Gone Cold

The February wind bit through Luka's running gear as he slowed to a walk, his breath creating ghost-like wisps in the early morning air.

Running was his method of calming the day down, to rewind and relax. His usual route took him past the Signal Iduna Park, but today he'd deliberately avoided it, choosing instead the winding streets of his neighborhood. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, casting long shadows across frost-glazed sidewalks.

No more than over half an hour had past before he found himself standing at the familiar door step of his apartment.

Back in his kitchen, he leaned over the sink, muscles still warm from the run, watching condensation gather on the window. The TV droned in the background, some pundit dissecting the Champions League draw for the thousandth time. PSG. The three letters that had dominated every conversation since yesterday.

Of every team they could have found themselves facing they drew the Parisians. They weren't rivals and never had been, yet why did this match feel as if they were?

The weight of expectation was humongous, with fans of Dortmund, PSG and football lovers across the world all hoping for a match that would turn out to be a spectacle.

He reached for a glass, filling it with water, but his eyes drifted to the window again. Beyond it lay the city he now called home, so different from the cramped Manchester apartment where he'd spent countless nights watching Champions League matches with his father. The memory of those evenings felt distant now – the rickety folding chairs, the temperamental antenna that needed constant adjustment, his mother working late shifts while he and his father argued about tactics and player movements.

"Look how they press," his father would say, gesturing at the tiny screen with a half-eaten sandwich. "That's what separates the great teams from the good ones. Heart. Belief."

Belief.

The word echoed in his mind as he recalled yesterday's Leverkusen match against Bayern. The way they'd refused to bow down, refused to accept their prescribed role as sacrificial lambs to Munich's machine. All of the moments adding up to that final goal – Diaby's moment of defiance – still played in his head.

The TV anchor's voice cut through his thoughts: "—marking what will surely be one of the most anticipated Valentine's Day fixtures in recent memory—"

Luka snorted. Valentine's Day.

Of course it would be on the 15th that they played their first leg. There would be no love lost between the two. Especially not for a team like PSG, who's Neymar mimicked Haaland's meditation pose, the entire team posing for photos, grinning like they'd won the whole tournament. The arrogance of it all had made his blood boil even then, when he was just a enthusiastic spectator.

His phone buzzed shaking him out his talks. Since yesterday, their team WhatsApp group had been flooded with messages, ranging from tactical discussions to jokes about needing to cancel Valentine's plans. But underneath the bravado, Luka sensed a current of electricity, an energy he hadn't felt since that night in Lisbon against Sporting. Since the day he's played his first match for Croatia. Since they'd made it into the Champions League.

No one cowered despite the mountainous challenge they'd soon come to face. Not only the players but even the staff were radiating with confidence and thirsty for retribution. They were determined to wound PSG not only in Germany but also in Paris. To topple the Eiffel tower.

The condensation on the window had formed larger droplets now, distorting his view of the street outside. In Manchester, they'd never had a view at all – just a brick wall and a dumpster. Now his family had a proper house, his mother didn't have to work double shifts, and his father... well, his father had finally stopped looking over his shoulder, expecting everything to disappear.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, finally registering what the pundit was saying. "—the inexperience of Dortmund's young squad could be their undoing against PSG's stellar front three—"

The same narrative, always. Youth versus experience. Tradition versus oil money. David versus three Goliaths named Messi, Neymar, and Mbappé.

So what if most of their squad were young?

Were they expected to then concede? Then they would have decided all the challenges they had so far surmounted were all in vain. To hell with the 'youth' narrative.

If he had to count the number of players who'd done performed exceptionally well in the earliest times of their careers, he'd soon run out of fingers. Numerous player's had outclassed the best in the game even in their young playing days. Ronaldo made the European Championship's Best XI at what? 19? Didn't Messi win his first Ballon D'or at 22? Really, to hell with the 'youth' narrative.

Age hasn't been a inhibitor from doing the unthinkable. They wouldn't let it be one now.

Despite their misgivings this season, when needed, the team always delivered. The Haaland of today was still Man City's Haaland in months time.

Bellingham had not long to go before one day donning the number 5 shirt and being likened to its predecessor, the Maestro Zidane. The Luka they had today was the— well he didn't quite know what his future had in store for him.

Their squad was not weak, at least not at this moment. Unfortunately inconsistency ran rampant in their squad. Almost no player remained untouched. Even players like Akanji. The same Akanji with the capabilities of a world class center back, for if he didn't even now, Pep Guardiola wouldn't have called upon him to play in his system. But the underperforming didn't stop there. Dread would be the state of mind for most defenders who had to go up against a player like Mbappé. There were few who were able to compete with him, even less could freeze him out of a game, Matts Hummels stood proudly on that list. The quality was there it was simply underutilized.

And if they added Cole Palmer to their squad…

His phone buzzed again shaking him out of his idle thinking. This time it was Marco, sending a clip of their celebration after beating Beşiktaş. The final Champions league group stage game. Luka watched the pile of yellow jerseys, remembering the roar of the Yellow Wall, the way the ground itself seemed to shake.

He set down his glass, eyes fixed on the TV where they were showing PSG highlights now. Last year, they'd strutted around the Signal Iduna Park like they owned it, like Dortmund's history, tradition, and pride meant nothing.

"February fourteenth," Luka said quietly, his reflection in the window hardening. "Some Valentine's Day this'll be." PSG would find no Cupid in Dortmund. Only a Bee with a sting of death.

The anchor's voice continued, but Luka wasn't listening anymore. Let them talk about PSG's millions, their superstar front three, their quest for Champions League glory. Last year, they'd embarrassed this club. This year... this year they'd have to go through Luka, Haaland, Bellingham and Cole Palmer.

<<|>>

Meanwhile, in Manchester, where winter painted the city in shades of grey and bitter cold, Cole Palmer sat at his kitchen table, absently stirring a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. His mother bustled about, preparing dinner, a hot meal would do wonders in cold weather. All the while his younger sister practiced piano in the adjacent room, the notes of Chopin's Nocturne floating through the house like gentle snowflakes in the cold air.

"Scored twice today," he mentioned, more to himself than anyone else. Absent mindedly drumming the table with his cold fingers. The U21 match against Leicester had been a good one – two goals and an assist, that kind of performance usually lifted his spirits. But something felt different today. Unsettled.

His mother paused her cooking, wiping her hands on her apron. "That's wonderful, love. Did Pep come to watch?"

Cole shook his head, tracing patterns in the condensation on his mug. "Nah, he was with the first team. Training for the Southampton match."

The doorbell rang, cutting through the piano music. Cole's sister hit a wrong note, the discord hanging in the air for a moment before silence settled.

"That'll be Neil," Cole said, rising from his chair. Neil Fewings, his agent, had texted earlier saying he needed to discuss something important. Face to face, which was unusual as they usually discussed matters over the phone. Cole's nerves were on edge needless to say.

Neil stood in the doorway, snow melting on his wool coat, a leather briefcase that undoubtedly contained stacks of important files clutched in one hand, gloved to offer him protection from the cold. "Evening, Cole. Mrs. Palmer." He nodded to Cole's mother, who offered him a cup of tea.

"Actually, could Cole and I have a quick chat? In private?"

His mother nodded without hesitance, exiting the room and heading in the direction of his sister.

They settled in the living room, Cole perching on the edge of the sofa while Neil took the armchair, setting his briefcase beside him with deliberate care.

"There's been an interesting development," Neil began, his voice measured. "A bit of a leak from Dortmund's recruitment meeting today. Turns out they have a special reason for attempting to bringing you in on loan."

Cole nodded slowly. The loan part wasn't news – they had been hounding his agent for days. The special part however…

"What's interesting," Neil continued, leaning forward slightly, "is the source of the recommendation for the transfer. Apparently, it came from Luka Zorić."

Cole's brow furrowed. "Zorić? I've never even spoken to him." He was greatly confused, why would Luka Zorić of all players recommend him?

"That's what makes it curious," Neil agreed, pulling out his phone. "He specifically mentioned you by name in their transfer committee meeting. Suggested you'd be a perfect fit for their system."

Cole leaned back, his mind racing. He'd watched Zorić's games, of course – who hadn't? The Croatian had been lighting up the Bundesliga since his arrival. Watching his highlights was like watching the second coming of Neymar or Kaka, he'd even taken a few pages out of the lad's book. But they'd never crossed paths, not even in youth football.

"Maybe..." Cole started, then paused. "We might have played against each other in the academies? When he was at United?"

Neil shook his head. "He always played at the lowest level his age would allow him in. The two of you never overlapped."

The piano music had started again, softer now, as if his sister was trying not to intrude on their conversation.

"I've spoken to Edu for the third time this week, City can't guarantee you first-team minutes," Neil said gently. "Not with the squad they have. Dortmund, though..."

"I want to fight for my place here," Cole interrupted, but his voice lacked its usual conviction.

Neil waited, letting the silence stretch. He'd known Cole long enough to recognize when the young midfielder was wrestling with himself.

Cole turned from the window, his reflection ghosting against the dark glass. "Can you..." he hesitated, then straightened his shoulders. "Can you get me his number? Zorić's?"

Neil smiled, already reaching for his phone. "I'll call Mendes's office. They handle Luka. Should be able to sort something out."

As Neil made the call, Cole returned to the window, watching the snow fall. Manchester had always been his world – its streets, its weather, its football. But perhaps he needed a change in scenery… a chance to prove himself just as another Manchester boy did.

Would a Dortmund move be anything but good for him?

Neil's voice floated from behind him: "Jorge? Yes, about that Dortmund situation..."

Twenty minutes and several international calls later, Cole found himself staring at a WhatsApp message containing a string of numbers with a German country code. His thumb hovered over the call button, an unexpected nervousness creeping through his chest.

The call connected after two rings.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end was deeper than Cole expected, tinged with an accent that seemed to dance between Croatian and newly-acquired German inflections.

"Hi, uh, is this Luka? It's Cole. Cole Palmer."

"Palmer! My guy!" Luka's enthusiasm crackled through the connection. "Been hoping you'd call, bro. How's Manchester?"

The warmth in Luka's voice eased some of Cole's tension. "Yeah, it's... it's good. Bit cold."

"Cold here too," Luka chuckled. "Listen, uh, I've been watching you play. And to me you're wasting time with the U21s. I know how good you'll be bro, right now you should be playing Champions League football."

For Palmer it wasn't odd to hear that, he was often told he had the makings of a world class player. Unbeknownst to him, Luka meant that quite literally.

After a moment of deliberation he finally spoke again, or attempted to. "I mean, yeah, but City—"

"City's got what, fifteen world-class players in your position? Here, you'd be playing. Actually playing."

What followed was a thirty-minute conversation that meandered between the serious and the absurd. If it were to be summarized the conversation would have been like this:

Cole: "But mate... chippy chips."

Luka: "Palmer, in Manchester you'll be chipping some random Nigerian keeper in the youth league. In Dortmund? You'll be chipping Donnarumma in the Champions League."

Cole: "Hmm, I understand, sounds amazing, but... chippy chips though."

After minutes of consistent yapping.

Luka: "Mate, are you even listening?"

Cole: "Yeah."

Luka: "So... what do you think about what I said about the tactical setup?"

Cole: "Yeah, sounds good."

Luka: "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

Cole: "No, yeah, I have. The pressing thing."

The conversation swung between Cole's monosyllabic responses and Luka's increasingly animated attempts to paint a picture of life in Dortmund. It was an odd dynamic – Luka, barely younger than Cole himself, speaking with conviction, while Cole maintained his quiet demeanor.

Finally, after what felt like the hundredth "yeah" from Cole, Luka cut to the chase.

"Look, Palmer, I'm going to be straight with you," Luka's voice took on a more serious tone. "I recommended you because I know you have the ability to perform here, similarly to me, maybe you need a change of scenery. You're stuck in a comfort zone. Manchester's home, I get it. I lived there too. But sometimes you need to step out of that shadow to cast your own."

Cole gazed out at the snow-covered street, his reflection ghosting in the window. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"It's a big step, isn't it?"

"That's the point," Luka replied. "Deadline day is tomorrow. You could be here, training with us, preparing for PSG, being part of something special. Or you could be watching it all on TV, wondering 'what if.'"

The piano music had stopped, and in the silence, Cole could hear his mother in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of home. But for the first time instead of being comforting they all felt like chains.

"You really think I could make a difference?" Cole's voice was quiet, but there was something new in it – a hint of possibility.

"I wouldn't have recommended you if I didn't," Luka said. "Plus, between you and me, the weather here isn't nearly as bad as England's."

A small laugh escaped Cole's lips. "Alright, alright. I'll... I'll think about it."

"Think fast, bro. Deadline day tomorrow. Hope to see you here."

After the call ended, Cole sat in silence for a long moment, the phone heavy in his hand. Neil, who had been pretending to check emails on the other side of the room, looked up expectantly.

"Well?"

Cole took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the falling snow outside. "Call City. Tell them... tell them I want to talk about the loan."

The snow continued to fall outside, but somehow, it looked different now. Less like a blanket covering Manchester and more like a curtain about to rise on something new.

<>

Reading the comments on that other story really stirs something up within me.