King Of Paris

The Signal Iduna Park erupted as the teams emerged from the tunnel. The familiar yellow wall of Dortmund supporters pulsed with anticipation, their voices merging into a deafening roar that shook the foundations of the stadium. February's chill had done nothing to dampen the atmosphere—if anything, the cold air seemed to amplify the sound as it bounced off the concrete and steel.

"LUKA! LUKA! LUKA! THE KING OF PARIS! LUKA! LUKA!"

The chant rolled across the stadium in waves, German accents wrapping around the Croatian name with passionate intensity. Banners unfurled across the stands, one depicting Luka with eagle wings spread wide—the Young Eagle of Dortmund soaring over the Eiffel Tower.

"The reception for Zorić is absolutely thunderous," the lead commentator observed, his voice barely audible over the crowd. "It's been less than a week since his heroics in Paris, and clearly, the Dortmund faithful have a new idol."

"This is exactly what makes the Bundesliga special, Hans," his colleague replied. "The relationship between these fans and their players is something different. And what Zorić did in Paris—scoring that hat-trick, challenging Mbappé on the biggest stage—it's elevated him to legend status almost overnight."

Luka tried to maintain his focus as he lined up for the pre-match formalities, but the energy was impossible to ignore. From the corner of his eye, he could see Bellingham grinning beside him.

"Enjoying the attention?" his friend whispered.

Luka kept his eyes forward. "Just want to play."

The stadium announcer's voice boomed across the sound system, introducing the teams. When he reached Luka's name, the decibel level spiked dramatically, forcing a pause before he could continue.

"They're ready to build him a statue after Paris," Hans chuckled into his microphone. "But let's remember, Dortmund are still in a title race. Four points behind Bayern with thirteen games to play, and seven points clear of Leverkusen in third. This is no time for complacency."

"Absolutely not," his colleague agreed. "And Wolfsburg are no pushovers. Their pressing system has troubled several top teams this season."

As the referee's whistle signaled the start of the match, Luka felt a familiar calm settle over him. The noise faded to a distant hum as his focus narrowed to the black rectangle before him. Time seemed to slow, his senses heightening as he tracked the movement of teammates and opponents alike.

The first twenty minutes passed in a tactical chess match, neither side able to establish clear dominance. Gladbach's disciplined 4-2-3-1 formation effectively clogged the central channels, forcing Dortmund to probe patiently along the flanks.

"Dortmund struggling to find their rhythm here," the commentator noted. "Zorić has barely had a touch in the final third."

As if on cue, Luka dropped deeper, demanding the ball from Dahoud. He received it with his back to goal, immediately shielding it from a pressing defender. His touch was assured, his body positioning perfect as he pivoted away from pressure.

"That's better from Zorić," Hans observed. "Coming deep to get involved."

Luka's quick pass found Bellingham, who cycled the ball wide to Guerreiro. The Portuguese wingback's cross was cleared, but Dortmund were beginning to establish a foothold.

In the 32nd minute, the breakthrough came. Cole Palmer collected the ball in midfield. With a burst of acceleration, he drove forward, drawing defenders before executing a perfectly weighted give-and-go with Bellingham.

"Palmer's in space!" the commentator exclaimed as the young Englishman curled a sumptuous finish into the bottom corner. "GOAL! Brilliant from Cole Palmer!"

The stadium erupted, but Palmer's celebration was restrained—a simple point toward Bellingham acknowledging the assist. As his teammates surrounded him, Luka arrived with a slap on the back.

"Nice finish," he said simply, already turning his focus back to the restart.

The goal shifted the momentum, with Dortmund now flowing forward with greater confidence. Luka began finding pockets of space between Gladbach's lines, his touch always precise, his decisions increasingly influential.

"Zorić growing into this game now," Hans noted. "He's finding those half-spaces where he's so dangerous."

In the 41st minute, Luka collected a throw-in with his back to goal. A quick feint left his marker off-balance, creating just enough space to slide a perfectly weighted pass into Bellingham's path. The Englishman's shot was saved unfortunately.

"That's the intelligence we've come to expect," the commentator enthused.

The halftime whistle came with Dortmund leading 1-0, a scoreline that flattered the visitors. As the teams headed for the tunnel, Rose caught Luka's eye, giving him a subtle nod of approval.

"Not bad," the coach murmured as he passed. "But I want more directness in the second half. They're backing off you—punish them."

Luka nodded, already visualizing the adjustments needed. In the dressing room, he sat silently, replaying the first half in his mind while teammates hydrated and received tactical instructions. His focus was absolute, his expression unreadable.

The second half began with increased urgency from the other team, their high press forcing Dortmund to defend deeper than they'd like. For ten minutes, the momentum shifted, with the visitors creating two half-chances that had the home crowd momentarily anxious.

Then, in the 58th minute, the moment arrived. Akanji intercepted a loose pass in midfield and immediately looked for Luka who had already begun his run, anticipating the opportunity before it materialized.

"Zorić is away!" the commentator shouted as Luka burst into space. "He's got Bellingham to his right, but he's only got eyes for goal!"

Gladbachs's center-back closed quickly, but Luka's change of pace was explosive. A subtle drop of the shoulder left the defender wrong-footed, creating just enough space to fire a low shot across the goalkeeper.

"GOAL! LUKA ZORIĆ! WHO ELSE?" The commentator's voice cracked with excitement. "The Young Eagle soars again!"

This time, the celebration was more expressive. Luka raced toward the Yellow Wall, sliding on his knees before being mobbed by teammates. The stadium shook with the force of thousands of voices chanting his name.

"The King of Paris is now the King of Dortmund," Hans declared. "What a finish—what a player!"

The second goal broke Borussia München's resistance. Dortmund now controlled the tempo completely, with Luka at the heart of everything. His confidence was palpable, every touch assured, every decision correct.

In the 76th minute, the masterpiece arrived. Akanji launched a long diagonal ball toward Luka on the right wing. His first touch was immaculate, cushioning the ball perfectly into his path while maintaining full speed.

"Zorić controlling that like it's on a string," the commentator observed. "He's got work to do, but—oh my word!"

Luka accelerated past the first defender, then executed a delicate feint that left a second bamboozled. As a third closed in, he glanced up, spotting Bellingham's run into the box.

"He's got options, but he's running out of space—"

With defenders converging, Luka wrapped his right foot behind his left leg and delivered a perfect rabona cross that dissected the penalty area.

"WHAT A BALL! UNBELIEVABLE FROM ZORIĆ!"

Bellingham, arriving at the perfect moment, tapped the ball into the empty net. The stadium went berserk, fans literally jumping over seats in ecstatic disbelief.

"Did you see that?" Hans screamed into his microphone. "A rabona assist! This is getting ridiculous!"

Even Rose couldn't maintain his composure, throwing his arms in the air before quickly trying to regain his professional demeanor. On the pitch, Bellingham pointed repeatedly at Luka, directing the crowd's adulation toward the architect of the goal.

"We're running out of superlatives," the commentator admitted. "This boy is something else entirely."

The final whistle came with Dortmund 3-0 victors, a scoreline that reflected their dominance. As players exchanged handshakes, Luka found himself surrounded by Gladbach players requesting his shirt.

"Sorry, guys," he apologized with genuine regret. "Already promised it to someone."

As he walked toward the tunnel, a commotion near the advertising boards caught his attention. A small figure had evaded security and was sprinting across the pitch, yellow and black scarf fluttering behind him.

"We've got a pitch invader," the commentator noted. "Security moving in—it's just a young boy, looks about ten years old."

Luka's initial reaction was shock—a startled jolt as the child collided with his legs, wrapping his arms around the footballer's waist. But recognition quickly dawned. This wasn't a threat; it was adoration in its purest form.

"Whoa, whoa!" Luka called out as security personnel closed in. "It's okay, it's okay!"

He placed a protective arm around the boy, who was now sobbing uncontrollably into his side. The security guards hesitated, glancing at each other in confusion.

"It's fine," Luka insisted, waving them back. "I'll take him off. It's okay."

The boy looked up, tears streaming down his face, words tumbling out in emotional Russian. Luka didn't understand everything, but he caught enough—"hero," "Paris," "please save us again."

Something shifted in Luka's chest—a warmth that spread through him as he realized the depth of this child's emotional investment. This wasn't just fandom; it was something more profound. This boy truly believed in him.

Without hesitation, Luka pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to the child, whose eyes widened in disbelief.

"For you," Luka said softly, placing the sweat-soaked jersey in the boy's trembling hands. "But you have to go back to your parents now, okay?"

The boy clutched the shirt to his chest, nodding vigorously as fresh tears flowed. Luka gently steered him toward the sideline, walking alongside him like a protective older brother.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Tomas," the boy managed between sobs.

"Well, Tomas, I promise I'll do my best against PSG," Luka said, crouching to meet the child's eyes. "For you and all the other Dortmund fans."

As they reached the stands, Luka lifted the boy up to his family, who were profusely apologizing to nearby security. The father looked mortified, the mother close to tears herself.

"He's okay," Luka assured them. "No harm done."

The crowd around them had grown, other fans pressing forward, thrusting programs and scarves toward him. Luka signed a few, but when someone held out a pair of boots, he hesitated.

"You're not going to sell these, are you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

The middle-aged man shook his head emphatically. "Never! These will be in my living room forever!"

"Promise?" Luka pressed, a skeptical smile playing at his lips.

"I swear on my season ticket!" the man declared.

Luka laughed, taking the offered pen. "If I see these on eBay, I'm not going to be happy," he warned good-naturedly, signing both boots before handing them back.

As he finally made his way toward the tunnel, Bellingham fell into step beside him. "You're going to have to start charging for shirts, mate," he joked. "Can't give them all away."

Luka shrugged, bare-chested in the February chill. "Did you see his face? Worth it."

They chuckled their way through the tunnel amidst a sea of players wary after 90 minutes of hard-fought battle.

The locker room pulsed with energy, the aftermath of victory still crackling in the air. Players moved around, exchanging jokes and congratulations, voices echoing off the tiled walls. Luka sat on the bench, towel draped around his shoulders, his body cooling from the match but his mind still racing. Around him, teammates were already discussing dinner plans, potential celebrations, but Luka had retreated into his own world.

He scrolled through his phone, the blue light illuminating his face as droplets of water from his still-damp hair occasionally splashed onto the screen. The notifications were overwhelming—thousands of mentions, tags, messages. He'd given up trying to keep track of them all, instead allowing his growing social media team to handle the bulk of the interactions.

But something caught his eye. A tweet with over 30,000 likes, mentioning his name alongside words like "analysis" and "comprehensive breakdown." Curious, he tapped the link.

The page loaded to reveal an extensive blog post titled "The Zorić Effect: Decoding the Prodigy's Rise." The article was meticulously researched, containing statistics he didn't even know about himself, video breakdowns of his movement patterns, comparisons to football legends past and present, and even speculations about his psychological approach to the game.

"What the hell?" Luka muttered under his breath, scrolling through the overwhelming depth of analysis. The writer had somehow tracked down footage from his youth academy days, comparing his ball control at fourteen to his current technique.

Intrigued, Luka returned to the Twitter profile of the original poster—a user named @MRJake22. The profile picture showed a young man, probably in his early twenties, wearing a red scarf. Something about the name seemed familiar.

Luka clicked on his direct messages and scrolled through the filtered requests, thousands of unread messages from fans and strangers. He searched for "Jake" and immediately found what he was looking for—dozens of messages from the same account, stretching back weeks.

"Jesus Christ," Luka whispered as he bypassed the first message—a link to a PDF file and began scrolling through them.

The messages started normally enough:

"Huge fan, man. The way you passed the ball to Akanji when Veratti pressed you was so tuff."

"That dribble past Hakimi... pure filth!"

Was he messaging me during the game? Luka couldn't help but wonder.

With a raised brow Luka continued scrolling, expecting much of the same but the messages quickly evolved into something different:

"Bro, we need to talk about your social media strategy. Your engagement rates could be 5x higher with the right approach."

"I've put together a comprehensive roadmap for your brand development. Let me know when you want to discuss."

"Day 14 of trying to reach you. I know you're busy becoming the world's best, but this opportunity won't wait forever."

"Have you considered cryptocurrency? A $LUKA coin could generate millions in passive revenue. I've attached a white paper concept."

True to his word, Jake had attached multiple documents—spreadsheets projecting potential earnings, mock-ups of NFT collections featuring Luka's likeness, detailed marketing plans. The level of effort was both impressive and slightly unsettling.

Bellingham's voice broke through Luka's concentration. "What's got you so serious? Bad news?"

Luka shook his head. "No, just... some fan has been sending me business proposals. Every day. For weeks."

"Another crazy," Bellingham laughed. "Just block him."

But Luka hesitated. There was something different about this one. The proposals weren't delusional—they were detailed, researched, potentially viable. Beneath the overeager approach and strange terminology about "sigma mindsets," there was actual substance.

"I might actually respond," Luka said, surprising himself.

Bellingham raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? To some random guy in your DMs?"

"Why not? Some of these ideas aren't bad."

With his teammates filing out of the locker room, Luka found himself alone with his thoughts. He stared at Jake's most recent message, sent just after the match ended:

"ABSOLUTE MASTERCLASS TODAY! The rabona assist was pure alpha energy! This is why we need to capitalize on your momentum NOW. The window for maximum brand value is OPEN. Let me know when you're ready to become a true sigma entrepreneur and not just a football legend."

Luka couldn't help but chuckle at the strange terminology, but the underlying point wasn't wrong. The momentum was real, and he'd been thinking about business opportunities beyond football himself.

He began typing a response:

"Thanks for the detailed proposals. Some interesting ideas here, especially the crypto concept. I've been investing in Bitcoin myself. Can you explain more about how a personalized coin would work?"

He hesitated before sending, wondering if responding would open the floodgates to more harassment. But something told him this Jake character, despite his odd way of expressing himself, might actually have something valuable to offer.

Luka hit send.

The response came almost instantly, as if Jake had been sitting with his phone in hand, waiting:

"HOLY SHIT! I mean, thank you for responding! This is absolutely MASSIVE! I can't believe THE Luka Zorić is actually... sorry, professional mode activated. Yes, the coin concept is straightforward but powerful."

What followed was a surprisingly coherent explanation of how a personalized cryptocurrency could work, complete with technical details about blockchain implementation, marketing strategies, and potential partnerships.

Luka found himself nodding along. The kid clearly knew his stuff, even if his delivery was wrapped in strange internet-speak.

"Send me more details to this email," Luka wrote, providing his secondary personal account. "But tone down the 'sigma male' stuff. Just straight business, okay?"

"ABSOLUTELY! I mean, yes, of course. Professional, direct, no alpha-sigma terminology. Got it. This is going to be LEGENDARY... I mean, potentially profitable for all parties involved. Thank you for this opportunity!"

Luka smiled, then added: "If this works out, there might be a place for you in my team. Let's see what you can do."

He set his phone down while it vibrated, likely under a fury of messaged from Jake. The conversation had energized him, redirecting his thoughts to the future beyond the pitch. Klaus had been right—he needed to think long-term.

Mendes still hadn't responded about those business ventures, but this interaction had ignited something in Luka's mind. Why wait for others to build his empire? Why not start now, while his star was rising?

Clothing had always been a passion—not just wearing it, but understanding the craftsmanship, the materials, the design philosophy. Not the flashy logo-covered pieces that many footballers gravitated toward, but subtle, elegant fashion with attention to detail.

"Not just Puma," he murmured to himself. "Something more personal. Something with staying power."

He opened his Notes app and began typing:

LZ BRAND:

High-quality basics

Sustainable materials

Clean aesthetics

Affordable luxury

But clothing was just the beginning. His mind raced to other possibilities. Automotive ventures had always fascinated him. He'd grown up watching Formula 1 with his father, dreaming of sleek machines pushing the boundaries of engineering.

What would a Zorić automotive brand look like? What would it stand for?

He continued typing:

AUTOMOTIVE:

Racing team? Partnership with existing manufacturer?

Black & gold color scheme

Name ideas: Golden Stallion? Black Plate? Crimson Light?

Logo concept: Star with wings?

The energy of possibility coursed through him. Business was a difficult industry to get into but if he could score a hat trick against PSG in the Champions League at seventeen, why couldn't he build businesses that would outlast his playing career?

His phone buzzed again with notifications—Jake had already sent three emails with detailed proposals, each more comprehensive than the last. The kid worked fast, he had to give him that.