"Are you being serious?"
The words cut through the phone connection, sharp and disbelieving.
Jenna could hear something shift in Luka's voice, not quite anger, but something colder, more distant than anything she'd heard from him before.
Silence.
Just... silence.
She sat cross-legged on her hotel bed in Los Angeles, pressing the phone closer to her ear as if proximity could somehow fix what she'd just broken. The city sprawled outside her window, all neon and ambition, but right now it felt like she was suspended in a vacuum where only this conversation existed.
She hadn't wanted to tell him.
Not now, not three days after he'd just won the Bundesliga, ended Bayern Munich's stranglehold on German football. The images were still fresh in her mind—Luka on the pitch at Signal Iduna Park, tears streaming down his face, holding that trophy above his head while thousands lost their minds.
How do you call someone after that and say, "Hey, congratulations on making history, by the way I kissed a co-star for a scene on Wednesday and forgot to mention it"?
But Jorge Mendes changed everything. Luka's agent, the man who orchestrated hundred-million-euro transfers like he was ordering coffee, had people everywhere. His agency had reached out just yesterday through Rachel, proposing Luka and Jenna doing promotional material together for Wednesday. Nothing concrete yet, just preliminary discussions, but enough to make her realize that secrets in their world had expiration dates measured in hours, not weeks.
Someone would tell him. Someone always told. Even if they weren't sure of their relationship status, people loved running their mouths.
Better it came from her than from some gossip columnist or social media manager looking to make their own headlines.
The silence stretched longer.
This is exactly why I didn't want to tell him in the first place.
But there was more to it than just bad timing, wasn't there? The uncomfortable truth that had been sitting in her stomach since February, since Rachel had first suggested the "footballer angle" over lunch at some overpriced place in Beverly Hills.
"You want to get propelled to further stardom? Why not try the footballer with the potential to become the best in the world?"
The words had felt clinical even then, delivered with the same tone Rachel used to discuss box office projections or streaming numbers. But the logic was undeniable. Footballers weren't just athletes anymore, they were global entertainment figures whose reach extended far beyond sports. Cristiano Ronaldo had 400 million Instagram followers. Lionel Messi's wedding was covered like a state funeral. And Luka? Seventeen years old, good looking, already drawing comparisons to legends, playing for one of the biggest clubs in the world.
Hollywood needed a way to secure a stronger foothold in global markets. European audiences, South American demographics, the massive Asian fan bases that followed football religiously. Dating a rising football star wasn't exactly a hardship, especially when the football star was genuinely funny and texted her photos of his breakfast and seemed to actually listen when she talked about work.
She'd had little choice in the matter, really. Not if she wanted to keep climbing, keep getting better roles, keep building toward the kind of career that could survive industry changes and shifting audience preferences. The entertainment business was ruthless about relevance, and relevance required strategic thinking.
The thing was, she actually liked him. That complicated everything.
"Well..." she said finally, her voice smaller than she intended. "How do you feel about it?"
Another pause. She could hear ambient noise on his end—traffic perhaps, maybe, or the hum of air conditioning. He was somewhere, doing something, living his life while she sat in a Los Angeles hotel room trying to explain why she'd kissed someone else and failed to mention it for so long.
Luka sighed, a sound that carried weight she wasn't sure she wanted to unpack. "Honestly?" His voice was careful, controlled. "I don't know."
But that was bullshit. She could hear it in the way the words came out too evenly, too measured. He knew exactly how he felt. He just wasn't ready to say it out loud.
"Luka, listen—"
"We'll talk later."
The line went dead.
Jenna stared at her phone for a long moment, the black screen reflecting her face in miniature. Her thumb hovered over his contact, muscle memory already programmed to redial, to push through his attempt at ending the conversation.
But she didn't call back.
[/]
Six hours later and five thousand miles east, Luka pushed through the glass doors of Dortmund's training facility harder than necessary. The evening air was cool and damp, typical German spring weather that couldn't decide what season it wanted to be.
His Urus sat in the parking lot like a monument to success that felt hollow right now, all carbon fiber and engineered perfection that couldn't solve the knot of irritation sitting between his ribs.
Why didn't she just tell me immediately? Why wait until now? What else hasn't she told me?
The facility hummed with its usual evening energy, players arriving for tactical sessions, staff preparing conference rooms, the systematic preparation that preceded every major match. Tomorrow they'd fly to Paris for the Champions League final at the Stade de France. Tonight was about Real Madrid, about studying footage and memorizing movement patterns.
He'd been looking forward to this session all week. Real Madrid. The team that had dominated his childhood dreams, the white shirts that represented everything he'd once thought was unattainable. Now he had ninety minutes to prove he belonged on the same pitch as Benzema, Modrić, Kroos.
But the anticipation felt muted now, filtered through residual irritation from Jenna's call.
The tactical room was half-full when he arrived, players scattered across chairs facing a massive screen displaying Real Madrid's logo. Jude was near the front, deep in conversation with Palmer about something that involved a lot of hand gestures. Can scrolled through his phone with the focused attention of someone avoiding eye contact.
Luka chose a seat toward the back, away from the clusters of ongoing discussion. The tactical board dominated the front wall, covered in diagrams that looked like military strategy.
He stared at the board without really seeing it, his mind replaying the conversation on an endless loop. The careful way Jenna had delivered the news, like she was defusing a bomb rather than discussing her job. The pause before she'd explained about the kissing scene, like she was choosing her words to minimize damage.
It's just work. Professional kissing isn't the same as personal kissing.
But knowing that intellectually and feeling comfortable with it were completely different things.
"What's up, mate?"
Jude's voice startled him from his mental spiral. His friend had moved to sit beside him, studying Luka's expression with uncomfortable perceptiveness.
"I'm good," Luka replied automatically. "Yeah, good."
Jude raised an eyebrow. "Right. And I'm the Pope." He paused, leaning forward slightly. "You know how crazy it is, being league winners? Like, we actually did it mate. Ended Bayern's run. Made history Began the path of legends."
"Crazy." Luka agreed, though the word felt empty.
"I keep thinking about everything we went through to reach this point," Jude continued, his voice carrying genuine wonder. "All those matches where we thought we'd blown it. Your injury, coming back just in time. That mad comeback against Hertha. And now we're here, less than two days from a Champions League final."
Jude was watching him carefully now, the kind of focused attention that meant he'd noticed something was off. "Mate, are you sure you're good? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm—"
Before Jude could press further, the room's energy shifted. Rose walked in with his usual purposeful stride, followed by Sebastian Geppert and the rest of the tactical staff carrying laptops and thick folders. Conversations died as players turned their attention forward.
"Right then," Rose announced, moving to the tactical board with marker in hand. "Real Madrid."
The screen behind him shifted to display Real Madrid's preferred formation, familiar faces arranged in their classic 4-3-3. Each player a master of his position, collectively representing decades of Champions League experience.
"Let's start with what we know," Rose continued, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent weeks studying their opposition. "Benzema up front—thirty-four years old but playing like he's twenty-five. His movement in the box is supernatural. He doesn't just score goals, he creates space for others by dragging defenders out of position."
Rose drew arrows on the tactical board, illustrating Benzema's tendency to drift wide or drop deep. "Vinícius on the left has pace to burn and he's no longer lacking in confidence, perhaps the greatest threat to our backline. Truly. Twenty-one years old, but he's already terrorizing the best defenders in the world. Rodrygo on the right is perhaps their most underrated player, technically brilliant, tactically intelligent. Teams tend to understimate him, you've seen how that works out, we won't—no, can't affort to make that mistake."
The analysis continued. Courtois in goal, a wall of confidence who'd grown into one of the world's best goalkeepers. Militão and Alaba at center-back, combining physicality with experience. Carvajal bombing forward from right-back with the energy of someone half his age.
But it was the midfield that commanded the most respect.
"Modrić, Kroos, Casemiro," Rose said, letting the names hang in the air. "Combined age of one hundred and one years. Combined experience that includes thirteen Champions League titles between them. They don't run much anymore, but they don't need to. They see everything three passes before it happens."
Luka found his attention drifting, the tactical analysis becoming background noise as his mind returned to circling questions.
Why didn't she tell me immediately?
Why am I even bothering myself with this? She's an actress. Kissing people is literally part of her job description. I knew that going in.
The logical part of his brain understood that professional intimacy meant nothing, that it was choreographed emotion designed to serve a script. The emotional part felt like she'd kissed someone else and decided he didn't need to know about it.
"And their manager," Rose was saying, though Luka had missed the setup. "Carlo Ancelotti. Five Champions League titles as a manager and player combined. He's forgotten more about European football than most coaches ever learn..."
Logic versus emotions.
Logic versus emotions.
The conflict felt exhausting, like trying to solve an equation with variables that kept changing value.
"Luka, are you okay?"
The whisper came from his left. Sebastian Geppert had moved to sit beside him, the assistant coach's expression carrying genuine concern rather than tactical focus.
Luka sighed, realizing he'd been staring blankly at the tactical board while Rose continued his analysis. "Yeah, I'm... yeah."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed slightly, reading between the lines with the expertise of someone who'd been managing players for years. "Let's have a conversation afterward, alright?"
The tactical meeting continued for another thirty minutes, covering everything from Madrid's corner kick routines to their preferred pressing triggers. Rose distributed folders of individual player analysis, detailed breakdowns that would inform their preparation over the next day.
But Luka absorbed maybe half of it, his mind caught in loops of questions that had no satisfying answers...
...
...
Players began filing out as Rose wrapped up with final reminders about travel schedules and recovery protocols. Sebastian materialized beside Luka as the room emptied.
"Come on," the assistant coach said quietly. "Walk with me."
They made their way through the facility's corridors in comfortable silence, past trophy displays and team photographs documenting decades of success and failure. Outside, the parking lot was nearly empty except for a few expensive cars scattered under the harsh yellow lighting.
Luka's Urus sat under a lamppost, contrasting sharply against the evening backdrop, Klaus sat inside, looking down at something, probably his phone.
"So," Sebastian said without preamble as they stopped beside the car. "I understand you have some relationship troubles."
Luka leaned against the hood, metal still warm from the drive over. "She didn't tell me about something. Work-related, but... I don't know why she waited."
"What kind of work-related something?"
"She had to kiss her co-star for a scene. Didn't tell me until tonight."
Sebastian nodded slowly, processing the information with his usual methodical approach. "And why didn't she tell you immediately?"
"Something about not wanting to make me feel..." Luka paused, searching for her exact words. "Emotional about it, I think she said."
"And how do you feel about it?"
The question hit harder than expected. Luka found himself really considering it for the first time since the phone call, moving past automatic irritation to examine what was actually bothering him.
"Pissed off, honestly," he said finally. "Not about the kissing—I mean, that bothers me too, but I get that it's her job. It's the not telling me part. Like she made a decision about what I could handle without asking me."
Sebastian leaned against the passenger door, crossing his arms. "I once cheated on my wife, you know."
Luka's eyes shot open. Whatever he'd expected Sebastian to say, it wasn't that.
"A little affair, it was," Sebastian continued with a slight smile that looked almost wicked under the lamplight. "She was pretty, my wife was in Spain visiting her mother. Three weeks of freedom, and I used it poorly."
He paused, letting the confession settle between them.
"I felt guilty immediately, of course. The moment it was over, I knew I'd made a mistake. But then came the real decision, tell her or keep it secret? Protect her from unnecessary pain or respect her right to know the truth about our marriage?"
Luka found himself leaning forward despite the uncomfortable parallels to his own situation.
"I chose to tell her," Sebastian continued. "Sat her down the day she returned from Spain, confessed everything. Expected anger, expected her to throw me out, expected our marriage to end right there."
"What happened?"
"She forgave me." Sebastian's expression turned sad. "Just like that. Said everyone makes mistakes, said she loved me enough to move past it. I was so relieved I cried like a child."
A car pulled into the parking lot, headlights sweeping across them before continuing toward the security staff area. The brief illumination revealed the complexity in Sebastian's expression, regret mixed with hard-earned wisdom.
"But forgiveness and trust are different things, aren't they?" Sebastian continued. "She forgave me, but she never really trusted me again. And the thing is, I never really gave her reason to. I went back to the same habits, the same patterns, the same situations that led to the cheating in the first place."
"I thought because she'd forgiven me, everything was fine. I thought the hard part was over. But I never really examined why I'd cheated, never developed the self-control to prevent it from happening again. Never learned to be honest with myself about my own weaknesses. I continued living a lie."
Luka felt something shift in his understanding, though he wasn't sure what it meant for his own situation.
"Four months later, she divorced me," Sebastian said simply. "Not because she hadn't forgiven me, but because she realized I hadn't really changed. The forgiveness was real, but it didn't mean she had to live with someone she couldn't trust."
"How's your relationship now?"
Sebastian's grin was self-deprecating. "She remarried a philosophy professor who grows orchids and reads her poetry. They seem very happy. My new wife is pretty though, and I've learned to be honest about things that matter."
He straightened up, resting his hand on Luka's shoulder. "I say all this to say, son: Don't be like me. Be like my ex-wife."
Luka stared at him, mouth slightly open. "What do you mean?"
"I mean forgiveness is easy when someone hurts you. The hard part is figuring out whether they're actually capable of change, whether they understand why they hurt you, whether they're willing to do the work to make sure it doesn't happen again."
Sebastian squeezed his shoulder once before stepping back. "Whether she cheated on you is debatable given her job, obviously. But she made a decision about your relationship without including you in it. Now you have to decide if that's who she is, or if it's just a mistake she can learn from."
He started walking toward his car, then turned back. "Either way, you'll know more about her character from how she handles your response than from what she did in the first place."
"Sebastian," Luka called after him.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for the story."
Sebastian laughed, the sound echoing across the empty parking lot. "Son, when you've coached football for twenty years, the line between personal and professional stops meaning much. Good luck with everything."
He got in his car and drove away, leaving Luka alone under the lamppost with a head full of questions that felt more complex than they had an hour ago.
Don't be like me.
Be like my ex-wife.
The advice felt both obvious and impossibly complicated.