The Eiffel Tower

For being such fantastic readers—besides evillaughter, here's another chapter to make up for the possibily long wait.

Also, I would never charge a fee to read my works, that's not me. Unless it was some widely popular book that was in the top 100 of the novel section—I won't. Instead, I'll probably just make a Patreon that would contain advanced chapters for this and man in the mirror.

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Luka turned his attention to the French executive. "An extraordinary pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Zorić," Chevènement continued, his smile practiced but his eyes calculating. "Total has long been a supporter of sporting excellence across Europe."

Luka nodded politely, the script of these interactions becoming familiar despite their novelty. "Thank you for coming."

"What you demonstrated tonight—this level of excellence at such a young age—it resonates with our corporate values." The executive maintained unwavering eye contact. "We've been considering expanding our portfolio of athlete partnerships, and I believe there could be significant mutual benefit in exploring opportunities with someone of your... trajectory."

Before Luka could formulate a response, Mendes materialized at his side, extending a business card to Chevènement with practiced smoothness.

"Jean-Pierre, we'd be delighted to discuss this further. Perhaps your team could reach out next week?" Mendes steered the conversation with the deftness of a man who'd conducted thousands like it.

The Frenchman accepted the card with a nod, understanding the dismissal for what it was. "Of course. We'll be in touch. Monsieur Zorić, félicitations encore pour votre performance extraordinaire."

As the executive retreated, Luka exhaled. "How many more of these tonight?"

Mendes chuckled softly. "Welcome to the business of being Luka Zorić. Every goal you scored tonight added several zeros to your market value." He patted Luka's shoulder. "Just a few more key introductions, then you can rest."

The physiotherapist had packed away his equipment, giving Luka a final evaluation. "You should be fine for light movement now, but no extended standing. Ice bath when you return to the team hotel."

Luka nodded gratefully, rotating his ankle experimentally. The pain had subsided to a dull throb.

Movement at the entrance drew their attention. The Qatari delegation had returned, this time accompanied by attendants carrying sleek black boxes. Sheikh Abdullah approached with measured steps, his entourage maintaining a respectful distance.

"My friend," he said warmly, as though they were old acquaintances. "I was speaking with my associates, and we were remarking on something quite curious."

Luka raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"In all the footage we've seen of you—training, matches, interviews—you are rarely seen with accessories." The Sheikh's eyes gleamed with something between amusement and calculation. "A young man of your stature should carry himself with certain... distinctions."

Luka suppressed a sardonic mental response: Because I don't go out. Because I train. Because I'm seventeen and from Manchester, not Monaco. Instead, he offered a noncommittal smile.

The Sheikh gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward with a black lacquered box. "A small token of appreciation for the artistry you displayed tonight."

The attendant opened the box with ceremonial precision. Inside, nestled against midnight blue velvet, lay a watch that caught the light with almost violent brilliance. Even with Luka's limited knowledge of luxury goods, he recognized the craftsmanship—platinum case, sapphire crystal, complications that spoke of Swiss precision and Gulf opulence.

For a moment, his practiced composure slipped. "That's—" He swallowed. "That's incredible."

"Audemars Piguet," the Sheikh said casually. "Royal Oak Offshore. Limited edition, of course. I thought the blue would complement your club colors."

Luka's eyes widened as he registered the reality of what was happening. His father, standing nearby, exchanged a quick glance with Mendes.

"I would embrace you if protocol allowed," the Sheikh continued, gesturing for the attendant to present the box to Luka. "Consider it a celebration of what I suspect will be the first of many legendary nights."

Cameras flickered around them, capturing the moment—the teenage sensation receiving his first taste of the extravagant perks that accompanied athletic royalty.

"Thank you," Luka managed, his fingers tracing the cold metal of the watch case. "This is incredibly generous."

"We are building something extraordinary in the Gulf," the Sheikh continued, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "A football infrastructure unlike anything the world has seen. Stadiums that will redefine architectural possibility. Training facilities that merge cutting-edge science with unmatched luxury." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "We envision statues of the game's true icons lining our boulevards. Perhaps, one day, yours will stand among them."

The implication hung in the air, undisguised. This is just the beginning of what we can offer.

"Something to consider for the future," the Sheikh concluded with a diplomatic smile. "For now, enjoy your triumph, young eagle."

As the Qatari delegation departed, Luka stared at the watch in his hand, its weight suddenly symbolic. He slipped it onto his wrist, the cold metal settling against his skin like a beautiful shackle.

"Fifty thousand euros, minimum," Mendes whispered, eyeing the timepiece. "Not a bad evening's work."

Luka frowned. "Is this normal?"

"This?" Mendes gestured around the suite. "This is just the beginning. Get used to it."

The suite doors opened again, admitting a group of French politicians—ministers and parliamentarians in immaculate suits, their smiles not quite reaching their eyes. Luka recognized one from campaign posters across Paris.

"Monsieur Zorić," the lead figure began, extending a hand. "Michel Barnier, Minister of Sport. Your performance tonight was... memorable." Something tense flickered behind his diplomatic veneer—the lingering sting of national pride wounded on home soil.

"Thank you, Minister," Luka replied, sensing the undercurrent. "It was an honor to play in such a historic stadium."

"You've caused quite a stir in our city," Barnier continued, his tone balanced. "Not many visitors leave such an impression on Paris." He smiled thinly. "Particularly those so... young."

The backhanded nature of the compliment wasn't lost on Luka. "The French supporters are passionate. It makes for an incredible atmosphere."

"Indeed." Barnier nodded toward where Messi's PSG jersey lay nearby. "I see you've collected a souvenir from our national treasure."

"He collected one from me as well," Luka replied evenly.

The minister's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Well, we look forward to seeing how the second leg unfolds. Youth is impressive, but experience often prevails in these matters."

As the politicians moved away to network with executives, Luka felt fatigue settling into his bones. The adrenaline that had carried him through ninety-four minutes of elite football and the subsequent parade of introductions was waning, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

"Why the hell did I agree to this?" he muttered to his father, who had remained a stoic presence throughout the evening.

David squeezed his son's shoulder. "This part will get easier. Or so they tell me."

When the physiotherapist finally cleared him for extended movement, Luka seized the opportunity. "I need air," he told Mendes. "Just five minutes."

Mendes hesitated, then nodded. "Stay close to the hotel. There are fans gathered outside."

Luka slipped out of the suite, bypassing the bank of elevators for the emergency stairs. The service exit deposited him onto a side street, relatively quiet compared to the hotel's grand entrance.

The February air hit him with bracing coldness, a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of the suite. He pulled his team jacket tighter around his shoulders and began walking, no destination in mind beyond escape.

It started with a single voice—"Zorić!"—then another, then a chorus. A group of Dortmund supporters, still in their match-day yellow, had spotted him from a nearby café. They approached with the reverent excitement of pilgrims who'd stumbled upon their saint.

"Can we get a photo?" one asked in accented English, already reaching for his phone.

Luka nodded, accustomed to these brief interactions with supporters. But as he posed with the first group, others noticed. Passersby recognized him, smartphone cameras emerged, and within minutes, what had begun as a trickle became a flood.

"Luka! Luka!" The crowd swelled from five to fifteen to thirty, pressing closer, everyone wanting a piece of the night's protagonist.

"Some space, please," Luka requested, his discomfort growing as the circle tightened around him.

A group of PSG supporters materialized at the periphery, their mood darker, their eyes narrowed with the lingering sting of the evening's result. One shouted something in French—a crude insult about Luka's mother—and the temperature of the gathering shifted perceptibly.

Something cold and wet hit the back of Luka's head—a beer cup thrown from behind. He staggered forward, colliding with a Dortmund supporter who steadied him, then turned with fury toward the PSG contingent.

"Hey!" The German fan's face flushed with anger. "Back off!"

The PSG supporters pushed forward, outnumbering the yellow-clad Germans. Someone shoved Luka, hard enough that he stumbled to one knee on the pavement. The Dortmund fans formed a protective circle around him, their tourist enthusiasm morphing into tribal defensiveness.

"Don't you touch him!" one of them shouted. "You're just bitter because he destroyed you tonight!"

A PSG supporter lunged forward, connecting a wild punch with a German fan's jaw. The situation detonated—shoving became pushing became swinging fists. The Germans, though outnumbered, were fueled by national pride and alcohol.

"Remember when we conquered you in six weeks?" one bellowed, the football rivalry spiraling into historical antagonism. "Der Adler hat über Paris geflogen!" The Eagle flew over Paris!

The chant was taken up by others: "Zorić hat euren Mbappé ermordet!" Zorić murdered your Mbappé!

Luka shouted for calm, but his voice was lost in the cacophony. He was jostled between bodies, the adoration of moments ago transformed into something primal and dangerous.

Police whistles cut through the chaos. Hotel security and Paris municipal officers charged into the fray, batons extended, orders barked in French and English. Strong hands gripped Luka's arms, pulling him from the epicenter of the storm, back toward the hotel's service entrance.

"Inside, now!" a security officer commanded, half-dragging him through the door as the melee continued on the street.

In the service corridor, a team of security personnel surrounded him, hands moving efficiently over his limbs and torso, checking for injuries.

"Are you hurt, Monsieur Zorić?"

"I'm fine," Luka insisted, though his heart hammered against his ribs and his breath came in shallow gasps.

The security team hustled him through the corridor toward the main lobby, where Mendes and his father waited with expressions of alarm.

"What happened?" David demanded, scanning his son for injuries.

"Fans," Luka managed, still processing the surreal escalation. "It just—exploded."

Mendes gripped his arm, guiding him toward the elevators. "This is what happens now," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Your reality just changed. You understand that, yes?"

The elevator doors closed with a soft pneumatic hiss, sealing them into a momentary bubble of silence. Luka stared at the brushed steel of the doors, his reflection fractured and distorted. His face, usually so composed, had hardened into something unfamiliar—jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, a sharp frown carving lines around his mouth.

"No," he said finally, the word landing in the elevator like a stone.

"No what?" Jorge asked, exchanging a glance with David.

"No, I won't let this be the norm." Luka's voice had acquired an edge none of them had heard before. "I won't become a prisoner of this."

"Luka," Mendes began, his tone softening to the register he used for managing difficult clients, "you just exploded into global stardom. We'll need to reevaluate security arrangements. Your apartment location in Dortmund—people know where you live?"

"Yes, but they don't bother me there," Luka snapped. "Germans respect privacy."

"That was before tonight," Mendes countered. "Before you became... this." He gestured vaguely at Luka's entirety. "We'll arrange security, relocate you if necessary—"

The elevator doors opened to the executive floor. Mendes moved to steer Luka back toward the suite, but the teenager pivoted sharply, striding down the corridor in the opposite direction.

"Luka!" his father called after him. "The Sheikh of Qatar wants to meet with you again. This is important!"

Luka continued walking, deaf to their protests, turning a corner and disappearing from view. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the luxury hotel until he found his private room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the crystal glasses on the wet bar.

He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows, drawing back the curtains to reveal the Parisian skyline—and below, the chaos still unfolding on the street. Blue police lights strobed across the facades of Belle Époque buildings. Yellow-clad figures clustered in defensive formations. Uniformed officers formed cordons, separating warring factions. All of it—all of it—because of him. Because of what he'd done with a ball at his feet.

Luka pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his breath fogging the immaculate surface. In the distance, the illuminated silhouette of the Eiffel Tower pierced the night sky.

A fire kindled in his chest, not the exhilaration of victory.

What had happened on the pitch had been pure—an expression of skill and will and the simple joy of the game. What followed was... this. Politics and commerce and the commodification of talent.

"I never wanted this," he whispered, the words crystallizing another truth he'd never had to articulate before. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. "I wanted to play. To compete. To win." He exhaled sharply, his breath creating expanding circles of condensation on the glass. "I wanted to be great. I never wanted to be famous."

The crown had been placed on his head, heavy with expectation and adoration and envy. The throne awaited. And Luka Zorić, seventeen years old and suddenly one of the most discussed humans on the planet, stood alone in a luxury hotel room in Paris.