Flamingo

The Emirates Stadium gleamed under the weak February London sun, its modern architecture a statement of ambition that had yet to be fully realized on the pitch. David Zorić stood in the shadow of the structure, momentarily transported back to 2004 when he'd been part of the construction crew that had laid the foundation for what would become Arsenal's new home. Back then, he'd been just another laborer, carrying materials and following orders, never imagining that eighteen years later he'd return as the father of football's newest sensation.

"Bit different seeing it from this side, eh?" he murmured, more to himself than to Jorge Mendes, who walked beside him in an immaculately tailored suit that probably cost more than David had earned in a month back then.

Mendes glanced at him. "You worked here?"

"Just for a few months, early stages," David replied, his Manchester accent still strong despite years of continental living. "Concrete and steel, that was my bit. Never got to see the finished job from inside."

They approached the private entrance where a security guard checked their credentials before waving them through with a deferential nod. The corridors were adorned with photographs chronicling Arsenal's history—the Invincibles, Henry in full flight, the last trophy celebrations at Highbury. Monuments to past glories while the present team struggled for consistency.

An executive assistant greeted them with practiced warmth, leading them not to a conference room but to a spacious terrace overlooking the pristine pitch. The setting was deliberately casual—comfortable seating arranged around a low table laden with refreshments. A stark contrast to the Barcelona meeting, which had taken place in the sterile confines of a German hotel suite.

Arsenal Technical Director Edu Gaspar rose to greet them, followed by Manager Mikel Arteta and Director of Football Operations Richard Garlick. Josh Kroenke, son of owner Stan Kroenke and increasingly the face of ownership, completed the welcoming committee.

"Mr. Mendes, Mr. Zorić," Josh extended his hand, his American accent standing out among the more cosmopolitan tones. "Welcome to Arsenal. Thanks for making the time to meet with us."

"David, please," Luka's father insisted, shaking hands firmly. He'd spent enough time in football circles now to know that appearing overawed would be a tactical mistake.

"How are you enjoying the London air, David?" Arteta asked with genuine interest as they settled into their seats. "Quite a change from Manchester, I imagine."

"When did you last breathe London air, Mikel?" David replied with a wry smile. "It's exactly as I remember it—gray and damp."

The group chuckled, and David felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. These meetings always made him uncomfortable—the bargaining over his son's future, the astronomical figures thrown around like they were discussing the weather. But this was the reality of modern football, and he was determined to navigate it as best he could for Luka's sake.

"I understand you've had a busy schedule of meetings," Josh observed, directing his comment to Mendes. "We appreciate you fitting us in."

"Let's kick it off," Josh continued, setting his cup down with decisive energy. "We know you're busy, and frankly, so are we. Arsenal is entering a new era, and we believe Luka could be a cornerstone of what we're building."

Mendes nodded, his expression neutral but attentive. David recognized the agent's professional mask—the same one he'd worn in Milan, Munich, and most recently this morning in Madrid.

Garlick cleared his throat, opening a slim portfolio. "We've prepared an initial offer that we believe reflects both Luka's extraordinary talent and our commitment to making Arsenal his home." He slid a document across the table. "A signing fee of sixty million euros, with weekly wages of 190,000 euros—that's approximately 210,000 US dollars per week. Performance bonuses structured to reward both individual achievement and team success."

Mendes examined the document with practiced indifference before passing it to David, who tried not to react to the figures that still seemed surreal to him. His son, seventeen years old, being offered life-changing wealth.

"Interesting," Mendes said finally, his tone measured. "Not near the largest offer we've received so far, I'll be candid about that."

David watched the Arsenal executives exchange glances—this was a dance they'd clearly participated in before. Testing the waters, establishing baselines.

"With a contract like this," Mendes continued, "compared to others on the table, Luka would need a strong image rights arrangement and value elsewhere."

David remained quiet, allowing Mendes to lead the negotiation while he studied the men across the table. Arteta seemed genuinely enthusiastic, leaning forward with the intensity that had characterized his playing days. Josh Kroenke maintained a more measured demeanor, likely aware that his family's reputation for financial prudence had become something of a liability among the fanbase.

"We've had a lot of meetings about contract negotiations," Mendes said, suddenly shifting tack. "Let's try something different. Tell us about Arsenal's vision for Luka. Position, development, marketing—the aspects beyond the financials."

Arteta immediately brightened, clearly more comfortable discussing football than finances. "I see Luka as a centerpiece of our attack for the next decade. Not just as a goalscorer, though his finishing is exceptional, but as a complete forward who can elevate the entire team."

The manager stood, moving to a tactical board mounted on the terrace wall. "Our system demands intelligence, technical ability, and a certain fearlessness. Luka has all three in abundance." He began sketching formations, his enthusiasm palpable. "We'd build around his strengths—his ability to find space, his vision, his capacity to create as well as finish."

As Arteta continued his tactical dissertation, David found his mind drifting to that morning's meeting in Madrid. The contrast couldn't have been more stark. Where Arsenal offered calm professionalism, Atlético had presented... something else entirely.

— — — —

Metropolitano Stadium, Madrid

Eight hours earlier

The conference room door had barely closed behind them when the thudding bass line of flamenco music erupted from hidden speakers. David had exchanged a bewildered glance with Mendes, who looked equally nonplussed.

"Gentlemen!" The booming voice belonged to Miguel Ángel Gil Marín, Atlético Madrid's CEO, who had entered from a side door wearing not his expected business attire but a ruffled red shirt open to mid-chest. "Welcome to Madrid!"

Before either could respond, the door burst open again and in danced—yes, danced—Germán Burgos, Simeone's former assistant, performing an enthusiastic pasodoble. He was followed by three board members, all similarly attired in flamenco-inspired clothing, all seemingly caught in the grip of some collective madness.

"What the actual—" David had begun, but his words were drowned out as one of the board members—a dignified-looking gentleman in his sixties who David had been introduced to moments before—leapt onto the conference table with surprising agility.

"El Águila ha llegado!" the man shouted, gesturing dramatically. The Eagle has arrived! He pulled his tie loose, swinging it above his head like a lasso while uncorking a bottle of wine with his teeth. "Para volar sobre Madrid!" To soar over Madrid!

The man launched into an impromptu song, his voice surprisingly rich:

"Luka Zorić, nuestro nuevo rey, 

Con el balón, él es la ley! 

Atlético es su destino, 

Con Simeone, el camino!"

The other executives joined in the chorus, clapping rhythmically:

"Zorić! Zorić! Nuestro goleador! Zorić! Zorić! Nuestro campeón!"

David watched in stunned silence as Burgos executed a series of increasingly athletic moves, culminating in a backflip that sent glasses and documents flying from the table. Mendes had placed his hand over his face, peeking through his fingers like a man witnessing a traffic accident in slow motion.

The singing executive took a dramatic swig from the wine bottle before continuing:

"Deja el frío de Dortmund atrás, 

En Madrid, el sol brillará más! 

Con la roja y blanca vestido, 

Todo el mundo estará rendido!"

The performance had continued for a full ten minutes before Diego Simeone himself entered, bringing a semblance of order to the chaos. Unlike his colleagues, the manager was dressed in his customary all-black outfit, his expression severe.

"Enough," he had said simply, and the music cut off as if by magic. The dancing executives froze in place before sheepishly returning to their seats, adjusting ties and smoothing hair. Only the man on the table remained, bottle still in hand, until Simeone fixed him with a withering stare.

"Don Miguel," Simeone said, his voice quiet but commanding. "Perhaps we could discuss business now?"

The board member—apparently the Don Miguel in question—had climbed down with as much dignity as he could muster, straightening his shirt and offering a completely unapologetic smile to David and Mendes.

"Passion," he explained simply. "At Atlético, passion is everything."

— — — —

"Mr. Zorić? David?" Arteta's voice pulled him back to the present. "I asked if you had any questions about our tactical approach?"

David cleared his throat. "Sorry, miles away. It all sounds very promising. I'm just curious—where exactly would Luka fit in your current squad? He's been thriving in a free role at Dortmund."

Arteta nodded thoughtfully. "Initially, we'd see him playing as our main left winger, with freedom to interchange positions. As he develops physically—he's still growing, after all—we could see him taking on a more central role."

Edu leaned forward. "What's important to understand is that we're not just signing Luka for what he is now, impressive as that may be. We're investing in what he will become over the next decade."

Josh Kroenke nodded in agreement. "Arsenal is rebuilding with youth at its core. Luka would be the jewel in that crown—a statement of intent about where we're heading."

"Speaking of statements," Garlick interjected, "our marketing team has developed some projections about Luka's brand potential here in London." He produced another document. "The Premier League's global reach, combined with London's status as a media hub, offers unique commercial opportunities."

The data presented was impressive—projected social media growth, endorsement opportunities, revenue streams that extended far beyond salary and performance bonuses. Arsenal had clearly done their homework.

"We are disappointed that Luka chose to represent Croatia internationally," Josh remarked casually. "Being England-eligible would have added another dimension to his marketability here."

David stiffened slightly. "He wasn't even born in England, actually. He was born in Portugal while I was working there, raised primarily in England, but spent significant time in Croatia with his mother's family. The connection to his Croatian heritage has always been important to him."

"Of course," Josh backpedaled smoothly. "And that heritage is part of what makes his story compelling. The Croatian diaspora has produced remarkable talents."

Mendes steered the conversation back to business. "Luka's brand is exploding globally, particularly after the hat trick against PSG. How would Arsenal position him in your marketing strategy?"

"As the face of our future," Edu replied without hesitation. "We've already had inquiries from our primary sponsors about featuring him prominently should he join us."

The discussion continued, flowing between football tactics, commercial opportunities, and the club's vision for the future. David appreciated Arsenal's professionalism—no singing, no dancing, just a clear, coherent pitch. Yet something felt missing. The passion that had spilled over into absurdity in Madrid had been genuine, if bizarre. Here, everything felt carefully calibrated, designed to hit the right notes without revealing too much emotion.

"You've raised a remarkable son, David," Arteta said during a lull in the conversation. "Not just his talent, but his maturity on the pitch. That comes from somewhere."

David shifted uncomfortably, memories of missed birthdays and tournaments surfacing unbidden.

"His mother deserves the credit," he replied honestly. "She held everything together when I couldn't—or wouldn't. I was... absent for too much of his childhood."

A moment of genuine emotion rippled through the professional façade of the meeting. Arteta nodded respectfully, recognizing the admission for what it was.

"Family support is crucial at this level," the manager said. "We've seen too many young talents derailed without it."

"That's why these meetings matter," David said, finding his voice. "It's not just about the money or the marketing. It's about who will help my son grow—as a player and as a person."

Mendes glanced at David with a new respect. In most of these meetings, the agent did the talking while parents nodded along. But David was learning, evolving from the uncertain father.

"Let's talk about that support structure," Josh suggested, sensing an opportunity. "Our approach to developing young players extends beyond the training ground..."

As Arsenal outlined their player development program—education opportunities, mentorship systems, psychological support—David listened intently, mentally comparing notes from other meetings. Barcelona had emphasized their La Masia philosophy. Bayern had stressed German efficiency and winning culture. Real Madrid had promised galáctico status and legendary mentorship from Modrić.

Each club offered a different path, a different vision of what his son could become. The decision ultimately belonged to Luka, but David knew his opinion would carry weight. The thought terrified and humbled him in equal measure.

"One last question," David said as the meeting wound down. "You've told us what Arsenal can do for Luka. What do you believe Luka can do for Arsenal that another player couldn't?"

The question hung in the air momentarily. It was Arteta who answered, his eyes alight with conviction.

"He can return us to who we are supposed to be," the manager said simply. "Arsenal has always thrived when we've had artists at the center of our team—players who elevate the game beyond mere competition into something beautiful. Luka has that quality. He doesn't just score goals; he creates moments that people remember for a lifetime."

David nodded, satisfied with the answer. As they rose to conclude the meeting, Josh extended a parting thought.

"We understand we're competing with clubs that have more recent success than we do," he acknowledged candidly. "But consider this: at those clubs, Luka would be joining established dynasties. At Arsenal, he would be defining a new era. His name would be synonymous with our return to glory. That's a different kind of legacy."

Outside, as they waited for their car, Mendes scrolled through emails on his phone. "Manchester City tomorrow morning, then Liverpool in the afternoon. Both very keen."

David nodded absently, his mind still processing the contrasting approaches of the clubs they'd met so far. "What did you make of Arsenal's offer?"

"Competitive but not exceptional," Mendes replied clinically. "They're testing the waters, establishing position. The real negotiation would start after Luka expresses genuine interest."

"And the football side? Arteta's vision?"

Mendes pocketed his phone, considering this more carefully. "Sincere, I think. He sees Luka as a transformative player for them. The question is whether Arsenal's current trajectory aligns with Luka's ambitions."

David squinted up at the stadium facade, at the Arsenal crest gleaming in the afternoon sun. "Everything's happening so fast," he murmured. 

"Welcome to the life of football royalty," Mendes said, not unkindly. "But remember, for all the business talk, this decision comes down to where Luka will be happiest, where he'll develop best. Money follows success and happiness, not the other way around."

As their car arrived, David took one last look at Emirates Stadium.

"He was right about one thing," David mused. "Luka wouldn't just be joining something at Arsenal. He'd be starting something."

Mendes smiled slightly. "That's true at any club smart enough to build around him." He checked his watch. "We should get back to the hotel. Luka wants an update on all the meetings so far."

<>

Omake

Madrid recording studio transformed into a neon-lit salsa den. Gold chains dangle from ceiling fans. A 10-foot bronze statue of Luka Zorić mid-bicycle kick dominates the room, its eyes glowing red. Atlético executives in unbuttoned guayaberas clap palmas rhythmically while flamenco dancers in bedazzled trajes de luces twerk against the statue. Don Miguel, shirtless now, stands atop a speaker stack conducting the madness with a wine bottle. Smoke machines blast cherry-scented mist.

(Opens with blaring trumpets and syncopated clapping)

Verse 1 (Don Miguel):

"¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ!

El niño de oro viene pa' Madrid!

¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ!

Con el número 37, va a destruir!

De Alemania trae el frío,

Pero aquí le damos fuego—

Simeone es su papá,

Y el Metropolitano es su juego…"

Pre-Chorus (Flamenco Dancers):

"Uno, dos, tres, quatro—he'll score them all!

Cinco, seis, siete, ocho—the net's his thrall!

¡Olé! ¡Olé! Zorić campeón,

La liga tiembla cuando pisa el balón!"

Chorus (Full Ensemble):

"¡ZORIĆ! ¡ZORIĆ! ¡DALE DURISIMO!

¡ZORIĆ! ¡ZORIĆ! ¡ESTE HOMBRE ES UN CRIMEN!

Con la roja y blanca, él es el rey,

¡GOLES! ¡GOLES! HASTA QUE EL SOL SE VAYAAAA!"

(Cue airhorns and dembow beat drop)

Verse 2 (Simeone's Assistant on Auto-Tune):

"Firmino's flair, Suárez's bite,

But Luka's got both and the speed of light!

Left wing? Right wing? No—he's the storm,

Break ankles like twigs, make Ramos look forlorn…"

Bridge (Call-and-Response):

Don Miguel: "¿Quién va a ganar La Liga?"

Crowd: "¡ZORIĆ! ¡ZORIĆ!"

Don Miguel: "¿Quién va a humillar al Barça?"

Crowd: "¡ZORIĆ! ¡ZORIĆ!"

Don Miguel (grinding on statue): "¿Quién es el dios del gol?"

Crowd: "¡LUKA! ¡LUKA! ¡DALE MÁS CHAMPÁN!"

Outro (Fading Chaos):

"ESTÁ… ESTÁ… ESTÁ…

En Madrid, la sangre quema,

ESTÁ… ESTÁ… ESTÁ…

Zorić pisa la yema…

¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁ! ¡ESTÁAAAAA…"

(Music dissolves into distorted accordion wheezes and Don Miguel's drunken sobbing into the statue's feet)