Cold

A sleek metallic black Mercedes wound its way through the narrow streets of Dortmund, each turn revealing another layer of the city's character. Medieval church spires pierced the winter sky alongside modern office buildings, their windows reflecting the weak January sun. The streets were a mix of old and new – centuries-old cobblestones giving way to smooth asphalt, tram lines cutting through historic squares where market stalls had stood for generations.

Despite the early hour the city was wide awake, the streets lined with bakeries already bustling with morning customers.

The famous Reinoldikirche's tower stood sentinel over the marketplace, Steam rose from cups of coffee clutched by early morning commuters, their breath visible in the winter chill. A group of schoolchildren, wrapped in yellow-and-black scarves, pointed excitedly at something in a shop window.

The car passed the towering presence of the Signal Iduna Park, its yellow walls rising like a modern colosseum against the grey sky. Even dormant, waiting for match day, it commanded attention.

This was no grand metropolis, no Paris or London, yet it held its own distinct charm that made it no less impressive.

Turning onto Rheinlanddamm, the Mercedes slowed as it approached the Dortmund training facility. The car rolled onto B1, the main artery leading to Dortmund's heart.

As the car approached its destination, the passenger finally looked up from his phone, pressing a gloved hand against the window. Fans had already begun to gather outside the training facility, not in overwhelming numbers, but enough to signal that whoever was sitting in the car would generate buzz.

Some clutched yellow and black scarves to their faces for warmth, others had phones raised, cameras poised.

When the door opened, Cole Palmer emerged.

He wore a simple black coat over a white t-shirt that fitted well over his lank frame, his face bearing the slight disorientation of someone who hadn't quite processed the rapid changes of the past twenty-four hours. Camera flashes punctuated the morning air, though not with the intensity reserved for more established stars. These were mostly local journalists and die-hard fans who tracked every movement of their beloved club.

"Cole! Cole! Look here!"

"Welcome to Dortmund!"

"Willkommen in Dortmund!"

The calls came in a mixture of English and German. Cole offered a slight wave, fighting the strong urge to grimace. He had never been the type to bask in public attention, preferring a reserved lifestyle. Thankfully, a club official appeared at his side, guiding him through the small crowd with practiced efficiency.

"Cole, welcome to Dortmund. Hope the flight wasn't too rough." The staff member greeted him.

"Not bad, mate," Cole said, his eyes scanning the facilities as he followed the staff inside.

The warmth hit him immediately, thawing the chill in his fingers. The facility was alive, players and coaches passing through the corridors, each engaged in their routines. A few heads turned, recognizing him, offering nods of acknowledgment.

After over an hour of greetings and discussions with club staff and his new teammates. He was led down a hallway and into a small medical room where Dr. Markus Braun swiftly began methodically working through his physical assessment.

"Rotate your ankle, please," Dr. Braun instructed, his accent precise but warm. "Good, now the other one."

The door swung open without warning, and for the first time he'd seen the person who convinced Palmer to come to Germany.

"Ah, Dr. Braun's famous physicals! He loves these more than his wife loves him, I think!" Luka said.

Palmer expected him to be taller, though he was only a head shorter than himself.

Dr. Braun didn't look up from his examination. "Zorić, don't you have training to attend to?"

"Just finished. Thought I'd come welcome our new signing properly." Luka leaned against the doorframe, still in his training gear, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. "How's he looking, Doc? Will he survive the Yellow Wall?"

"If you let me finish my examination, I might be able to tell you," Dr. Braun replied dryly, but there was affection in his tone. Luka's interruptions were a regular occurrence he'd grown accustomed to it seemed. Or perhaps the two were simply close enough to friendly annoy one another

Cole watched the exchange with quiet amusement, his usual reserve softening slightly. "Is he always like this?"

"Like what?" Luka grinned.

"Annoying," Dr. Braun supplied, earning a dramatic gasp from Luka.

"Doctor, you wound me! You can't say that Infront of our new player."

"I'm sure your new teammate here would appreciate your absence rather than your presence."

Luka let out a wholehearted laugh. "Curse your grumpy heart."

Cole found himself smiling despite his nerves. The banter felt... normal. Human. Different from the sterile professionalism of City's medical department.

"Alright, young man," Dr. Braun said, making some final notes on his tablet. "Everything looks good. Just need a few more tests, then you can go rescue the rest of the staff from this one." He jerked his thumb toward Luka, who clutched his chest in mock offense.

"Don't worry," Luka said to Cole, pushing off from the doorframe. "Once you're done here, I'll show you around."

"Zorić," Dr. Braun's voice carried a warning tone.

"Going, going!" Luka backed out of the room, but not before giving Cole a conspiratorial wink. "See you in a bit, Palmer. Welcome to the family."

As the door closed behind Luka, Cole caught Dr. Braun shaking his head with what looked suspiciously like fondness.

"That boy," the doctor muttered, returning to his examination. "When he first came he was silent and resolute like yourself, he's still the same but someday he's just got too much energy for his own good. On the other hand," he added, looking at Cole directly for the first time, "I'm sure he was right about you. I read his recommendation in your file. Very specific about your potential."

Cole blinked in surprise. "He wrote a recommendation?"

"Oh yes. Quite detailed. Now, let's check your hamstrings..."

<>

The locker room had emptied, leaving Luka alone with the lingering scent of athletic tape and shower steam. He sat on the wooden bench, fresh clothes on but his hair still damp, scrolling through his phone. The screen's blue light cast shadows across his face as he read the latest tweets about Palmer's arrival.

@FabrizioRomano: "Cole Palmer to Dortmund, here we go! Deal arranged after personal recommendation from Luka Zorić. More details to follow... 🟡⚫️ #BVB"

@BVBInsider: "EXCLUSIVE: Sources confirm Zorić pushed for Palmer loan. 17-year-old already influencing club decisions? Full story below..."

His jaw tightened. The tweets kept coming, each one adding another layer to a narrative he hadn't and didn't intended to create. He wasn't concerned over people learning of his role in the Palmer deal. He was concerned over it being politicized. It wasn't as if he forced management to sign Palmer on his behalf but the damage was already done.

The locker room's fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he pulled up Mendes's contact. His finger hovered over the call button for a moment before pressing it. The phone rang three times before Mendes's distinctive voice answered.

"Luka, my boy. I was just about to call you. I assume this is over the Romano tweet?"

"Yeah, that's why I'm calling." Luka stood, pacing the length of the locker room. His reflection fragmented across the wall of mirrors, today wasn't the first time his recommendation had been reported. Previously it had been smaller tabloid, the news gaining minor traction within football but now that Romano tweeted about it… It wouldn't be long before Sky Sports had a sit-down ridiculing Dortmund's maladministration.

"Was it us?" He asked his voice tinged with hope.

"You think we would leak this?" Mendes's voice carried a note of amusement.

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking. The club has no reason to let people know a player – especially a seventeen-year-old – is influencing transfers. It makes them look weak."

"Ah, but it makes you look strong, no?" Mendes countered. "The young star with such influence already..."

"That's not the point," Luka cut in, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room. "I don't want to be that guy. I need to know – are we controlling what gets out?"

A pause on the other end, then a sigh. "Luka, in this business, information is currency. People will always be willing to pay for it, and others will always be willing to sell. You think Fabrizio Romano built his empire on good looks? He has sources everywhere – clubs, agencies, even players' families sometimes. It's impossible to control completely."

Luka stopped pacing, his reflection staring back at him from the mirror. A rare frown etched on his face, a testament of his worry. "What if we didn't try to control it?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if, instead of trying to keep everything secret, we..." Luka paused, organizing his thoughts. "What if we flood the market? Feed different stories to different sources. Make it impossible to know what's real and what isn't?"

The silence on the other end stretched longer this time. Luka could almost picture Mendes leaning back in his leather chair, that calculating look crossing his face.

"Interesting," Mendes said finally. "Instead of plugging leaks, create so many that none of them seem reliable. A smokescreen."

"Exactly. They want stories? Give them stories. Too many to verify, too many to track. Make them chase their own tails."

A soft chuckle came through the phone. "You know, Luka, sometimes you surprise me. This is not the kind of thinking I expect from a seventeen-year-old footballer."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a 'let me think about it.' This kind of strategy... it needs careful handling. We don't want to burn bridges we might need later." Mendes paused again. "But I like the concept. Let me work on it. In the meantime, focus on football. You have PSG to worry about, yes?"

Luka's reflection nodded back at him. "Yeah. PSG."

"Good. Puma has called me recently they have major incentives in store for you if you wow the Parisians. For now let me handle the media circus. You handle Mbappé."

Mendes hung up first, leaving Luka contemplating in silence his only company the stench of sweat accumulated from players hard at work.

Considering the dark eye bags that formed under his eyes overnight, brooding over factors that were ultimately outside of his control would do him no good, that much he figured. Mendes intended what was best for Luka and he would be shortsighted and foolhardy to reject his advice.

While the tabloids were ablaze with discussion he'd take a break from his phone, February would be a month that required no less than his optimal best. With the challenges they'd come to face he'd do well to distance himself from possible hindrances, leaving the anarchic realm of social media would be a step in the right direction.

Not long after sitting in silence, he gathered his bags. The outside noise starkly contrasting with the solitude of the locker room. Staff were bustling about, surely eager to get through the monotony of the day. Players would pass by, enthusiastically sharing their thoughts on todays training session or planning for meetups during the weekend. Outside the doors of the locker room it was lively and boisterous while inside, cold and destitute.

There had always been little cheer to be found in isolation, Luka understood that better than anyone else. With a resigned sigh, the kind that carried the stress of the day, he squared his shoulders, an influx of determination coursing through his veins as he took a step in the right direction.

<>

I've written some of the first chapter for the new fic I said I might do. To make recommendations and check its feasibility: https://discord.gg/7YbnTTJE, both of which would very much be appreciated. The doc is in creative and disc