Jen

Le Royal Monceau, Paris

The grand chandelier of Le Royal Monceau's Raffles Suite cast prismatic light across a scene that, four hours earlier, Luka Zorić could never have imagined. The seventeen-year-old sat in an ergonomic chair in the center of what had become a makeshift throne room, his legs extended as a team physiotherapist worked methodically on his muscles. Around him swirled a constellation of power—executives in tailored suits, marketing strategists with tablets, photographers circling for the perfect candid shot. The suite, normally reserved for heads of state and Hollywood royalty, now hummed with the electricity of sport's newest sensation.

Jorge Mendes moved through the crowd like a conductor, his phone perpetually against his ear, eyes constantly seeking Luka's. His agent had arrived minutes after the final whistle, already working the phones before Luka had even left the pitch. Now, champagne in hand, he approached his young client with the smile of a man who had just watched his stock portfolio triple overnight.

"You beautiful, beautiful boy," Mendes said, embracing Luka with uncharacteristic emotion. The normally stoic Portuguese agent's eyes gleamed with something beyond professional satisfaction. "I knew—I knew you had this in you."

The physiotherapist quietly stepped aside as Mendes took the chair opposite Luka, leaning forward with the intensity of a general planning the next campaign.

"Look," he said, turning his phone screen toward Luka. "Your Twitter. One point five million to five million followers in under three hours." A swipe of his finger. "Instagram—two million to seven million." Another swipe. "TikTok... they're saying it's the fastest growth they've ever tracked. The clips of you and Mbappé are breaking their algorithms."

Luka offered a shy chuckle, his eyes dropping to his hands. The same hands that had authored three goals on Europe's grandest stage just hours ago now fidgeted in his lap like those of a schoolboy called to the principal's office.

"It's unreal," he murmured, more to himself than to Mendes.

"No, Luka." Mendes placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "It's very real. And it's just beginning."

Across the room, a cluster of Puma executives huddled around Björn Gulden, the company's CEO who had flown to Paris specifically for the match—a gamble that had paid off beyond anyone's wildest projections.

"The boots are sold out," Gulden was saying into his phone, his voice carrying the urgency of a man watching a gold rush unfold in real time. "Yes, globally. Every size. Within hours of the final whistle." He paused, listening, then shook his head. "No, I don't care what production schedules say. The LZ line is now priority one. Everything else gets pushed."

Luka watched the scene unfold with a strange detachment. His body was present—still humming with the physical toll of ninety-four minutes of elite football—but his mind kept drifting back to the Parc des Princes. The weight of the ball against his foot for the free kick. The millisecond of perfect silence before it nestled in the top corner. The explosion of yellow in the corner of the stadium. These were the moments he craved, not the corporate afterglow.

The physiotherapist returned, kneeling to continue work on Luka's calves. A flash of a camera captured the moment—Europe's newest football sensation receiving treatment while suits discussed millions around him. This was the business of being Luka Zorić now.

The suite's doors opened, and David Zorić entered, his weathered face creased with an emotion too complex to name. He navigated through the crowd with single-minded purpose, ignoring handshakes and greetings until he reached his son.

"Luka," he said simply, his voice gruff with pride.

Luka rose, ignoring the physiotherapist's protests, and stepped into his father's embrace. For a brief moment, the room fell away, and he was just a boy who had done something remarkable, being held by the man who had first placed a ball at his feet.

"I'm proud of you," David whispered, his English accent thickening with emotion. "What you did tonight... what you showed them..."

The moment was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance. A delegation had arrived—men in immaculate thobes and keffiyehs, accompanied by suited security. The Qataris and Saudis, representatives of football's newest power brokers, had come to pay their respects.

"Mr. Zorić," one of them said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. "Sheikh Abdullah Al-Thani. It is an honor to witness such excellence on the pitch tonight."

Luka shook the offered hand, noting the weight of the gold watch that peeked from beneath the man's sleeve.

"Thank you," he replied simply, unsure of the protocol for addressing royalty.

"You have something special, young man," the Sheikh continued, his English impeccable. "A gift that transcends ordinary talent." His eyes, sharp and assessing, held Luka's. "Paris seems to suit you well. It appears to be your city, my friend."

The implication hung in the air, delicate but unmistakable. Mendes, ever alert to the dance of negotiation, appeared at Luka's side.

"Sheikh Abdullah, what a pleasure," he interjected smoothly. "I believe Luka needs to continue his recovery, but perhaps we could arrange a more formal meeting during your stay in Paris?"

The Sheikh inclined his head, a barely perceptible smile playing at his lips. "Of course, Mr. Mendes. We have much to discuss about the future of football's newest star."

As they moved away, Mendes guided Luka back to his chair, leaning close to whisper: "They're not subtle, are they? Half of PSG's board is hovering around this room."

Luka sank back into the chair, the physiotherapist immediately returning to work on his tired legs. "Everyone wants a piece now, huh?"

"Not a piece, Luka. The whole thing." Mendes pulled his chair closer, lowering his voice. "We need to talk about what's happening. Real movement from clubs. Not interest—concrete proposals." Mendes pointed at him.

Luka's heartbeat quickened despite his exhaustion. "Hit me."

"I just received seven opening contact proposals. City, Arsenal, Atletico, Milan, Bayern... Real Madrid is throwing numbers around that would make Florentino's accountants weep. And United—" Mendes paused, a flicker of amusement crossing his face, "—United are trying their luck again."

The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

"Want to hear the numbers?" Mendes asked, a rare gleam of excitement in his typically calculated demeanor.

Luka nodded, a nervous smile playing at his lips. "Hit me."

"Guess the highest signing-on fee mentioned so far."

Luka shrugged. "Thirty million?"

Mendes leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Real Madrid: seventy-five million dollars."

Luka inhaled sharply, his eyes widening. "What?"

"And Manchester City said seventy million, not to be outdone." Mendes sat back, watching the information land. "That's just the signing fee, Luka. Not salary, not bonuses. Just for putting your name on the contract."

Luka ran a hand through his damp hair, struggling to process the scale of what Mendes was describing. Numbers that would change generations of his family, numbers that turned sport into something else entirely.

"We'll have to talk about this," he managed finally.

"Certainly. The time is coming soon when you'll need to make your decision." Mendes took a sip of his champagne. "Since you enjoyed that Barcelona meeting so much, I've made the courtesy of bringing more clubs to the table. This week alone, I have meetings scheduled with twelve different clubs. Your father is coming with me to help evaluate the offers."

David nodded from where he stood nearby.

"So many clubs," Luka murmured.

"I want you to do me a favor," he added after a moment's reflection. "Try to get the most information out of Arsenal, Liverpool, and Manchester City in your meetings. Their projects, their vision for me."

Mendes nodded. "No problem. I'll have detailed reports on each."

The doors to the suite opened again, this time admitting a different energy altogether. The carefully orchestrated business atmosphere gave way to something more celebratory as Puma's invited guests began to arrive—celebrities, influencers, and cultural figures who had been at the match and now sought proximity to its protagonist.

Luka watched, still somewhat dazed, as the suite transformed yet again. The Qatari and Saudi delegations held court in one corner. Puma executives commanded another section. Nike representatives hovered at the periphery, studying their competitor's newest asset with obvious envy. French politicians circulated, careful to be seen but not heard.

And then, cutting through the manufactured glamour with genuine excitement, came someone who he had recieved a suprise message from earlier: Jenna Ortega.

She approached with friends in tow, her eyes betraying the authentic thrill of someone who had witnessed something extraordinary.

"Hey," she said, reaching Luka's chair with a smile that seemed to hold none of the calculation that had dominated the room all evening. "What you did out there was absolutely insane."

Luka shifted in his seat, acutely aware that he shouldn't be standing. "Forgive me, but I can't get up right now," he said, gesturing to the physiotherapist still working on his legs.

"Don't even worry about it," Jenna replied, waving away his concern. "I just wanted to say hi and maybe get a picture? If that's okay?"

Luka nodded, and one of Jenna's friends quickly took a photo of them together, the young actress leaning down beside the seated footballer, both smiling with the slightly awkward authenticity of two young people thrust into extraordinary circumstances.

"So," Jenna continued, lingering after her friends stepped back, "I used to play forward and midfield in school. Nothing like what you do, obviously, but I know enough to recognize that what you pulled off tonight was just... ridiculous."

Luka found himself relaxing slightly, the conversation shifting to familiar territory. "You play?"

"Used to, yeah. I was pretty decent," she said with a self-deprecating laugh. "But I do have a question…." Luka nodded, interested.

"When is your birthday?"

"Early June," Luka replied, somewhat taken aback by the non-sequitur.

"Right before the World Cup, then," she noted. "Who are you supporting?"

Luka raised an eyebrow. "Croatia, obviously."

"I'm a huge Messi fan, so Argentina all the way," Jenna admitted with a playful shrug. "Though after tonight, I might have to reconsider my loyalties."

"Funny enough, I got his shirt today," Luka said, gesturing to where Messi's PSG jersey lay carefully folded on a nearby table.

"I saw that! That moment was all over my feed before I even left the stadium," Jenna replied, her enthusiasm undiminished. "It must be surreal, trading shirts with someone whose posters were probably on your wall growing up."

Before Luka could respond, a man in an impeccable suit approached, hand extended. "Monsieur Zorić? Jean-Pierre Chevènement, CEO of Total." The French energy giant's executive beamed with the practiced warmth of corporate diplomacy. "Your performance tonight was magnificent. A pleasure to watch."

Jenna took a step back, recognizing the interruption for what it was. "I'll leave you to it," she said with an understanding smile.

Something impulsive stirred in Luka, a desire to hold onto this moment of normalcy amidst the surreal. "Would you mind if I had your number?" he asked, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider. "To maybe link up after the second leg back in Germany?"

Surprise flickered across Jenna's face, quickly replaced by a smile. "Sure," she said, taking his phone and quickly entering her details before handing it back. "Good luck with the rest of this," she added, gesturing to the room at large before rejoining her friends.

Luka turned his attention to the French executive, but his mind lingered on the exchange—a brief, human connection in an evening that had otherwise felt like being processed through some elaborate machine of fame and commerce.

__

Like I said on my other novel.

My computer randomly stopped working last night.

My phone hasn't been working before that and I haven't replaced it.

My tablet screen also got cracked

W LIFE

Either way chapters are GG until… whenever