back in."
Before joining the full session, Luka headed to the far end of the training ground to do some finishing drills by himself. He needed this—some time alone to clear his head, to reconnect with the ball before diving back in.
He lined up a few cones and placed a couple of balls in a neat row. Taking a deep breath, he started slow—just dribbling between the cones, feeling the leather under his feet, reacquainting himself with the rhythm. Each touch of the ball was sharp but his mind kept drifting. The frustration from the last few days, the questions about his future—they all seemed to creep back in, pulling his focus away.
After a few rounds of basic dribbling, Luka set up some shooting drills. He jogged back, positioning himself on the edge of the box. He paused, trying to clear his mind, then sprinted forward, striking the ball with his right foot. It sailed toward the top corner, grazing the post before hitting the back of the net. It was a clean strike, but something about it felt off.
He tried again. Another clean hit, another goal. But the joy he used to feel—the rush of seeing the ball hit the net—it wasn't there. He wasn't sure if it was the injury, the pressure, or something else entirely.
His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. "Nice shot, Zorić. But don't go too hard before the session starts."
Luka turned to see Reus walking over, a smile on his face. The Dortmund captain gave him a playful shove. "Good to see you back. How's the ankle?"
"Better," Luka replied, forcing a smile. "Just trying to shake off the rust."
"You'll be fine," Reus said, glancing at the balls lined up for Luka's finishing drills. "But don't try to take all my goals today, alright?"
Luka chuckled, the tension in his chest easing a little. Reus had a way of lightening the mood, reminding him that football was supposed to be fun.
As the other players started filtering onto the training pitch, Luka joined them, exchanging nods and fist bumps. Haaland, with his usual enthusiasm, clapped him on the back. "Ja, Good to have you back, Zorić! Now we can start scoring again."
Luka laughed, though he could feel the weight of expectation settling on his shoulders again.
Training began in earnest, and Luka threw himself into the drills. Passing, shooting, pressing—it was all muscle memory, but there was something therapeutic about the flow of it. He could lose himself in the routine, at least for a little while.
Jude jogged up to him during a water break, panting slightly. "You look good out there, mate. Feels like you didn't even miss a day."
Luka shrugged, taking a long drink. " Just trying to keep up."
Jude gave him a knowing look. "You've got nothing to prove, you know. You're already one of the best out here."
Luka looked down, unsure of how to respond. He appreciated Jude's words, but they didn't quite hit home. He wasn't sure if he believed it himself.
Training wrapped up after a few hours, and Luka found himself lingering on the pitch, watching as the staff packed away the cones and balls. His ankle ached, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Physically, he felt ready. Mentally?
The last few days had left him more conflicted than ever. As much as he tried to focus on the game, on the here and now, the questions about his future loomed large in his mind.
Luka headed back to the locker room, his thoughts swirling. He had a few days before their next match, and while he was relieved to be back on the pitch, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. That connection, the pure joy he once felt—it was still just out of reach.
<>
The London sky hung heavy with winter gloom, but inside Arsenal's recruitment room, it was all but gloomy. Mikel Arteta stood at the head of the long mahogany table, his dark eyes intense as he gazed at the faces around him.
"Gentlemen," Arteta began, his Spanish accent lilting through the word, "we're here today to discuss something, someone extraordinary." He paused, letting the anticipation build. "Luka Zorić."
A murmur rippled through the room. Edu Gaspar, Arsenal's Technical Director, leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "Mikel, we've all seen the reports. The boy's numbers are... well, they're unreal."
Arteta nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Unreal? Edu, my friend, they're fantastique!" He turned to the large screen behind him, clicking a remote. Instantly, the room was filled with highlights of Luka Zorić in action.
The assembled group watched in attention as Luka danced across the screen.
"Look at that vision!" Arteta exclaimed, freezing the frame on a particularly impressive through-ball. "The way he sees the game, it's... it's magnificent."
Josh Kroenke, representing ownership, cleared his throat. "Mikel, we're all impressed. But let's talk practicalities. Where does he fit in our squad? Our system?"
Arteta's eyes lit up at the question. He began to pace, his energy infectious. "Ah, Josh, that's the beauty of it. Luka is versatile, adaptable. We've seen him excel on the left wing, but did you see that game against Bayern?" He didn't wait for an answer, plowing on with infectious enthusiasm. "He played as a number 10, and mamma mia, what a performance!"
The room chuckled at Arteta's excitement, but their attention was rapt. Arteta continued, "Imagine him in our system. We could play him on the left, interchanging with Smith Rowe. Or as a false nine, dropping deep to create space for Saka and Martinelli to exploit. Or even as that number 10 dictating the tempo."
Edu nodded thoughtfully. "It would give us a lot of tactical flexibility. But Mikel, we have to consider the financial aspect. Manchester United won't let him go cheap in January, even with his contract situation."
The mood in the room shifted slightly, the excitement tempered by the reality of modern football economics. Vinai Venkatesham, the club's CEO, stepped in. "We've run some numbers," he said, his voice measured. "It would be a significant investment, but potentially a game-changing one."
Arteta jumped back in, his voice passionate. "Vinai, my friend, we're not just buying a player. We're buying a symbol, a statement of intent. Luka Zorić is the kind of talent you build a team around for the next decade."
Josh Kroenke leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Okay, let's say we pursue this. What's our strategy? How do we convince a player of his caliber to choose Arsenal?"
The room fell silent for a moment, each person considering the question. It was Per Mertesacker, the academy manager, who spoke up. "We offer him something unique," the tall German said. "A clear pathway. A vision for his development. Not just as a player, but as a leader."
Arteta snapped his fingers, pointing at Mertesacker with a grin. "Exactly! Per, my friend, you've hit the nail on the head. We show Luka that at Arsenal, he won't just be a star – he'll be one of our only stars. The centerpiece of our project along with Saka."
Edu leaned forward again. "We'll need to move quickly. Other clubs will be circling. Real Madrid, Barcelona..."
Arteta waved his hand dismissively. "Let them circle. We offer something they can't – a young, hungry team built around him. No egos to contend with, no established superstars to overshadow him. Just a clear path to greatness."
Josh Kroenke nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his face. "I like it. It's ambitious, but... I think we have to go for it. Vinai, what do we need to make this happen?"
Vinai leaned forward, all business now. "We'll need to free up some funds. There are a few players we've can move on this window. Pépé, perhaps Lacazette if we can find a buyer. It would also mean being more conservative in other areas of recruitment this window."
Arteta's eyes blazed with intensity. "It's worth it. Luka is... he's special. The kind of player who comes along once in a generation. We can build our attack around him for years to come."
"There's one more thing," he said, his voice softer now, but no less intense. "We need to consider Luka as a person, not just a player. He's young, he's been thrust into the spotlight. We need to have a plan to support him, to nurture him."
Per Mertesacker nodded emphatically. "I've been thinking about that. We could set up a mentorship program, pair him with some of our senior players. Help him adjust to life in London, to the pressures of the Premier League."
Edu chimed in, "And we should consider his development off the pitch too. Education, media training, financial advice. We want to set him up for success in all areas of his life."
Josh Kroenke hummed in agreement. "Yes, this is good, now we must convince the player." He paused, directing his gaze to Arteta. "If you truly want this player we will do what we must do to get him and I'll even fly to Germany to speak to Zorić."
Arteta beamed at his Josh and the rest of his colleagues. "This is why I love this club. We don't just buy players, we invest in people. We build futures."
The meeting continued for hours, diving deep into tactics, finances, and logistics. They discussed how Luka's free-kick ability could change their set-piece strategy, how his presence might affect the development of other young players like Saka and Smith Rowe, even the potential marketing opportunities his signing could bring.
<>
The rain pelted against the windows of Real Madrid's boardroom, matching the energy inside. Florentino Pérez sat at the head of the table, his eyes sharp as he surveyed the room. To his right, Carlo Ancelotti leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. José Ángel Sánchez, the club's general director, shuffled through a stack of papers, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Pérez cleared his throat, silencing the murmurs around the table. "Gentlemen, we're here to discuss Luka Zorić. The boy's making waves in Dortmund, and we need to decide our strategy."
Ancelotti nodded, his voice calm but tinged with excitement. "I've watched his recent matches. His vision, his technique – it's remarkable for someone so young. But where does he fit in our plans?"
Pérez leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "That's the question, isn't it? We've got Vinícius and Rodrygo on the wings, both showing tremendous promise. We're still pursuing Mbappé for the striker position, and let's not forget about Haaland."
José Ángel Sánchez chimed in, his voice measured. "There's also the midfield to consider. We're already planning for the future with Camavinga and Valverde. Where does Zorić fit into all of this?"
The room fell silent for a moment, each man lost in thought. It was Ancelotti who broke the silence, his eyes gleaming with tactical possibilities. "He's versatile. We could rotate him across the front three, or even try him as an attacking midfielder. His vision and passing ability could make him a worthy successor to Modrić in time."
Pérez nodded slowly, considering. "But is that enough? To bring in a player of his caliber just to rotate him?"
"There's always the option of selling Rodrygo," José Ángel suggested, though his tone indicated he wasn't entirely convinced. "It would open up the right wing for Zorić."
Pérez shook his head, his expression firm. "No, Rodrygo is part of our future. We need to think bigger." He paused, a sly smile creeping across his face. "What if we sign him in January, but let him see out the season in the Premier League?"
The room buzzed with curiosity. Ancelotti leaned forward, intrigued. "You mean, convince Manchester United to recall him from Dortmund?"
Pérez nodded, his eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. "Exactly. We sign him in January, but he finishes the season with United. It's the best of both worlds – we secure his future, but he gets Premier League experience."
José Ángel looked skeptical. "But wouldn't it be better for his development to finish the season at Dortmund? He's flourishing there."
Pérez waved his hand dismissively. "Think bigger, José. This isn't just about development. It's about marketing, about visibility. A few months in the Premier League would skyrocket his profile. By the time he joins us in the summer, he'll be a global sensation."
Ancelotti nodded slowly, warming to the idea. "It could work. But we'd need to convince both United and the player. It won't be easy."
Pérez's grin widened. "Leave that to me. I'll speak with the Glazers personally. As for the player..." He turned to José Ángel. "Set up a meeting in Germany. I want to speak with Zorić face to face."
As the meeting continued, the conversation shifted to other matters. They discussed the upcoming Clásico, debated potential tactical tweaks, and even touched on the club's youth academy.
<>
Across the country, in the Camp Nou offices, a very different meeting was taking place. Joan Laporta paced the room, his charisma dampened by the weight of Barcelona's financial troubles. Mateu Alemany, the club's director of football, sat at the table, his expression grim as he pored over financial reports.
Laporta stopped pacing, turning to face the room. "We need to talk about Luka Zorić."
Alemany looked up, surprise evident on his face. "Zorić? Joan, with all due respect, we can barely afford to keep the players we have. How can we even think about signing someone like Zorić?"
Laporta's eyes flashed with determination. "That's exactly why we need to think about him. We need a spark, Mateu. Something to reignite the passion in our fans, to show the world that Barcelona isn't finished."
Xavi, who had been quietly observing from the corner, leaned forward. "I've seen him play. He's special, no doubt. But how do we make it work financially?"
Laporta smiled, a hint of his old confidence returning. "We don't sign him now. We convince him to see out his contract with United, then sign him on a free transfer next summer."
The room fell silent as the implications sank in. Alemany was the first to speak, his voice cautious but intrigued. "It's risky. We'd be competing with every top club in Europe. And there's no guarantee he wouldn't renew with United or agree to a deal with someone else."
Laporta nodded, acknowledging the challenge. "True, but think about what we can offer him. A chance to be the centerpiece of Barcelona's resurgence. To follow in the footsteps of legends."
Xavi's eyes lit up at this. "We could build the team around him. His vision, his technique – he'd be perfect for our style of play. Imagine him linking up with Fati, with Pedri and Gavi."
Alemany interjected. "It's not just about the playing style. We need to consider the financial implications. Even on a free transfer, his wages would be substantial."
Laporta waved his hand dismissively. "We'll figure it out. We always do. What's important is that we show Zorić our vision for the future. That's why I want to go to Germany, to speak with him personally."
As the conversation continued, they delved into the tactical possibilities Zorić could bring. Xavi's eyes gleamed as he described potential formations, his hands moving animatedly as he sketched out plays on a nearby whiteboard.
"His free-kick ability is extraordinary," Xavi mused. "We haven't had someone like that since... well, since Leo."
The mention of Messi brought a momentary hush to the room, a reminder of what they had lost. But Laporta seized on it, his voice passionate. "Exactly! That's why we need Zorić. He can be the new face of Barcelona, the player who leads us into a new era. Our new Messi"
In the end, all three clubs reached the same conclusion: they needed to speak with Zorić directly.
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