Germany

The drone of the airplane engines provided a steady background hum as Luka stared out the window at the cloud-strewn darkness. First class on the Dortmund charter wasn't ostentatious—nothing like the private jets that had been offered—but the seats were comfortable enough, the cabin quiet save for muted conversations among teammates and staff.

He rotated his wrist absently, watching as the Audemars Piguet caught the dim cabin light in prismatic flashes. The watch felt simultaneously alien and comforting against his skin. Fifty thousand euros on his wrist.

"It's a trick, but tricks work," he muttered to himself, running a finger along the sapphire crystal face.

From across the aisle, Jude caught the motion and grinned. "Already regretting not taking the Qatari private jet?"

Luka shook his head. "Better here with you lot than alone with a parade of billionaires."

"Smart man," Bellingham replied with a knowing look. "Once they get you alone, they own your schedule. Then your time. Then you."

Marco Reus, seated ahead, turned back to face them. The captain's eyes were tired but filled with unmistakable pride. "You made the right choice, kid. Team first. Always."

Luka nodded, grateful for the approval. His phone vibrated again—the twentieth notification in as many minutes. He'd muted most apps after the follower count had become too surreal to process. Nine million and climbing. A day ago, he'd been ecstatic about crossing 3 million. Now that number seemed quaint and distant.

He opened WhatsApp, the only communication channel he hadn't silenced. The list of unread messages scrolled endlessly: teammates, family members, childhood friends. Names he recognized. Names that mattered. And among them, notifications from numbers he hadn't saved—football royalty reaching out directly.

Modrić: Nevjerojatno, mali! Cijela Hrvatska je na nogama zbog tebe. Kad dođeš u Madrid, večera je na meni. (Incredible, little one! All of Croatia is on its feet because of you. When you come to Madrid, dinner's on me.)

Perišić: Brate, što si to učinio Parizu? Jesi li vidio što predsjednik piše o tebi? (Brother, what did you do to Paris? Have you seen what the President is writing about you?)

The Croatian Football Federation: Luka, please call us when you have a moment. The entire nation is celebrating. The President would like to speak with you.

He scrolled further, past messages from Dortmund executives, like Terzić, from distant relatives who'd suddenly remembered his existence. A notification from an unsaved UK number caught his eye.

Luka, it's Ole. Congratulations on a phenomenal performance. I knew from the first moment I saw you in U16 training that you were special. United were fools to let you go on loan. You're proving me right. Whatever happens next, remember to stay true to yourself. The spotlight changes people. Don't let it change you.

Luka smiled, typing back a simple response: Thank you for believing in me when few did.

While at the time he hadn't aware, Mendes had found out that the Norwegian had stopped to watch his youth training sessions, how he'd taken time to speak with the board over a possible promotion, the very same board that had overruled the manager, seeking the loan deal with Dortmund instead. Now Gunnar Solskjær was gone, replaced by Rangnick, and United were scrambling to secure his return.

Too late, he thought. Far too late.

His thumb hovered over Twitter, temptation finally overcoming restraint. The app opened to a tsunami of notifications, the algorithmic chaos briefly overwhelming. He navigated to Fabrizio Romano's profile, curious about what the transfer guru was saying now.

There it was—the hotel incident. Romano had posted the entire clip: Luka walking alone, fans approaching, the atmosphere shifting, the drink flying, Luka pushed to the ground, Dortmund supporters forming a protective circle, fists flying, police intervening. The comment section was aflame with tribal warfare, PSG supporters defensive, Dortmund fans outraged, neutrals condemning the Parisians' behavior.

Luka closed the app quickly, a sour taste in his mouth. He hadn't wanted this—hadn't asked for strangers to fight over him, hadn't invited the world to turn a moment of ugliness into viral entertainment.

"You shouldn't look at that stuff," a voice said quietly.

He turned to find Emre Can watching him from across the aisle, the midfielder's expression serious beneath his designer stubble.

"The media, social platforms—they take moments from our lives and twist them into whatever narrative gets the most engagement. They'll make you a hero today, a villain tomorrow. Don't feed the machine."

Luka nodded, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Nine million followers," he said, the absurdity of it still not fully registering. "Weeks ago, it was barely over a million."

"Numbers," Can dismissed with a wave. "Just numbers. They're not real people—they're avatars, algorithms, bots. The only followers that matter are these," he gestured around the cabin at their teammates, "and those waiting at home who loved you before anyone knew your name."

The plane banked gently, beginning its descent toward German airspace. Luka gazed out at the star-scattered darkness, wishing suddenly for anonymity, for simplicity. For the freedom to walk down a street without becoming a spectacle.

"I saw your rumored contract figures on twitter, mate are they real?" Bellingham asked, lowering his voice so only Luka could hear.

"Mendes sent some figures," Luka admitted. "Yeah, the numbers are... insane."

Bellingham whistled softly. "Welcome to the circus, my friend. Next stop, lifetime financial security and zero personal freedom."

"Worth it?"

The Englishman considered this, unusually thoughtful. "On nights like tonight? When you've got thousands of people singing your name and you've just broken Mbappé's teenage hat-trick record? Absolutely worth it." He paused, something darker crossing his features. "On the other days—when your knee is throbbing, when your mother is harassed by photographers at the supermarket? Those days are harder."

Luka stared at the watch again, at the perfect craftsmanship that represented both opportunity and obligation. Fifty thousand euros of gilded handcuffs.

"We land in thirty minutes," the pilot announced over the intercom, his German accent thick but his English precise. "Current temperature in Dortmund is three degrees Celsius. Local time is 1:42 AM."

Murmurs rippled through the cabin. Mats Hummels groaned audibly, muttering something about needing a proper night's sleep.

Rose moved up the aisle, stopping at Luka's row. "Sports Minister and club president are meeting us on arrival," he said, his voice carrying traces of disbelief. "There's apparently a small reception. Nothing major, just official acknowledgment."

"For a draw?" Luka asked, baffled.

Rose laughed, the sound tinged with wonder. "Kid, you rewrote the narrative of German football tonight. This wasn't just a draw. This was..." he searched for words, "this was a statement. To PSG, to Europe. From a seventeen-year-old Croatian kid wearing our colors."

The growing realization that Dortmund considered this a victory rather than a stepping stone ignited something in Luka's chest—not gratitude but a flickering irritation. The congratulatory atmosphere felt premature, almost defeatist, as if they'd already reached their ceiling.

"We haven't won anything," he said, more sharply than intended. "It's halftime in a two-leg fixture."

Rose's expression shifted to something more appraising, more appreciative. "Exactly what will be said at training tomorrow," he replied with newfound respect. "Exactly the right mentality."

As Rose moved away, Luka's phone buzzed with another message—Mendes, again.

Luka, you should have reconsidered staying in Paris one more day. The opportunities we're discussing go beyond football. This is about building a global brand. The entire Qatari delegation wants to meet again. The French Minister of Sport has requested a private lunch. I've had calls from major American entertainment figures asking for introductions.

Luka typed back quickly: I'm with my team. We have a second leg to prepare for. If they want to speak to me they can in Germany. Otherwise everything else can wait.

He could almost feel Mendes' frustration radiating through the digital ether. The agent's response came seconds later.

The initial excitement will subside until you do the same thing again. Strike while you're the hottest property in world football.

Luka didn't reply, instead switching to his messages from home. His mother had sent photos of family gathered around their television, Croatian and English flags draped over furniture, faces illuminated by the glow of his accomplishments.

The plane began its final approach, the lights of Dortmund appearing below like a constellation of earthbound stars. Luka felt the familiar sensation of his stomach rising as they descended.

The touchdown was smooth, the taxi to the private terminal efficient. As the seatbelt signs dimmed and passengers began collecting their belongings, Luka remained seated, watching his teammates move, accustomed to late-night arrivals.

Reus caught his eye, gesturing for him to join the front of the line. "Tonight, you lead us out," the captain said simply.

Luka shook his head. "That's not—"

"It's not a request," Reus cut him off, his tone friendly but firm. "You earned it. The team voted during the flight."

Embarrassed but touched, Luka gathered his things and moved to the front of the aircraft where Rose was waiting with a slight smile. "The hero returns," Rose said quietly.

"I just played football," Luka replied.

"With a maturity beyond your years," Rose added. "But remember—this is just the beginning. Paris will be different at Signal Iduna Park. Hungrier. Wounded. Dangerous."

"Good," Luka said, that same fire rekindling in his chest. "I hope they bring everything."

Rose studied him with new interest. "You've grown so much—seventeen," he murmured, almost to himself. "Seventeen and fearless."

The cabin door opened to a blast of cold German air that felt purifying after the stifling atmosphere of Paris and the recycled oxygen of the flight. Luka stepped onto the stairs and paused in momentary shock.

Despite the hour, a small crowd had gathered on the tarmac—club officials in dark coats, a handful of dignitaries, and behind barricades, a group of dedicated supporters who'd tracked the flight's arrival time. Yellow and black scarves fluttered in the winter wind, voices rising in a spontaneous chant as he appeared.

"ZORIĆ! ZORIĆ! DER JUNGE ADLER!"

The Young Eagle. The nickname that had begun as media hyperbole now echoed across the airfield, claimed by the faithful as their own.

Luka descended slowly, conscious of the cameras tracking his every move, of the eyes assessing his reaction to the reception. The Dortmund president stepped forward, hand extended, his face flushed with cold and excitement.

"Welcome home, Luka," he said warmly. "Germany is proud tonight."

The German Sports Minister nodded in agreement. "An exceptional display of talent. You've honored the Bundesliga with your performance."

These were the platitudes of officials who recognized marketable moments, who understood the commercial value of associating with ascendant stars. Luka shook their hands mechanically, murmuring appropriate thanks, watching as his teammates filed past with knowing smirks at his discomfort.

A reporter from Sky Germany approached, microphone extended. "Luka, a moment for our viewers? Many fans stayed up to welcome you home."

He could have declined, could have followed his teammates toward the waiting cars. Instead, he stepped toward the camera, sensing an opportunity to establish boundaries before the situation escalated further.

"Of course," he said, composing his thoughts carefully.

"What does this reception mean to you after such a historic performance in Paris?"

Luka measured his words. "I'm grateful for the support, but I want to be clear about something," he began, choosing to speak in English—deliberate and fluent. "Tonight was just one match. A draw, not a victory. I appreciate everyone's enthusiasm, but what matters now is completing the job in the second leg."

The reporter nodded, waiting for more—the usual platitudes about team effort and taking it one game at a time. Instead, Luka shifted to a more personal message.

"I also want to address what happened in Paris after the match," he continued, his voice gathering conviction. "The incident outside the hotel—I don't want that to become normal. I'm seventeen years old, and while I understand fans' excitement, I need personal space and privacy."

The reporter's eyes widened slightly, unused to such directness from someone so young.

"I love connecting with supporters, taking photos when appropriate," Luka clarified, "but please don't surround me, don't come to my home, and understand that I'm still a person who needs boundaries. What happened in Paris was frightening and unnecessary. Football should not become an excuse for confrontation."

He finished, suddenly aware of the silence.

"Thank you for your honesty," the reporter finally said. "Is there anything else you'd like to say to the fans who stayed up to welcome you?"

Luka looked directly into the camera. "Just thank you. For believing in this team, for supporting us. We'll need you in three weeks when PSG comes here. That's when the real work begins."

As he walked away from the interview, toward the waiting team bus, Luka's thoughts returned to the crowded Parisian street, to the sensation of being pushed to his knees by strangers, to the violence that had erupted in his name. To the vulnerability he'd felt.

Mendes had mentioned security. A necessary precaution, perhaps, but another concession to this new reality where privacy became a luxury not a right.

He remembered that man who'd helped him once before when things got hectic with fans—Klaus? He was pretty sure of the name, the man was former military with a quiet competence and an understanding of discretion. Perhaps by hiring him he could find a middle ground between Mendes' vision of a security entourage and his own desire for normalcy.

The team bus waited, its engine idling, exhaling clouds of condensation into the winter air. Inside, his teammates had already settled in, some already dozing despite the brief journey ahead. Bellingham had saved him a seat, raising an eyebrow in question as Luka approached.

"Made a big statement."

"Set some boundaries," Luka corrected, dropping into the seat. "We'll see if anyone respects them."

"Doubtful," Bellingham replied with the weary wisdom of someone who'd navigated similar waters, "but worth trying."

The bus pulled away from the terminal, carrying its cargo of exhausted athletes back toward the heart of Dortmund. Luka gazed out at the passing cityscape, at the industrial architecture and modernist buildings that had become his adopted home.

On his wrist, the Audemars Piguet continued its precise measurements, marking the seconds and minutes of a life that had fundamentally changed course in the span of ninety-four minutes on a Parisian pitch. The watch would keep perfect time, would function exactly as designed regardless of who wore it.

Luka wondered if he could manage the same consistency in the face of everything that awaited him. If he could maintain his essence while the world tried desperately to reshape him into their vision of what a superstar should be.

The hunger that had driven him to that third goal still burned in his chest—unchanged, undiminished by the trappings of sudden fame. That, at least, remained entirely his own.

<> 

Hi.

https://kÓ-fi.com/sincerec

Two extra chapters of Luka and three of Man In the Mirror.

https://d-scord.gg/QsfGErNX

I'll put the links on my profile

[Edit: Ko-Fi is selling so we'll use patr-on instead when my account is reactivated]