Luka tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt as he ducked past Klaus, his security guard maintaining a discreet distance behind him. Luka caught the slight nod of approval at the outfit—a cashmere-blend sweater over tailored trousers that Jenna had insisted on during their shopping spree.
"More meetings?" Klaus asked, pulling the Cadillac's door open.
"Just one more," Luka sighed, settling into the passenger seat. "Mendes says it's important."
Klaus made a noncommittal sound as he started the engine. "Important enough to miss recovery session?"
"Already cleared did mine before the others," Luka replied, his fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of his phone in his pocket.
The Cadillac eased into Dortmund's afternoon traffic, sunlight catching on the pristine black paint. Three days had passed since the PSG match, but the city hadn't stopped celebrating. Yellow and black flags hung from apartment balconies, and makeshift murals had appeared overnight, many featuring Luka's face alongside Haaland's, Bellingham's and Palmer's.
"Still getting used to that," Luka muttered, turning away from a billboard displaying his celebration after the penalty.
Klaus followed his gaze and chuckled. "Better get comfortable with it. This is just the beginning."
Luka's phone vibrated against his palm. Jenna's face filled the screen, her smile framed by deliberately messy hair, the hotel room visible in the background.
"Hey," he said, conscious of Klaus pretending not to listen.
"There he is, the man of the hour," Jenna's voice carried the same playful lilt it had the first time they'd met. "Or should I say days? You're everywhere, you know that? Even in England, I can't escape you."
Luka laughed, relaxing despite himself. "How's the press junket going?"
"Exhausting. Same questions, different journalists." She shifted, revealing more of the suite behind her. "But worth it. The reception's been amazing. How about you? Still riding the high?"
"Trying to stay grounded," Luka replied, watching the city slide past the window. "Training was intense today."
"Smart man." Jenna adjusted something off-camera. "So, did my good luck charm help?" She held up her wrist, showing the thin band she'd given him before the match, now back on her arm.
Luka's lips curled into a smile. "Must have. Though I think your other... encouragement... might have played a bigger role."
"Is that right?" Her eyebrow arched, voice dropping slightly. "Careful, superstar. You've got company."
Luka glanced at Klaus, who kept his eyes dutifully on the road, though the slight curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
"Speaking of which," Jenna continued, her tone shifting to something more hesitant, "have you thought about... you know, what we talked about? After."
The question hung in the air, laden with meaning that stretched back to the night after the match.
—
Sunlight slanted through half-drawn blinds, casting golden bars across tangled sheets. Luka lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other draped around Jenna's shoulders as she nestled against his chest. On the television mounted to the wall opposite, a Netflix show played at low volume, neither of them paying much attention.
"This place is way too small for you," Jenna observed, tracing idle patterns on his abdomen. "And everyone knows where you live now."
"I've been thinking the same thing," Luka admitted, his fingers combing gently through her hair. "After those fans showed up yesterday..."
"Terrifying," Jenna shuddered. "If your security was here he'd probably tackle that guy."
"He would have," Luka chuckled. "But yeah, I need to move. Somewhere with better security."
Jenna propped herself up on one elbow, studying his face. Her hair fell in a curtain around them, creating a momentary pocket of privacy in an already private space.
"I know a great real estate agent in London," she offered casually. "If you're considering options elsewhere as well."
Luka raised an eyebrow. "London?"
"Just saying." She shrugged, but her eyes remained intent on his. "International flights from London to... well, pretty much anywhere I might be filming."
The implication hung in the air between them. Luka's heart picked up speed, a familiar pre-match tension settling in his chest.
"I don't usually do this, you know," Jenna said quietly, dropping her gaze to where her fingers still traced patterns on his skin. "The relationship thing. My life is... complicated."
"Mine too," Luka replied, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But maybe that's why it works? We both understand the craziness."
Jenna's eyes met his again, searching. "Is that what we're doing? Making it work?"
"I'd like to try," Luka said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "If you would."
A slow smile spread across Jenna's face, not her camera smile but something more genuine, tinged with vulnerability that made Luka's chest tighten.
"Okay," she said simply. "Let's try."
She leaned down, pressing her lips to his, the Netflix show completely forgotten as the kiss deepened. Luka's hands slid to her waist as she moved to straddle him, the sheet slipping away.
"But let's be clear," she murmured against his mouth, "I'm not giving up my place in New York."
Luka laughed, the sound quickly shifting to something else entirely as Jenna's hips rolled against his. "Wouldn't dream of asking."
—
"Luka? You still there?" Jenna's voice pulled him back to the present.
"Yeah, sorry," he blinked, aware of the heat rising to his face. "Was just thinking... Yes, I have thought about it. Let's talk details at a later date."
Klaus coughed discreetly, signaling their approach to their destination.
"I've got to go," Luka added. "Meeting with some Saudi officials."
Jenna's expression shifted to one of exaggerated suspicion. "The same ones who sent that ridiculous watch? Be careful with those guys, Luka."
"It's just business," he assured her.
"That doesn't make me feel better," she laughed. "But okay. Call me after?"
"Promise," Luka said, warmth spreading through his chest at the casual domesticity of the exchange. "Might be late though."
"I'll wait up," she replied, her smile soft. "Good luck with the suits."
The call ended as Klaus guided the Cadillac to a stop outside Hotel Waldorf-Astoria, where a discreet security team immediately materialized around the vehicle. Luka noticed two men in dark suits scanning the street before one opened his door.
"Mr. Zorić," the man said with practiced deference. "Mr. Mendes is waiting for you inside."
Klaus exited the driver's side, his imposing presence causing even the security team to give him space. "I'll be with you," he reminded Luka, falling into step beside him.
The hotel lobby gleamed with old-world European luxury—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and carefully preserved Belle Époque details. At the far end, Jorge Mendes stood in animated conversation with a man Luka recognized as Yasir Al-Rumayyan, the Saudi PIF chairman he'd met briefly after the first leg in Paris.
"Here he is," Mendes announced as they approached, his professional smile firmly in place. "The man of the hour."
Al-Rumayyan's handshake was firm but respectful. "Mr. Zorić, congratulations on an exceptional performance. The entire football world is talking about you."
"Thank you, sir," Luka replied, the formal response feeling stiff on his tongue. "I appreciate you taking the time to meet."
"The pleasure is entirely ours," Al-Rumayyan assured him. "Shall we?" He gestured toward a set of double doors guarded by more security personnel.
Mendes placed a guiding hand on Luka's shoulder. "Prince Abdullah is particularly eager to speak with you."
The conference room beyond the doors had been transformed into something more intimate—plush seating arranged around low tables laden with traditional Arab coffee service and platters of dates and pastries. Several men in traditional Saudi attire and Western business suits stood as they entered, but Luka's attention immediately fixed on Prince Abdullah, whose broad smile revealed genuine warmth.
"The hero of Dortmund!" the prince exclaimed, approaching with open arms. "What a privilege to witness your talent firsthand. Twice now!"
Luka accepted the embrace, noting the expensive cologne and the weight of what must have been another luxury watch on the prince's wrist. "Thank you, Your Highness. I'm honored by your interest."
"Interest? My boy, the entire Kingdom is captivated by you!" Prince Abdullah laughed, guiding Luka to a seat beside him. "But please, less formality among friends. We are here to celebrate your success, not to stand on ceremony."
Luka settled into the offered seat, keenly aware of Klaus positioning himself against the wall behind him, and Mendes taking the chair to his left. The arrangement felt choreographed, protective.
Coffee was poured in small, handleless cups. Luka accepted one, recalling the protocol from a cultural briefing Mendes had insisted on—hold with right hand, three sips, decline a fourth unless wanting more.
"Your performance against PSG," Al-Rumayyan began, "demonstrated qualities we deeply admire. Courage. Determination. Excellence under pressure."
"True champion qualities," another official added. "Rare in one so young."
Luka smiled politely. "Football is a team sport. My teammates deserve equal credit."
"Modesty as well," Prince Abdullah noted approvingly. "But we recognize individual brilliance when we see it." He paused, exchanging glances with Al-Rumayyan. "Which brings us to the purpose of this meeting."
Mendes shifted almost imperceptibly beside Luka—a subtle cue that whatever came next had already been discussed without him.
"We wish to deepen our relationship with you," the prince continued. "To formalize what we hope will be a long and mutually beneficial association."
Luka set his coffee down carefully. "I'm listening."
"The simple question first," Prince Abdullah said, leaning forward with childlike enthusiasm. "Ferrari or Lamborghini?"
Luka blinked, certain he'd misheard. "I'm sorry?"
"Your preference," the prince clarified. "Italian stallion or raging bull?"
The question hung in the air, surreal in its directness. Luka glanced at Mendes, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"Ferrari, I suppose," Luka answered, assuming the question was rhetorical.
"Excellent choice!" Prince Abdullah exclaimed, genuinely delighted. "An SF90 Stradale will be delivered to you by the end of the week. Red, of course."
Luka's mouth opened, then closed. He'd seen the car in magazines—a hybrid hypercar worth over half a million euros.
"That's... incredibly generous," he managed, "but I couldn't possibly—"
"It is nothing," Al-Rumayyan interrupted smoothly. "A token of appreciation for the joy you've brought to millions of football fans in our region. Your victory over PSG was particularly... satisfying for us."
The geopolitical undertones weren't lost on Luka, who'd received enough media training to understand the Saudi-Qatari rivalry that played out through football ownership.
"And the SF90 is merely the beginning," Prince Abdullah continued. "We would like to offer you another vehicle of your choice. Name it!"
Luka shot another desperate glance at Mendes, who remained impassive, clearly prepared for this extravagance.
"This is extremely generous, but—"
"A second car," the prince insisted. "For practical purposes, perhaps? Something for daily use while the Ferrari remains for special occasions."
Trapped, Luka named the first practical vehicle that came to mind. "A BMW iX, maybe?"
Prince Abdullah's expression fell dramatically. "No, no! Too pedestrian for a champion! Think bigger!"
"An Aston Martin DBX?" Luka suggested, naming the luxury SUV he'd thought about buying a while back.
"Still too modest!" the prince exclaimed, genuinely distressed by Luka's lack of extravagance. "Please, something truly special."
Luka swallowed hard. "A Mansory Lamborghini Urus?"
The customized luxury SUV was something he'd seen on social media—a garish, 800-horsepower monster.
"Perfect!" Prince Abdullah clapped his hands together. "Excellent taste! It shall be delivered alongside the Ferrari."
"That's very generous," Luka said carefully, "but I have to ask... what's the expectation here?"
The room fell silent. For a moment, Luka feared he'd committed a grave cultural offense, but Al-Rumayyan's face broke into a genuine smile.
"A direct question deserves a direct answer," he said approvingly. "Your victory over PSG generated more profit for certain Saudi interests than you could imagine. These gifts are merely a slight fraction of that value."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "As for expectations, we have discussed preliminary sponsorship arrangements with Mr. Mendes. Nothing binding today—merely the beginning of what we hope will be a long relationship."
"Your only obligation," Prince Abdullah added, "is to continue playing beautiful football."
Luka nodded slowly, not entirely relieved but at least understanding the transactional nature of the exchange. "Then I'm honored by your generosity."
The meeting concluded with ceremonial photographs and the exchange of contact information—not Luka's personal details, but those of his expanding management team. As they prepared to leave, Mendes drew Luka aside.
"I've received another meeting request," he said quietly.
"From who?" Luka asked, though he already suspected the answer.
"PSG representatives," Mendes confirmed. "I know you're not interested, but it's important to maintain relationships. I'll attend on your behalf."
Luka sighed heavily. "Fine. Just... keep me in the loop."
Outside, the Cadillac waited, Klaus already holding the door. Before Luka could reach it, Prince Abdullah called out one final time.
"Young champion! Remember—when you drive these cars, you drive with the pride of many nations behind you!"
Luka waved acknowledgment, sliding into the passenger seat with relief. As Klaus pulled away from the hotel, the tension in Luka's shoulders gradually released.
"That was... intense," he murmured.
Klaus's expression remained neutral, but his eyes met Luka's briefly in the rearview mirror. "Getting used to it?"
"Not sure I want to," Luka replied honestly. "Two supercars? It's absurd."
"Part of your game," Klaus observed. "Where to next?"
Luka checked his watch. "Puma photoshoot. The new boot campaign."
As the Cadillac navigated through Dortmund's streets, the city's transformation became increasingly evident. Where before there might have been occasional Dortmund flags or jerseys, now yellow and black dominated storefronts and balconies. And mixed among them, something new—banners bearing Luka's face or number, Croatian flags interspersed with German ones.
"This is crazy," Luka muttered as they passed a sports shop with a hastily-erected inflatable figure wearing his 37 jersey number, towering over pedestrians.
"Your face is selling merchandise," Klaus noted matter-of-factly. "Good business for everyone."
Luka shook his head in disbelief. "I really need to move apartments."
"Can we stop for tea?" Luka asked suddenly, spotting a familiar shop. "I need a moment before the photoshoot."
Klaus checked the time and nodded, pulling into a loading zone with the confidence of someone who knew no parking attendant would ticket a vehicle containing Luka Zorić.
Inside the small tea shop, conversations stuttered to a halt as Luka entered. He nodded politely at the staring patrons and approached the counter where a young barista's eyes widened in recognition.
"Jasmine green tea, please," Luka ordered, attempting normalcy. "For here."
"Of course, Mr. Zorić," the barista stammered. "On the house, of course."
"I insist on paying." Luka replied gently, placing a twenty-euro note on the counter.
He found a corner table partially hidden by a decorative screen and sat with his back to the wall, a position that offered some protection from stares. The tea arrived promptly, brought not by the barista but by who appeared to be the shop's owner, an older woman with kind eyes.
"It's an honor," she said simply, placing the tea before him. "My grandson cried when you scored that penalty. Real tears of joy."
Luka smiled, genuinely touched. "Thank you for telling me that."
She hesitated, then added, "Would you... might I trouble you for an autograph? For him?"
"Of course," Luka replied, accepting the napkin and pen she produced. "What's his name?"
"Heinrich," she said. "He's eight and plays for the local youth team."
Luka wrote a brief message encouraging the boy to practice daily, signing with a flourish that was becoming increasingly practiced. The woman clutched the napkin as if it were made of gold.
"Thank you," she whispered. "This will mean everything to him."
As she returned to the counter, the dynamic in the shop shifted palpably. The initial shock of his presence dissipated, replaced by a current of excited murmurs. A young man approached first, then a teenage girl with her mother, then a group of university students—each politely requesting autographs or selfies.
Luka accommodated them all, his tea growing cold as he signed notebooks, phone cases, even someone's arm. Klaus materialized nearby, not intervening but maintaining a watchful presence that kept the interactions respectful.
"Just one more," Klaus finally announced to the gathering crowd. "The man has appointments."
A small boy pushed forward, clutching a well-worn Dortmund scarf. Unlike the others, he said nothing, simply holding out the scarf with trembling hands.
Luka crouched to the child's level. "Hello there. What's your name?"
"T-Thomas," the boy whispered.
"Would you like me to sign your scarf, Thomas?"
The boy nodded vigorously, producing a marker from his pocket. As Luka signed the scarf, he noticed the boy's hands—callused in a pattern he recognized immediately.
"You play football?" Luka asked, handing back the scarf.
Thomas nodded again. "Goalkeeper."
"The most important position," Luka said seriously. "Keep training hard. Maybe someday I'll be trying to score against you."
The boy's face lit up with such pure joy that Luka felt something catch in his throat. This—this moment of genuine connection—felt more real than all the luxury cars and VIP meetings.
As they left the shop, a small crowd had gathered outside, held back by Klaus's imposing presence. Phones recorded Luka's exit, and he heard his name called from multiple directions. The Cadillac provided sanctuary, its tinted windows shielding him from the growing attention.
"This is getting out of hand," Luka observed as Klaus navigated away from the tea shop.
"This is just the beginning," Klaus replied matter-of-factly. "Imagine how it will be after the World Cup?"
"Right," Luka paused, something predatory forming in his eyes. "But that's only because I'll win it."