A Starry Tower - PT2

THE GAME CONTINUES

The Parc des Princes held its breath. Neymar stood with hands on hips, shaking his head in disbelief as the referee pressed his finger to his earpiece, the VAR check underway.

Verratti was the first to break, storming toward the referee with fire in his eyes. "Come on!" he shouted, his Italian accent thickening with anger. "This is ridiculous! We scored a legitimate goal!"

The referee raised his palm, signaling for distance, but Verratti was already circling him like a predator.

"What are you checking? There's nothing to check!" Paredes joined his teammate, his voice carrying across the pitch.

Akanji stepped forward, towering over Verratti. "Are you blind?" he snarled, tapping his temple. "Clear elbow. Clear foul. How can you even argue?"

"Get out of my face," Verratti spat, his chest puffing out despite the significant height difference. "There was nothing. Your teammate fell like he was shot."

Something snapped in Akanji. "Shut your mouth. You know what you did."

Suddenly, the individual confrontations merged into a storm of bodies. Yellow and blue crashed together near the center circle, a tangle of limbs and pointed fingers and multilingual profanities.

Luka stood just outside the chaos, observing. Something stirred inside him—not fear, not even anger yet—but a keen awareness. He watched as Haaland pushed through the crowd, his broad shoulders parting players like a ship's bow through water.

"Calm down, little boy," Haaland growled at Verratti, the Norwegian's massive frame making the Italian midfielder look almost childlike in comparison. "Your dirty tricks won't save you today."

Neymar inserted himself between them, his face inches from Haaland's. "Big talk from someone who couldn't win last time," he sneered, his Portuguese tinted accent sharp. "You're just angry because we sent you home crying."

"I'm crying?" Haaland laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "You did my celebration. You're my fans."

The mockery struck a nerve. Neymar, Verratti, and Paredes erupted in theatrical laughter, their faces contorted in exaggerated amusement.

"Fans?" Neymar wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "We were just showing you how it's done. Maybe you'll learn something tonight too."

Luka absorbed everything. The laughter, the posturing, the dismissive glances the PSG players cast toward the Dortmund squad. They weren't just opponents—they were treating Dortmund like children who had wandered onto a stage reserved for adults.

His eyes drifted across the melee to where Mbappé stood slightly removed from the confrontation. The Frenchman wasn't shouting, wasn't pushing—but there was a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, as if he found the entire display somewhat amusing.

Then to Messi—the legend watching the chaos with something like disappointment etched into his weathered features. Their eyes met briefly across the sea of arguing players. Messi's expression didn't change, but Luka felt something pass between them—He couldn't tell what it was.

The heat rose in Luka's chest, not as an explosion but as a slow burn—like embers catching in dry tinder, waiting for the right moment to ignite. He didn't fully understand the sensation yet. It wasn't mere anger at being laughed at, nor was it simple competitive drive. It was something deeper, more primal—a recognition that he was being dismissed before he'd even had a chance to be seen.

They're not taking us seriously, he realized, watching Neymar's theatrical gestures, Verratti's dismissive hand waves. They think this is already decided.

The referee finally pushed through the crowd, having received the VAR decision. He blew his whistle, the shrill sound cutting through the cacophony, and made the gesture that had seemed inevitable from the moment the replay began—arms outstretched, signaling the goal was disallowed.

"NO GOAL!" The referee's voice was amplified by the sudden silence that fell over the stadium. "Foul in the build-up."

The PSG players exploded in protest. Marquinhos, attempting to maintain his captainly dignity, approached the referee with controlled fury. "Explain this to me," he demanded. "Where is the foul?"

"Elbow to the face," the referee stated simply, pantomiming the contact. "Clear and obvious error. No goal."

Verratti threw his hands in the air. "This is a joke! A complete joke!"

Neymar was more theatrical, falling to his knees and looking skyward as if begging some higher power to intervene. The Parisian crowd responded with a tsunami of whistles and jeers that crashed down from every corner of the Parc des Princes.

Amid the protests, Can was back on his feet, the small trickle of blood from his nose having been cleaned away. He exchanged a nod with Haaland—a wordless acknowledgment that justice had been served.

Reus gathered the Dortmund players quickly. "Focus," he commanded, his voice cutting through the noise. "We got the call, now we stay composed. Don't get caught up in their game."

The Dortmund players formed a tight circle, arms draped over shoulders.

"This is what they want," Hummels said, his voice low and steady. "They want us emotional, reactive. We play our game, not theirs."

Luka nodded, but his eyes drifted back to where Mbappé and Neymar were huddled with their teammates. The French superstar glanced over, his expression now serious, the earlier amusement replaced by something colder, more focused. This wasn't a player who would stay rattled for long.

And then there was Messi—standing slightly apart even from his own team, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he were already calculating the adjustments needed, the spaces that would open, the weaknesses to exploit. He wasn't participating in the outrage; he was planning what came next.

The referee restored order gradually, issuing yellow cards to Verratti for dissent and Akanji for his role in the confrontation. The free kick was awarded to Dortmund deep in their own half, a small victory in the larger battle.

As the teams separated and players took their positions, Kimpembe brushed past Luka, their shoulders connecting with deliberate force.

"You got lucky this time," the defender muttered. "Won't save you."

Luka said nothing, but something had changed inside him. The embers were catching now, small flames licking at his consciousness. He wasn't angry—he was focused, awakened. The dismissive laughter, the condescension, the assumption of PSG's superiority—it had all crystallized into a single realization:

This is what it means to play at this level. This is what it takes.

Not long after the referee's whistle pierced the air three times in quick succession, signaling the end of the first half. Goalless, but far from uneventful. The players began their slow procession toward the tunnel, bodies glistening with sweat under the floodlights, the collective exhale of the stadium following them as they departed.

Luka wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The incident—Neymar's disallowed goal, the confrontation, the laughter—had lodged itself in his consciousness like a splinter, impossible to ignore.

"We're finding space on the counter," Bellingham said as he fell into step beside Luka. The Englishman's accent thickened when he was tired or focused, the Birmingham in his voice more pronounced now. "If we can just get that final ball right..."

Luka nodded, a perfunctory gesture that masked his distraction. Bellingham continued his tactical observations, dissecting the patterns of the first half with the precision of someone twice his age.

"Did you see how Verratti drops when Messi comes central? If you pull wide when I'm on the ball, we can—" Bellingham gestured with his hands, creating invisible passing lanes in the air between them.

But Luka's attention had drifted elsewhere. The fire inside him had neither diminished nor flared—it simply burned, steady and insistent, consuming his thoughts like dry kindling. He didn't understand its source, couldn't name what fed it.

"You listening?" Bellingham nudged him, not unkindly.

"Yeah," Luka responded automatically. "Pull wide, create space."

They reached the mouth of the tunnel, the bright lights of the pitch giving way to the more subdued illumination of the concrete passageway. And there, just ahead, was Mbappé—the French superstar's distinctive gait unmistakable even from behind.

Without conscious decision, Luka found himself drawing level with Mbappé as they entered the tunnel proper. The two walked in perfect synchronicity, neither acknowledging the other, both staring at the ground as they moved. Two young men, separated by reputation and experience but united in this moment by proximity and purpose.

Luka caught a whiff of Mbappé's scent—a mixture of expensive cologne now mostly overwhelmed by sweat and grass. He could hear the Frenchman's breathing, still slightly labored from the exertions of the first half. For a brief, strange moment, it felt as if they were the only two people in the tunnel, everything else falling away into peripheral darkness.

Then the moment passed. They reached the junction where the teams separated to their respective dressing rooms. Without a word, without even a glance, they diverged—Mbappé to the left, Luka to the right—and the spell was broken.

The Dortmund dressing room hummed with activity. Physiotherapists worked on tight muscles, coaching staff huddled around tablets displaying key moments from the first half, players rehydrated and replaced energy with carefully measured nutrition. Amidst it all, Luka sat on the bench, staring at the emblem on his chest without really seeing it.

Marco Rose stood at the center, his voice cutting through the ambient noise with the clarity of a bell.

"They want to draw us out," the manager explained, gesturing toward a tactical board. "They want us stretched, vulnerable. When they have possession, we stay compact. We press on the triggers we discussed—"

Luka absorbed the words without fully processing them. He heard Rose talking about when to step forward, when to hold position, the specific movements that would unlock PSG's defense. He registered Reus adding insights about Marquinhos' positioning, Bellingham noting something about Verratti's tendency to drift left. All of it entered his consciousness like water into sand—present but not fully retained.

Instead, his mind kept returning to the moment in the center circle—Neymar's laughter, Verratti's dismissive gestures, Mbappé's half-smirk. And beneath it all, that strange fire continued to burn, neither growing nor diminishing, simply existing as a constant presence.

What is this feeling?

He'd felt nerves before big matches, had experienced the swell of competitive drive, the desire to win. This was different. This was deeper, more essential—as if something dormant had been awakened by the crucible of the Parc des Princes.

"Zorić," Rose's voice jolted him from his thoughts. "You're finding good positions. Keep making those runs behind Hakimi—he's quick but he commits. One more touch before you cross, make him commit, then deliver. Understand?"

"Yes, coach." His own voice sounded distant to his ears.

The tactical discussion continued around him, but Luka had retreated again into that inner space where questions without answers circled like birds of prey.

Why did their laughter affect him so deeply?

Why did walking beside Mbappé feel significant?

What was this fire that refused to be named?

Before he knew it, Rose was delivering his final instructions, the team was gathering in a circle, hands piling on top of one another at the center. Reus led them in their pre-match ritual, but the words washed over Luka like waves breaking on a distant shore—present but not fully grasped.

And then they were moving again, filing back toward the tunnel, back toward the night air and the waiting stadium. Back toward whatever awaited in the second half.

The moment they emerged from the tunnel, the wall of sound hit them like a physical force. The away section—a small island of yellow and black in a sea of Parisian blue and red—had erupted into song. Their voices carried across the stadium with the defiance of invaders in foreign territory:

"Leuchte auf, mein Stern Borussia

Leuchte auf, zeig mir den Weg

Ganz egal wohin er führt

Ich werd' immer bei dir sein

Borussia Borussia BVB"

The familiar melody washed over Luka, its simple German lyrics a declaration of unconditional devotion: "Light up, my star Borussia. Light up, show me the way. No matter where it leads, I will always be with you."

As they took their positions for the second half kickoff, Luka allowed his gaze to wander across the stadium—taking in the flares still burning in the Parisian ultras section, the waving flags, the faces contorted with passion and expectation. The Parc des Princes was a theater of dreams and nightmares, of glory and heartbreak, and for this moment, he stood at its center.

His eyes settled briefly on Mbappé, who was adjusting his socks thirty yards away. The Frenchman looked up, as if sensing Luka's gaze. For the briefest moment, their eyes met across the pitch—a silent recognition passing between them before both looked away.

The referee's whistle cut through the atmosphere. Reus touched the ball to Haaland, who passed it back to Can. The second half had begun.

Dortmund worked the ball around their backline, patient and deliberate. Hummels to Akanji, Akanji to Ryerson, back to Kobel in goal. The PSG forwards pressed half-heartedly, conserving energy, waiting for a mistake rather than forcing one.

Kobel launched the ball upfield, aiming for Haaland's run between Marquinhos and Kimpembe. The Norwegian rose high but couldn't make clean contact, the ball skimming off his head and falling to Kimpembe, who cleared it calmly to Paredes.

Messi dropped deep to collect possession, orchestrating from his preferred position just inside the PSG half.

Through it all, Luka moved with purpose, tracking runners, closing spaces, offering himself for passes when Dortmund regained possession. But a part of him remained detached, observing everything through the lens of that strange inner fire that continued to burn with steady, unwavering intensity.

He still couldn't name it, couldn't fully understand its source or its purpose. But as the game flowed around him, as the night deepened over Paris, as the songs from both sets of supporters crashed together like opposing waves, he felt it solidifying within him—no longer just a feeling but something more concrete, more defined.

It wasn't just about proving himself anymore. It wasn't even about winning, not really. It was about belonging to this moment, claiming his place in it not as a visitor or an observer but as an active participant in its creation.

The fire burned on, quiet but insistent, as the game continued to unfold beneath the Parisian night.

Minutes bled into each other, the clock advancing relentlessly toward some unseen conclusion while Luka existed both within and outside the moment.

A Hakimi sliding tackle sent him sprawling near the touchline. He rose, wiping grass from his knees.

Paredes clipped his ankle as they contested a header. The sting faded before he'd even completed his protest to the referee.

A shot from twenty yards—his own—curled just wide of Donnarumma's post. The collective groan from the yellow corner of the stadium reached him as if from underwater.

Verratti's elbow connected with his ribs during a corner. The Italian's smirk afterward barely penetrated the fog of his consciousness.

The ball at his feet, a dribble past two defenders, a cross that Haaland couldn't quite reach. Just another moment in a sea of moments, none feeling entirely real.

Time stretched and compressed like an accordion, sixty minutes becoming sixty-five becoming seventy without Luka fully registering the passage. Only the fire inside remained constant, burning neither hotter nor cooler, simply persisting.

Near the seventieth minute, somewhere in this half-conscious state, the game's equilibrium finally broke.

Danilo's tackle on Can was clean but forceful, the ball spilling toward the halfway line where Paredes collected it with casual efficiency. The Argentine's eyes lifted, spotting Mbappé's run before the Dortmund defense had time to reset.

The pass was perfect—weighted just enough to lead the Frenchman without outpacing him. Mbappé accelerated, eating up the green expanse between himself and Akanji with terrifying speed.

Twenty yards from goal, Mbappé faced the Swiss defender, who set himself, knees bent, body balanced. For a moment, they were statues—predator and prey frozen in a tableau of anticipation.

Then movement. The elastico came from nowhere, The outside of his right foot wrapping around the ball before the inside—dragged it in the opposite direction. Akanji's weight shifted right as the ball went left, his recovery step too late, too slow.

Mbappé was through, one-on-one with Kobel. No hesitation, no doubt—just the clean strike of boot on ball, the whispered sound of leather brushing against the inside of the post, and then the eruption of thousands of Parisian voices as the net bulged.

1-0 to PSG.

Mbappé ran toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, his face a portrait of ecstasy and release. His teammates swarmed him, first Neymar, then Verratti, then a tidal wave of blue engulfing him completely.

When they emerged from the scrum, it was Neymar gesturing, directing. The Brazilian pointed toward the Dortmund end, a mischievous glint in his eye as he whispered something that spread through the PSG players like a contagion of malice.

They ran as one, a blue wave surging toward the yellow corner. At the edge of the penalty area, they stopped. Neymar dropped to the ground, crossing his legs. Others followed—Verratti, Paredes, Kimpembe, Mendes—each assuming the meditation pose.

Only a few abstained—Messi stood apart, watching with a blank stare. Marquinhos remained near the halfway line, his captain's instinct sensing the unnecessary provocation. And Mbappé, after initially joining the group, rose quickly, his smile of jubilation fading as he glanced toward the Dortmund bench.

None of it registered in Luka's consciousness—not the goal, not the celebration, not the chorus of whistles from the Dortmund supporters or the thunder of delight from the Parisians. It was all atmospheric noise, distant and irrelevant to the singular revelation now crystallizing within him.

The fire finally had a name.

It wasn't anger, though anger certainly flickered within it. It wasn't pride, though that too fueled its persistence. It wasn't even ambition, though the desire to rise colored its nature.

It was hunger—raw, primal, insatiable hunger. Not merely to compete, not simply to participate, but to devour, to conquer, to win.

This was what drove the legends—what pushed Messi to practice free kicks long after teammates had showered and left, what kept Ronaldo doing sit-ups in his living room while others slept. Not a noble pursuit of excellence, but a visceral, almost predatory need to stand above all others.

The realization didn't come as a thought but as a physical sensation—a tightening in his chest, a clarity in his vision, a heightened awareness of every muscle fiber in his body. Time, which had been flowing past him like a river, suddenly slowed to a crawl, each moment distinct and saturated with possibility.

He saw Bellingham receive the ball from Reus, the Englishman turning, eyes scanning the field. He saw the space opening between Mendes and Kimpembe, a corridor of green that might as well have been illuminated by spotlights.

Their eyes met across forty yards of pitch, the understanding instant and complete. Bellingham didn't nod, didn't signal—he simply delivered the pass, the ball cutting through the Parisian night with laser precision.

In this new state of hyperawareness, Luka's first touch was perfect—killing the ball's momentum while simultaneously directing it into his path. Hakimi closed quickly, his recovery speed legendary, but Luka sensed the defender's presence before seeing him, adjusting his body angle to protect the ball.

The shoulder-to-shoulder challenge came hard and fast, Hakimi's superior strength threatening to displace him. In the past, Luka might have gone down, might have sought the referee's intervention. Not now.

He absorbed the contact, using Hakimi's momentum against him, pivoting away as the Moroccan lost balance. Two more strides and he was past the defender, accelerating toward the penalty area where Marquinhos awaited.

The Brazilian was considered by many to be the world's best defender at this time—patient, technically flawless, physically imposing. He stood between Luka and goal, weight perfectly balanced, eyes tracking the ball with predatory focus.

Luka sent the ball left, his body feinting in the same direction. Marquinhos shifted, anticipating the movement, only for Luka to drag the ball back with his right foot, creating just enough space for a shot.

The tackle came in hard—Marquinhos' last-ditch effort to prevent the inevitable. His studs raked down Luka's ankle, the pain immediate and sharp, sending him tumbling toward the turf.

In the past, he would have stayed down, would have looked to the referee, hands raised in appeal. Luka would have accepted the penalty that was surely coming.

But the hunger that now possessed him would not be satisfied by such passive victory. Before he'd even completed his fall, Luka was scrambling, pushing up from the grass with one hand while his other foot stretched to keep the ball from escaping.

Somehow, impossibly, he regained both balance and possession in a single fluid motion that defied physics and expectation. Marquinhos lay sprawled behind him, Donnarumma now the only obstacle between Luka and glory.

The goalkeeper charged forward, making himself big, cutting down angles, arms spread wide like some modern Colossus. The sensible play was around him—a simple finish to the corner, high-percentage, almost certain.

But hunger is not sensible. Hunger does not calculate odds. Hunger sees only what it desires and takes it by the most direct route possible.

Luka did not go around. He went through.

The chip was audacious, bordering on arrogant—a delicate lift of the ball that sent it floating over Donnarumma's outstretched fingertips, its trajectory a perfect parabola that peaked just as it crossed the plane of the goal line before nestling softly into the net.

For a moment, the Parc des Princes fell silent, trying to process what they had just seen. Then, from the yellow corner, a primal roar erupted—the collective voice of the Dortmund supporters unleashing a thunderclap of passion that shook the stadium to its foundations.

Luka stood motionless, his lungs burning, his ankle throbbing, his soul soaring. In that perfect, crystalline moment, the hunger that had awakened within him was momentarily sated, though he knew with absolute certainty that the respite would be brief. Such hunger, once awakened, could never truly be satisfied.

His teammates engulfed him, their bodies forming a yellow cocoon of jubilation. Through the tangle of limbs and voices, Luka's eyes found Mbappé's across the pitch. The Frenchman was watching, his expression unreadable except for the slightest narrowing of eyes that signaled the stirring of his own answering hunger.

It didn't matter. Luka Zorić was fully, completely alive.

He had finally understood what the legends already knew—that greatness was not a destination but a pursuit, not a quality but a craving. And now that he had tasted it, nothing would ever be the same again.

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Decent interaction on the last few... 20+ coms for this chapter packaged with decent power stones and you'll get the next by Friday.