"You're not late like last time."
Rose's arm settled across Luka's shoulders as the two of them walked through the training facility entrance, the weight both reassuring and slightly embarrassing. Rose had this way of making physical contact that felt paternal without being condescending, though Luka suspected it was a calculated gesture designed to gauge his mental state.
Luka managed what he hoped was a natural laugh, though it came out slightly strained. "Yeah, sorry about that. Both times."
The admission hung between them for a moment. Twice this week he'd arrived two minutes after the scheduled start, his mind caught in endless loops about the strange mathematics of trust in relationships. The first time, Rose had simply noted his arrival with raised eyebrows. The second time had prompted a brief but pointed conversation about maintaining focus during crucial preparation periods.
"Right," Rose said, giving his shoulder a firm tap that propelled him forward. "Go on then."
Luka walked through the familiar corridor, offering nods and smiles to the staff members he encountered. The kit manager wheeling equipment toward the training pitch. Dr. Braun reviewing something on his tablet with the focused intensity he brought to everything. A few academy players hovering near the first-team areas, probably hoping to absorb some professional atmosphere through proximity.
Each interaction felt slightly performative, like he was playing the role of himself rather than simply being himself. Not fake, exactly, but conscious in a way that usually felt automatic.
In that moment, he felt better about the whole Jenna thing. Sebastian's advice had helped. So why does everything else feel... off?
The changing room buzzed with its usual pre-training energy, Luka found his spot between Palmer and Reyna.
His body felt fine as he laced his boots. Strong, responsive, everything functioned as it should.
So why did his chest feel slightly tight? Why did his breathing require more conscious regulation than usual?
Maybe this is what it means to have your head somewhere else.
The training session began with their standard warm-up routine—light jogging around the perimeter of the training pitch, gradually building pace until their cardiovascular systems reached optimal preparation zones. The morning air carried the scent of fresh grass and distant traffic, familiar sensory input that should have triggered automatic relaxation responses.
Instead, Luka found himself hyper-aware of each stride, each breath, each adjustment in pace as they moved through the circuit. Not struggling, exactly, but operating with conscious attention to things that usually handled themselves below the threshold of awareness.
Palmer matched his pace easily, their breathing falling into synchronized rhythm born from a few months of training together. "You seem quiet today," Palmer observed as they rounded the far corner of the pitch.
"Just thinking," Luka replied, which was accurate without being specific.
"About the final?"
"Among other things."
Palmer's glance suggested he recognized evasion when he heard it, but he didn't press. Professional athletes learned early that everyone processed pressure differently.
The coordination drills came next, agility ladders demanding quick feet and perfect balance, cone work testing directional changes at speed. These exercises had become muscle memory over months of repetition, his body navigating the patterns while his conscious mind remained free to wander.
The thing about processing emotions is that your brain doesn't distinguish between professional problems and personal ones.
Stress is stress.
Distraction is distraction.
Even when you understand the situation intellectually, your nervous system continues responding to perceived threats.
Luka moved through the ladder sequences, each step landing in the correct position without conscious calculation. But everything felt like he was operating at ninety-five percent efficiency instead of his usual hundred percent.
Perhaps that is normal. Maybe elite performance requires complete mental clarity, and anything less than that creates measurable degradation in output.
"Through the hoops!" Rose called out, setting up the next drill progression. "Sharp touches, maintain your scanning!"
The setup was straightforward enough: weave through a series of small hoops arranged in zigzag patterns, receive a pass from a coach at the end, return it with one touch, then turn and sprint toward goal where a player would deliver a cross for a headed finish.
Luka watched Jude execute the drill first, his movements fluid and purposeful. Clean footwork through the hoops, perfect weight on the return pass, explosive acceleration toward the penalty area. When the cross arrived, Jude met it with textbook technique, directing the ball into the bottom corner with casual precision.
"Beautiful!" Rose shouted approvingly. "That's exactly what we want!"
Can followed, then Malen, each execution building the session's rhythm. When Luka's turn came, he approached the drill with the same confidence that had carried him through thousands of similar exercises.
The footwork through the hoops felt normal, quick, light touches that carried him smoothly from start to finish. The pass from the assistant coach arrived at his feet with perfect weight and timing. His return pass was struck cleanly with the inside of his right foot, delivered precisely to the coach's right boot.
But as he turned to sprint toward goal, something felt sluggish. Not physically—his legs responded normally, his acceleration curve matched his usual standards. Mentally, though, like his decision-making processes were operating through some kind of interference.
Reyna whipped in the cross from the right wing, the ball curling toward the penalty spot with ideal pace and trajectory. Luka timed his run to arrive just as the ball reached its optimal height for contact.
And missed the header completely.
The ball sailed past his head by several inches, close enough that he could feel the air displacement but far enough away to make the miss look amateurish. He overbalanced slightly as he tried to adjust for contact that never materialized, stumbling forward with awkward movement/
Well. That's not ideal.
"Come on, Luka," Can called out encouragingly, clapping his hands to maintain the session's positive energy. "Next one."
But the next one wasn't improved. His shot from the edge of the penalty area sailed high over the crossbar, struck with proper technique but questionable timing. A simple dribbling exercise saw him lose possession to Akanji's challenge, not through any particularly brilliant defending, but because his touch was slightly heavy, his protective positioning marginally inadequate.
Even his passing accuracy felt diminished, not dramatically but noticeably. Balls that should have reached teammates' feet arrived at their shins. Through passes that should have split defensive lines were intercepted by defenders who seemed to read his intentions more easily than usual.
He knew why his performance was suffering. But why? Understanding didn't immediately solve the problem. If anything, the awareness created additional mental overhead, another layer of self-monitoring that further complicated his headspace.
The training session continued for another hour, each drill revealing subtle degradations in timing, decision-making, and execution. Nothing catastrophic, nothing that would concern coaches or medical staff, but enough to matter at the margins where elite performance lived.
Rose approached him as players began walking toward the showers, the manager's expression carrying concern rather than criticism.
"Everything alright?" Rose asked quietly. "You seem a bit... distant today."
"Just tired," Luka replied, he didn't understand. His underperformace truly left him mentally tired. It was exhaustive in ways that physical training couldn't match.
Rose studied his face for a moment, clearly weighing whether to probe deeper or trust that whatever was affecting him would resolve itself through time. "Get some rest," he said finally. "Madrid will require your absolute best."
The shower water was almost uncomfortably hot, scalding against skin that had cooled during the walk from pitch to changing room. Luka stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work into muscles that felt tight despite the relatively light training load.
Maybe this is just part of growing up. Learning to compartmentalize different aspects of life, to prevent personal issues from affecting professional performance. Perhaps this was just another layer of life he had to learn to cope with.
Other players moved around him with easy camaraderie, conversations flowing about dinner plans and travel arrangements, families flying to Paris for the final. Normal life continuing while his felt temporarily suspended between emotional processing and professional demands.
Klaus waited by the Urus when Luka emerged from the facility. The afternoon had grown overcast, clouds gathering with the promise of rain.
"How was training?" Klaus asked as they merged into traffic.
"Fine," Luka replied automatically, then caught himself using the same non-committal response he'd given Rose. "Actually, a bit off. Nothing serious, just... felt strange."
Klaus nodded in the rearview mirror.
His phone buzzed as they navigated Dortmund's afternoon traffic. Mendes calling, precisely on schedule for his weekly check-in. Luka accepted the call, adjusting the volume so Klaus could participate if needed.
"Luka, my boy!" Jorge's voice carried its characteristic energy, enthusiasm that seemed to operate independently of time zones or business pressures. "How's the preparation for the final progressing?"
"Good," Luka said, then paused to consider whether accuracy or reassurance served better purposes. "Training's going well. Just working through some minor details."
"Excellent. Listen, I wanted to inform you, I've redirected all non-essential communications until after the season concludes. Interview requests, commercial opportunities, various distractions that don't contribute to performance. You focus exclusively on football, let me handle everything else."
"Thanks, Jorge. That helps."
"Of course. That's precisely what I'm here for." There was a brief pause, and Luka could hear ambient noise in the background, conversations, traffic, the general chaos that seemed to follow Jorge everywhere. "You sound slightly off, though. Everything functioning properly?"
The question caught Luka mildly off guard.
"Yeah, I'm good," Luka said. "Just managing the pressure, you know?"
"Hmm." Jorge's response carried skepticism that suggested he recognized deflection when he heard it. "Well, fortunately I'm in France handling some business. I'll visit soon, ensure you're properly prepared."
"You don't need to—"
"Nonsense. You're my most valuable client, and you have the most important match of your career upcoming. I'll see you tomorrow."
The call ended before Luka could object further. Through the car window, Dortmund passed in familiar patterns.
Having Jorge around will help. Someone whose job is solving problems rather than creating them.
Klaus glanced over. "He's coming to Germany?"
"Apparently."
"Good. You could use someone focused on your interests rather than team tactics and medical protocols."
.
Meanwhile, two hundred miles southwest in Lyon, Jorge Mendes emerged from the Hotel Villa Florentine accompanied by a small delegation of media executives and commercial partners. The afternoon sun cast dramatic shadows across the cobblestone courtyard, creating lighting that the assembled photographers would appreciate for artistic if not journalistic purposes.
"Merci beaucoup, messieurs," Jorge said to the French executives, his accent adding charm to words that concluded three hours of intensive negotiation. "We'll continue discussions after the final."
The business had progressed excellently, a potential partnership between one of his clients and a prestigious French luxury brand, the kind of arrangement that would generate substantial revenues over multiple years while elevating his client's global profile. But his mind was already shifting to Luka, to their recent conversation, to the subtle indicators that his star client wasn't completely focused on the final.
Jorge descended the hotel's impressive stone staircase with practiced confidence, his security team and various agency representatives forming a protective perimeter around him. At the bottom, a collection of cameras and microphones waited, the inevitable consequence of representing the world's most marketable athletes.
Camera flashes erupted as he approached the media gathering, the familiar chaos of modern celebrity culture playing out against Lyon's medieval architecture. Jorge paused just long enough to suggest accessibility while maintaining the mystique that made his every public appearance newsworthy.
"Mr. Mendes! Une question!"
The voice belonged to a young journalist from L'Équipe, France's premier sports publication. Jorge recognized him from previous encounters, knew he possessed sufficient competence to ask intelligent questions rather than the usual tabloid speculation.
"Mr. Mendes, with Luka Zorić's recent Bundesliga triumph and his extraordinary statistics, forty-four appearances, thirty-seven goals, thirty assists including international football, he's being discussed as the main runner for the Ballon d'Or. What are your thoughts on this recognition?"
Jorge smiled, the expression calculating and genuine in equal measure. This was precisely the opportunity he'd been hoping for, the chance to shape narrative around his client's unprecedented achievements.
"Of course Luka deserves serious consideration for the Ballon d'Or, he's the best in the world." he replied, his voice carrying authority. "His game and output is unprecedented for a seventeen-year-old. Unprecedented for any player, really. He's performing at levels achieved only by Cristiano and Messi in their absolute prime."
He paused strategically, allowing the comparison to settle in the reporters' minds.
"It's amusing, actually, Cristiano still hasn't met my other star client. I should arrange that introduction." Jorge's smile suggested he was already considering the commercial possibilities such a meeting would generate. "But yes, Ballon d'Or recognition is absolutely warranted based on pure merit."
"Mr. Mendes," another journalist called out, "do you ever wish that Luka had declared for a different national team? Portugal or England, perhaps, given his background?"
Jorge's expression shifted slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "You know, Portugal would have been amazing, of course. Luka was born there, and representing the nation of me, Cristiano and so many other legends would have provided incredible opportunities. But his family is deeply entrenched in Croatian culture, and he was raised primarily in England. It made perfect sense for him to choose where his heart truly belonged."
He paused, considering how much detail to provide. "Also, frankly, Croatia presented the most compelling offer for national team selection during his first international break. They recognized his potential immediately and structured their approach accordingly. Sometimes there are practical considerations that align with emotional ones."
"What if Dortmund doesn't win the Champions League?" a third journalist interjected.
Jorge's expression didn't change.
"Regardless of the result, none of Real Madrid's players can match Luka's productivity this season. Though, naturally we're confident about the final."
With that, he moved toward the waiting vehicle, his entourage closing ranks to prevent additional questions. The media gathering followed for several steps before being politely but firmly redirected by security personnel.
As the car pulled away from the hotel, Jorge's phone was already buzzing with messages from journalists, commercial partners, and other clients demanding attention. But his focus remained on Luka, on the subtle signs of distraction that could prove costly when everything mattered most.
The Champions League final would determine more than European supremacy. Everything Jorge had constructed around Luka's meteoric rise depended on peak performance when the world was watching.
A distracted player represented a liability Jorge couldn't afford to accept.
Nor would he tolerate the 'distraction'.