The drive through London passed in contemplative silence. The city sparkled with nighttime energy, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded in its western reaches. Luka's phone buzzed constantly—messages from family, friends, teammates already celebrating somewhere in the city.
At the hotel, Klaus pulled into the discrete side entrance. "Shall I wait?"
"No," Luka decided. "I'll get a car later."
Klaus nodded knowingly. "Enjoy your evening. You've earned it."
The elevator ride to the fourth floor felt endless, Luka's reflection showing a young man caught between exhaustion and anticipation. The burgundy jacket did look good, he admitted. Jenna had been right, as usual.
He knocked on 412, and the door opened immediately. Jenna stood there in jeans and—his breath caught—a Dortmund shirt. His Dortmund shirt, the 37 prominent across her back.
"My research material arrived," she said, doing a small spin. "What do you think?"
"I think," Luka said slowly, drinking in the sight of her, "it looks better on you than me."
"Everything does," she replied, but her smile was soft, welcoming. "Come here, you."
He stepped into her embrace, feeling the tension he'd carried for days finally release. She smelled like expensive perfume and something uniquely her, her arms tight around his neck.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered against his ear. "That was... God, Luka, that was incredible."
They moved into the suite, Jenna chattering about the match, her observations surprisingly astute for someone who claimed minimal football knowledge. She'd noticed things—tactical shifts, individual battles, the way momentum swung with each goal.
"Sit," she ordered, pushing him gently onto the sofa. "You look exhausted. When did you last eat?"
"Lunch."
"Luka!" She shook her head, already reaching for the room service menu. "You're impossible. What kind of girlfriend doesn't feed her man." She stopped, color rising to her cheeks. "Now let me order you food before you pass out."
They ordered room service—pasta for him, chocolate cake for her. While they waited, Jenna showed him videos she'd taken during the match, her commentary making him laugh.
"Listen to me when you score," she said, playing a clip where her voice could be heard screaming incoherently. "I've never made that sound before in my life."
"The poor couple next to you," Luka teased.
"They were Chelsea fans. They deserved it." She curled closer, her head on his shoulder. "I still can't believe that second goal. The way you just... destroyed their entire defense."
"It just happens," Luka said honestly. "Sometimes you don't think, you just—"
"Feel?" she suggested.
"Exactly."
Room service arrived, and they ate while Jenna regaled him with stories from her film set—the director who insisted on forty takes of a simple walking scene, the co-star who couldn't remember his lines if his life depended on it.
They moved to the balcony after dinner, London spreading before them in a tapestry of lights. Jenna had wrapped herself in a hotel robe over the Dortmund shirt, while Luka had shed the burgundy jacket, sleeves rolled up against the mild evening.
"My parents want to meet you," she said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"They're being very American about it. Mom's already planning what to cook, Dad's researching football so he can hold a conversation." She laughed. "I told them you speak perfect English, but I think Dad's still convinced he needs to learn Croatian."
"When?" Luka asked, warming to the idea.
"Maybe after your season ends? Before the World Cup? You could come to New York, meet them properly." She glanced at him. "If you want."
"I want," he assured her. "But first, you have to meet mine."
"Deal." She shivered slightly in the evening breeze. "Should we go inside?"
They moved back into the warmth of the suite, Jenna immediately curling into him on the sofa. The television played quietly—some BBC analysis of the match that neither really watched.
"We should probably go now," Luka said eventually, though he made no move to leave.
"Or," Jenna said, her voice dropping to that tone that made his pulse quicken, "we could stay for a little while longer."
"Jenna..."
"I know, I know. Team rules." She shifted, straddling his lap, the robe falling open to reveal the Dortmund shirt underneath.
Her logic was flawed but her lips on his neck made arguing difficult.
"You're a bad influence," he managed.
"The worst," she agreed, hands sliding under his shirt. "Is it working?"
His response was to pull her closer, capturing her lips in a kiss that quickly deepened. She made a soft sound of approval, pressing against him in a way that made rational thought impossible.
"Bedroom?" she suggested breathlessly when they broke apart.
He nodded, not trusting his voice. She took his hand, leading him through the suite to the bedroom where city lights filtered through sheer curtains, casting everything in soft golden tones.
"You're sure?" he asked as she turned to face him.
Instead of answering, she pulled the Dortmund shirt over her head in one smooth motion, standing before him in only jeans and a knowing smile.
"Very sure," she said.
—
An hour later, Luka found himself driving through London.
The house in Hampstead had been his idea, booking through Airbnb when hotels felt too impersonal for what this moment represented. A proper home, with a kitchen for his mother to cook in and space for the extended family that would inevitably appear.
"Turn right here," Jenna directed from the passenger seat, peering at her phone's GPS. "Should be the third house on the left."
"You said that about the last street," Luka reminded her, executing yet another U-turn.
"They all look the same! Big white houses with those black fence things." She looked at him apologetically. "I may have overestimated my navigation skills."
"You think?"
"Oh, there!" She pointed excitedly. "See the blue door? That's definitely it."
This time she was right. Luka pulled into the driveway of a Georgian townhouse, all elegant proportions and discrete security. Through the front window, he could already see movement—his mother, unable to resist checking who'd arrived.
"Ready?" he asked, suddenly nervous himself.
Jenna squeezed his hand. "Are you?"
Before he could answer, the front door burst open and Emma appeared, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Finally! Mom's been cooking since dawn and Dad's cleaned the kitchen three times and—" She stopped, taking in Jenna properly. "Oh wow, you're even prettier in person."
"Emma," Luka warned.
"What? It's true!" His sister turned to Jenna. "I'm Emma. I've seen everything you've been in. Multiple times. This is so cool."
"Nice to meet you," Jenna said warmly. "Luka's told me so much about you."
"Great," Emma grabbed Jenna's arm. "Come on, everyone's dying to meet you."
Luka followed as his sister practically dragged his girlfriend—and wasn't that still a thrilling word—into the house. The familiar sounds and smells of family enveloped them immediately: rapid Croatian from the kitchen, something involving paprika on the stove, his father's laughter from somewhere deeper in the house.
Nina appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on an apron that had seen better days. Her assessment of Jenna was swift but thorough—mother's eyes missing nothing.
"You must be Jenna," she said warmly. "Welcome. I hope you're hungry."
"Starving," Jenna replied, which was clearly the right answer.
"Good! Come, let me show you around."
And just like that, Jenna was absorbed into the Zorić family ecosystem. Luka watched her disappear into the kitchen with his mother and sister, already chattering about something that had all three laughing.
He found his father in the living room, arranging bottles on a makeshift bar. The extended family had indeed materialized—aunts and uncles, cousins of varying ages, his grandfather holding court from the best armchair.
"She seems nice," David observed, handing Luka a beer he definitely shouldn't be drinking this close to a match.
"She is."
"Your mother's already planning the wedding."
"Dad—"
"I'm joking." David's expression grew more serious. "You look happy."
"I am."
"Good. That's what matters." He clapped Luka on the shoulder. "Now help me figure out what your Aunt Marija drinks. She's been here twenty minutes and already complained about the wine selection twice."
The evening unfolded with the particular chaos of large family gatherings. Food appeared in waves—Croatian specialties his mother had spent hours preparing, each dish accompanied by detailed explanations for Jenna's benefit. His girlfriend navigated it all with remarkable grace, even attempting to pronounce Croatian words that sent Uncle Stefan into hysterics.
"No, no," he corrected through tears of laughter. "You just proposed to a fish!"
"Again?" Jenna looked mortified. "What is it with me and Croatian fish?"
"Here," Emma intervened, "let me teach you something safe. 'Hvala' means thank you."
"Hvala," Jenna repeated carefully.
"Better!" Nina approved. "Keep practicing. By next visit, you'll be fluent."
The casual assumption of future visits warmed Luka more than the strong wine his grandfather kept pouring despite his protests. He watched Jenna integrate seamlessly—helping his mother serve dessert, listening intently to his grandfather's stories about 1960s Zagreb, even joining a heated debate about whether Modrić or Rakitić was Croatia's better midfielder.
"Modrić, obviously," she declared, earning approving nods. "Though Luka will be better than both."
"Now you're just flattering us," David laughed.
"It's working, isn't it?"
Later, as the gathering wound down and younger cousins dozed on various furniture, Luka found himself on the back patio with Jenna. The April evening was mild, London's ambient glow providing soft illumination.
"Your family's amazing," she said, leaning into him.
"They liked you."
"You think?"
"Emma's already planning your joint birthday party. Mom saved you extra sarma for later. Dad actually told jokes." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "Trust me, you're in."
"Good," she said softly. "Because I really like them. And I really, really like you."
They stood in comfortable silence, the sounds of family cleanup drifting through the open door. Tomorrow would bring its challenges—the trip back to Germany, the match against Wolfsburg, the relentless march toward season's end.
But tonight was theirs, wrapped in the warmth of family and new love, everything feeling possible in the way it only can when you're seventeen and the whole world is watching you shine.
"We should go back in," Jenna said eventually. "Your mom promised to teach me to make sarma."
"Now?"
"She says it's better to learn after wine. Something about relaxed hands making better rolls."
Luka laughed. "That sounds like Mom logic."
"I love Mom logic. Come on."
She pulled him back inside where his mother waited with cabbage leaves and patient instruction, his sister documenting everything on her phone, his father and grandfather debating politics in the corner.
Home, Luka thought, wasn't always about place. Sometimes it was about people, about moments, about the way certain souls made any location feel like exactly where you belonged.
As Jenna struggled with her first sarma, tongue poking out in concentration while his mother guided her hands, Luka felt that belonging settle deep in his chest.
This warmth. This connection. This unexpected love that had arrived disguised as a shopping trip and revealed itself as something far more essential.
"Like this?" Jenna asked, holding up a moderately successful cabbage roll.
"Perfect," Nina declared. "A natural. Luka, you keep this one."
"Planning to," he said quietly, and meant it.
The evening stretched on, filled with laughter and language lessons, with food and family and the particular magic of disparate worlds successfully colliding. And when they finally said their goodbyes, his family extracting promises of future visits and regular video calls.