Laporta

Today was the day. It wasn't just another training day, another match buildup. Today was the birth of something new—his own brand, the official launch of LZ under Puma's global umbrella.

The day had started early, much earlier than he liked. A black car had arrived at his apartment just past dawn, sleek and efficient, waiting to take him to the Puma headquarters in Germany. The driver—a man whose accent suggested he was from Bavaria—had greeted him politely, exchanging a few words about Dortmund's upcoming fixtures before letting Luka settle into silence.

Deadline day had passed with Cole Palmer officially joining. That was big. The Laporta meeting loomed just ahead, a few hours later actually. But right now, his mind was on one thing.

Puma.

By the time he arrived, the facility was already alive with movement. Cameras, crew members, marketing executives—everyone was here. A giant banner hung from the front entrance, emblazoned with his silhouette mid-strike, the words "LZ: Flight Begins" in bold, golden lettering beneath it.

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"Zorić, welcome!" Björn Gulden, Puma's CEO, greeted him with a firm handshake, his voice carrying the enthusiasm of a man who knew they were making history today.

"Appreciate it," Luka said, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie as they stepped inside.

The day was a whirlwind. First, the photoshoot. Luka changed into his signature line's first collection—sleek, modern designs, with his initials and the falcon emblem embroidered onto the fabric.

The marketing team was meticulous, making him pose in various kits, juggling a Puma-branded ball while a camera crew filmed slow-motion footage of him striking it cleanly into the top corner of an empty net.

"You're a natural at this," one of the photographers muttered, adjusting his lens.

Luka smirked. "You lot say that now. Wait till you get me talking in interviews. That's where the struggle begins."

Laughter rippled through the crew, the tension easing.

Then came the boots.

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Maria Länger, Puma's head of product development, led him to a separate room where a display had been set up. There, resting on a velvet-lined platform, was the final prototype.

"Here they are," she said with a smile, gesturing for him to step closer.

Luka did, his eyes locked onto the boots. The design was unlike anything he'd ever worn before. Sleek, midnight black with streaks of electric blue and golden accents. His logo was subtly woven into the heel, a personal touch that made his chest tighten with pride.

"Lightweight, but with reinforced ankle support," Maria explained. "We tailored the interior padding to match the specifics of your ankle injuries. You'll feel the difference the moment you put them on."

Luka ran a hand over the surface, feeling the slight texture designed for better ball control. "They're unreal," he murmured, before glancing up. "I get to keep these, right?"

Maria chuckled. "They're yours, Luka. We've also prepared extra pairs, all customized to your exact specifications. And before you ask—yes, they'll be ready for the PSG match."

That was all he needed to hear.

As the morning turned to afternoon, Puma's marketing team ushered him into a conference room where an incentive plan was laid out in front of him.

A reward system—custom-built for motivation ahead of the PSG clash.

"If you get a goal contribution, we're adding €50,000 to your bonus," Jonas Dössler said, adjusting his glasses. "Two goals? €150,000. If you bag a hat trick…"

Luka raised a brow. Come to think of it, he had never scored a club football hattrick yet, Puma certainly had bold ambitions.

Björn grinned. "€500,000."

Luka let out a low whistle. "You lot really want me to send PSG packing, huh?"

"Absolutely," Björn said without hesitation. "We're investing in you, Luka. Your legacy starts now."

It was a bold statement. But then again, so was the whole idea of the LZ brand.

As the day wound down, they brought him to a private lounge where a table had been set up. More gifts awaited him—limited edition balls, custom gear, a framed artwork of his signature boots. Puma had gone all out.

Luka took a moment to soak it all in.

His own brand. His own boots. His own identity beyond just being a footballer.

And yet still, the only thing that truly mattered was the pitch.

All the sponsorships, the deals, the money—it meant nothing if he didn't perform.

Still, the only path from here was upward.

He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as he stood up. "I appreciate everything you guys have done," he said, sincerity laced in his tone. "But none of this means anything if I don't deliver against PSG."

Björn nodded, his expression unreadable. "That's why we believe in you, Luka. And why we'll be there, watching when you do."

Luka gave a small smirk. "Then I guess I better put on a show."

And he meant that with absolute certainty.

The crisp Dortmund air nipped at his skin as he stepped out of Puma's headquarters, the weight of the morning's events still settling in his chest.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he made his way to the waiting car. The driver—same as this morning, the quiet Bavarian man—didn't ask questions. He knew his job. Luka slid into the back seat, pulled his hoodie up, and exhaled.

But he wasn't going home.

The car wove through Dortmund's winding streets, past the glowing streetlights that cast long, distorted shadows against the frost-kissed pavement. The city was alive in its own quiet way, a heartbeat beneath the cold.

He checked his phone. No new messages from Mendes. Just a time, a location.

The hotel loomed ahead, a polished, towering presence that stood in contrast to the understated grit of the city. Five stars, maybe more. Luka didn't care much for places like these, but he understood why this meeting couldn't be held in a casual café.

The moment he stepped through the glass doors, a staff member was already waiting for him. Dressed in a crisp suit, the man offered a polite nod. "This way, Mr. Zorić."

Luka followed in silence, past the grand lobby with its marble floors and the faint hum of classical music drifting from the speakers. It felt almost theatrical, as if he were walking into something bigger than himself. In a way, he was.

The elevator ride was smooth, soundless. The doors slid open onto a private floor, and the staff member led him down a corridor lined with dim lighting and thick carpeting that softened their steps. At the end of the hall, he stopped in front of a conference room.

A deep breath. A step forward.

The door opened.

Jorge Mendes sat at the far end of the long oak table, effortlessly composed as always, his watch glinting under the soft lighting. He gave Luka a brief nod—calm, unreadable.

But it was the man across from him that commanded the room.

Joan Laporta.

Dressed in a sharp suit, Barcelona's president rose with a broad, warm smile, the kind of smile crafted from years of politics, charisma, and an unwavering belief in the badge he represented. He wasn't alone. Beside him sat Rafael Yuste, Barcelona's vice president, and Mateu Alemany, the club's sporting director.

Everything about their demeanor was precisely what Luka expected—controlled, welcoming, purposeful.

"Luka," Laporta greeted, extending a firm hand. His grip was strong, confident. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Luka shook it, meeting his gaze with steady eyes. "Likewise."

They gestured for him to sit, and as he settled into the chair, he was already aware of how the room felt. Warm. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. There was an effort being made here, a carefully constructed balance between professionalism and familiarity.

"We won't jump into the serious details just yet," Laporta said, leaning back in his chair, his voice carrying that distinctive Catalan rhythm. "For now, let's talk about football."

Luka smirked. "Good place to start."

Laporta chuckled, a smooth transition into his next words. "Tell me, when you think of Barcelona, what comes to mind?"

Luka tilted his head, considering the question. He knew what they wanted him to say—Cruyff, Guardiola, Messi, La Masia.

"Control," he said instead. "Dominance through possession. A philosophy so deeply ingrained that even when the team struggles, you can still see the DNA in every match."

Laporta's smile widened slightly. "That's an answer I'd expect from someone who truly understands the game."

Mateu Alemany leaned forward, studying Luka intently. "And when you watch us now?"

Luka exhaled. He wasn't one to sugarcoat. "The philosophy is still there, but it's being rebuilt. Your team is young, transitioning. There's a hunger, a fight to reclaim what was lost."

Laporta nodded, his expression unreadable but approving. "It's no secret that we're rebuilding. But we aren't just looking for talent—we're looking for players who understand Barcelona. Who see more than just a club. Who see an idea."

Luka didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the massive Barcelona crest adorning the far wall.

He knew what they were doing. Easing him in, making this feel less like a business proposition and more like a homecoming, even if this place had never been his home.

Jorge finally spoke, his voice measured. "Luka sees football differently from most players his age."

Laporta turned his attention back to Luka. "Is that so?"

Luka smirked slightly, shifting in his chair. "I don't like playing within limits. Some teams build around structure. Some around individual brilliance. Barcelona is one of the few clubs that merges the two."

"And that interests you?"

Luka leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table. "Maybe."

Alemany chuckled. "Quite cautious."

"I'm realistic," Luka corrected. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't know how many teams want me right now."

Laporta nodded approvingly. "True. But we also know that you wouldn't be sitting here if we didn't interest you."

A calculated pause. Luka didn't deny it.

Barcelona interested him. Their philosophy, their history—it wasn't just another club. And under Hansi Flick, the potential was terrifying. If they got it right, if the project clicked…

Laporta's voice cut through his thoughts. "We're not here to pressure you into a decision today. This is a conversation. We want you to see who we are, not just as a football club, but as a family."

Luka met his gaze. "I appreciate that."

Rafael Yuste finally spoke, his voice calm. "You're young, but you play like someone who's been in the game for years. Players like you, Luka, they don't just come and go. They define eras. We believe you can be that for Barcelona."

Laporta leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "No matter what happens, we want you to know this—Barcelona isn't just a club you play for. It's a club that becomes part of you."

Luka's fingers curled slightly against the table. He hesitated, letting the weight of the words settle.

"I understand." He said evenly.

The moment stretched, the room steeped in quiet expectation. Laporta leaned back, studying him, eyes sharp yet warm, like a man who knew he was in the presence of something rare.

Jorge Mendes, who had remained largely silent, finally shifted in his seat. The movement was subtle, but Luka knew that was his cue. The warmth of the conversation was about to take a different turn.

"Of course, Joan," Mendes began, his voice smooth, practiced, "philosophy and legacy are important, but Luka's career is at a stage where every decision must be made with great care. We need to discuss the specifics of what a move to Barcelona would look like."

Laporta's expression remained pleasant, but there was an unmistakable shift in his demeanor. He wasn't a fool—this was the part of the conversation where sentiment met the cold arithmetic of football finance.

"You understand our situation," Laporta said, clasping his hands together. "Barcelona has always attracted the best, but we have had to be... strategic in recent years. You know of our financial struggles, everyone does. We cannot compete with certain clubs in terms of sheer financial firepower."

Luka nodded slightly, though he made no move to speak. He was content to let Mendes take the lead here.

"That is precisely why this is such a unique opportunity," Mendes said, tilting his head slightly. "Luka will be a free agent at the end of the season. You will not have to deal with a club demanding a transfer fee, no middlemen inflating the price. That alone is worth—what, a hundred and fifty million?"

Laporta smiled, but Luka could tell it was measured. "A privilege, yes. But with players of Luka's level, we know that not paying a transfer fee doesn't make a deal any less expensive."

Luka's thoughts echoed the same sentiment. Free transfers were never truly free. That money just reappeared in other forms—signing bonuses, agent fees, a ballooned wage structure. Mbappé didn't go to Madrid for free in the future, did he? No, his signing-on fee alone had been astronomical. Even Haaland's cut-rate price hadn't stopped City from paying upwards of £40 million in agent fees alone.

Laporta continued, his tone open but firm. "We are hoping to find an agreement that works for both parties. Luka's quality is undeniable, and we wouldn't be sitting here if we weren't serious. However, our wage structure must remain sustainable."

Luka leaned back slightly, exchanging the faintest glance with Mendes, who had already anticipated this. Now came the dance.

"I understand," Mendes said smoothly. "But as I'm sure you're aware, Luka is not without suitors."

He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing, casually tapping his fingers against the table. "Manchester United, despite their current instability, have made it clear they want him back. And they are prepared to offer upwards of €300,000 per week."

Laporta's expression barely flickered, but Alemany shifted slightly beside him. Rafael Yuste exhaled quietly through his nose, betraying just a hint of discomfort.

Mendes smiled politely. "Now, we both know Luka is not driven by money alone. If that were the case, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. But we also can't ignore the reality of his market value."

Alemany cleared his throat. "Our structure would allow for a wage between €150,000 and €200,000 per week, depending on variables and bonuses."

A clever way of saying we can't pay you what United can, but we'll do our best to soften the gap.

Mendes nodded thoughtfully, as if considering their words for the first time, though Luka knew better. His agent had already calculated these figures before even stepping into the room. "That is a reasonable range," Mendes conceded. "But then we need to discuss the incentives."

Laporta's brow lifted slightly. "Go on."

Mendes folded his hands together. "We're willing to work within your structure, but Luka's contract must reflect his impact. Performance-based incentives should be ambitious, but also rewarding. If he becomes the face of the club, if he delivers silverware, there must be financial recognition."

Laporta nodded slowly, exchanging a brief look with Alemany. "Of course. We were already considering that."

Mendes continued. "Beyond wages, image rights. Luka's brand is growing rapidly. His partnership with Puma, his increasing presence in global marketing—it's clear he is already a commercially valuable asset."

Laporta's voice was smooth but deliberate. "We would need to maintain a fair split of image rights. The club's history speaks for itself—our platform has elevated some of the biggest names in football."

Luka listened carefully. Image rights were always a battle at Barcelona. He remembered hearing stories about Messi's negotiations, how Neymar's off-field sponsorships had played into his eventual exit.

Mendes, however, wasn't rattled. "Fair, of course. But Luka is not just an asset for Barcelona. He is an asset for global football. His name alone will bring significant commercial opportunities—ones that must be structured in a way that benefits him."

Laporta exhaled through his nose, leaning back. The room was silent for a moment.

Luka knew this was the part where he needed to say something. He couldn't sit here forever, letting Mendes negotiate his future without his own voice.

So he spoke.

"I appreciate everything you're saying," he began, his voice steady. "And I appreciate your sincerity. It makes this whole transfer thing a whole lot easier."

Laporta watched him carefully, nodding along.

"But," Luka continued, "I also know my worth. I know what I can bring to a club. And I know that just because I'll arrive on a free doesn't mean this will be cheap."

Laporta smiled slightly, something almost approving in his expression. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Luka."

Luka exhaled, his fingers lightly tapping against the table. The tension in the room had shifted again, not aggressive, but calculated.

Mendes took control once more, leaning forward slightly. "I think we've discussed enough for tonight. This is not a final negotiation—just an opening dialogue."

Laporta nodded. "Agreed. These things take time. But I will say this—we want you at Barcelona, Luka. And we will do everything in our power to make it happen."

Mendes smiled, standing. "Then we will continue this conversation."

Laporta rose as well, extending his hand to Luka once more. "We hope next time, we can have this conversation in Barcelona."

Luka shook his hand firmly, locking eyes with him.

"Maybe," he said simply.

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