Ortega is a keeper, so is she.

The sterile white of Luka's apartment walls seemed to mock him as he stood before the full-length mirror for what must have been the twentieth time that hour. The Nike graphic tee and plain jeans that had seemed perfectly adequate minutes ago now looked painfully ordinary under his critical gaze. He ran a hand through his meticulously styled hair, a nervous habit he'd been developing.

"This is hopeless," he muttered, turning to examine his profile. The clothes that had served him well enough for team events and casual outings suddenly felt woefully inadequate for meeting Jenna Ortega. He hadn't felt this self-conscious about his appearance since his first day at Dortmund's academy.

His wardrobe, once a simple collection of practical items, now seemed like a glaring deficiency. He'd spent thousands on a car, hired security, but somehow overlooked the basics of personal style, even after multiple clothing shopping sprees.

The realization hit him with unexpected force – he had no drip. None whatsoever.

Pulling out his phone, he began scrolling through online stores – Off-White, Balenciaga, Jordan – brands he'd seen his teammates wear but had never paid much attention to himself. The prices made him wince despite his wealth. Six hundred euros for a t-shirt? Eight hundred for jeans with strategic rips? The absurdity of it almost made him laugh, yet he found himself adding items to virtual shopping carts anyway.

His thumb hovered over the "Complete Purchase" button before sanity prevailed. Even with express shipping, nothing would arrive in time. He needed help, and he needed it now.

With a sigh that carried the weight of teenage insecurity, he called his father.

David answered on the second ring. "Luka? Everything okay?"

"I need your help," Luka said, the words coming out more desperate than he'd intended.

"Is this about the business proposals? I was going to call you tonight—"

"No, no," Luka cut him off, oddly reluctant to state his actual problem. "I just... I need your opinion on what I'm wearing."

A pause. "You're calling me about clothes?"

Luka could almost see his father's raised eyebrow through the phone. "Yes. I have this... event thing today. And I want to look... proper." He winced at his own awkwardness.

"An event?" David's voice took on a note of concern. "I thought your next Puma shoot wasn't until next week."

"It's not a Puma thing," Luka admitted. "It's just... look, can you just tell me if this looks good?" He switched to video call and propped the phone against his dresser, stepping back to display his outfit.

David's sigh resonated through the speaker. "That's what you're planning to wear? To meet a girl?"

Luka felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I didn't say anything about a girl."

"You didn't have to." His father's knowing smile made Luka consider hanging up, but desperation kept his finger away from the end call button. "Give me a tour of what you've got in that wardrobe."

For the next twenty minutes, David directed his son through various combinations, discarding options with a decisiveness that surprised Luka. They finally settled on a blue-colored relaxed Carhartt denim jacket over a crisp white button-down, olive chinos, and clean white sneakers. The ensemble was elevated yet effortless – exactly what Luka hadn't known he was looking for.

"Simple, but the quality shows," David explained. "You don't have to say much. Let the clothing do the talking."

Luka examined himself again. The transformation was subtle but significant. He looked older somehow, more composed. "This... actually works."

"I wasn't always a football dad in tracksuit bottoms, you know," David said with a hint of pride. "I had my moments."

Luka smiled, a genuine one this time. "Thanks."

"So," David continued, his voice shifting to a more serious register. "When you link up with her, remember to make sure she's comfortable. Read her signals. And when the time comes—"

"Dad, it's not like that," Luka interrupted, though his burning ears betrayed him.

"—just be prepared," David continued undeterred. "You need to know how to properly put on a con—"

Luka hastily ended the call, his father's laughter the last thing he heard before the screen went black. He tossed the phone onto his bed, mortified yet somehow touched by his father's attempt at fatherly guidance.

The apartment intercom buzzed – Klaus was waiting with the Cadillac. Luka gave himself one final appraisal in the mirror, grabbed his phone and wallet, and headed down.

Klaus stood beside the gleaming black Escalade, his posture as impeccable as ever. His eyes, ever vigilant, scanned the street before settling on Luka with quiet approval.

"Looking sharp," he commented as he opened the passenger door. "Special occasion?"

"Just that fan greeting event I mentioned," Luka replied, sliding into the leather seat.

As they pulled away from the apartment complex, Luka found himself fidgeting with the car's controls, adjusting the temperature, fiddling with the radio.

"You seem tense," Klaus observed, navigating through Dortmund's afternoon traffic. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," Luka responded too quickly. "Just... do I look okay? Is the sweater too much?"

Klaus's eyes flicked from the road to Luka and back again, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You look appropriate for whatever might come your way." After a pause, he added, "Your hair, though..."

Luka's hand shot to his head. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. Though if you run your fingers through it one more time, it might surrender and go flat."

Luka forced his hand back to his lap. "Maybe I should try something different with it. What do you think about cornrows?"

Klaus actually laughed at that – a rare sound. "I think your hair is fine as it is. Who is she?"

The directness of the question caught Luka off guard. "Who says there's a she?"

"Your sweater. Your fidgeting. Your sudden interest in different hairstyles. And the fact that you've asked me three times if you look 'clean.'"

Luka sighed, defeated. "Jenna Ortega."

Klaus's expression remained neutral. "Should I know who that is?"

"She's an actress. American. She was at the PSG match. We... talked afterward. She's in Germany for work and we arranged to meet up."

Klaus nodded, processing this information with his characteristic efficiency. "Hence the outfit upgrade."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been watching you wear the same training kits in rotation for the last three days." A hint of humor colored Klaus's voice. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe."

Luka turned away.

"Its a good thing they didn't let you play in your win against Augsburg. Now you'll have the energy you need for…" Klaus didn't need to finish the thought for Luka to shoot him a disapproving glare.

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the streets of Dortmund sliding past the windows. As they approached the event venue, Luka's stomach tightened with a familiar pre-match nervousness.

"There will be fans," Klaus said, slipping into security mode. "How do you want to handle it?"

"I'll take a few pictures, but keep it moving," Luka replied. "I don't want to create a scene."

Being forgetful, what Luka hadn't accounted for, despite all evidence to the contrary, was just how drastically his fame had escalated since Paris. The moment he stepped out of the car, a ripple of recognition spread through the small crowd gathered outside the venue. Within seconds, people were approaching from all directions, phones extended, voices raised in excitement.

"Luka! Luka Zorić!"

"Der junge Adler!"

"Can I get a photo, please? Just one!"

Klaus moved seamlessly into position, not blocking Luka entirely but establishing a clear boundary. Luka managed a smile, posing for a few quick photos, signing a BVB scarf thrust in his direction. The crowd's energy was positive but overwhelming – a constant reminder of his new reality.

A young man with wide eyes dropped to his knees in front of Luka, hands clasped as if in prayer, speaking rapidly in Dutch. Luka froze, unsure how to respond to such naked adoration.

"Danke," he managed awkwardly, as Klaus gently guided him toward the entrance, one hand firm on his shoulder.

"Time to move inside," Klaus murmured, surveying the growing crowd with professional concern.

As they entered the building, Klaus produced a black beanie and simple sunglasses from his jacket pocket. "These might help."

Luka accepted them gratefully. "Do you just carry disguises everywhere?"

"Part of the job description," Klaus replied with a slight smile. "Anticipate needs."

The venue was cavernous, filled with promotional displays for the horror film and various associated merchandise. The event was clearly winding down – the initial crush of fans had thinned to scattered groups examining books and memorabilia. Still, heads turned as Luka passed, the beanie and glasses providing minimal anonymity.

He moved with purpose toward the main floor, where a signing area had been set up. His heart rate quickened as he scanned the space, eyes searching for a particular face among the handful of remaining attendees.

And then he saw her.

Jenna was leaning against a table, engaged in animated conversation with a castmate. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, her hands gesturing emphatically as she spoke. She wore simple black jeans and a cropped jacket over a white top – casual but deliberate, like she'd considered her outfit but wasn't trying too hard.

Luka felt suddenly, intensely visible despite his makeshift disguise. She hadn't noticed him yet, giving him a precious moment to collect himself. He adjusted his sweater, fought the urge to run his fingers through his hair again.

"I'll be nearby," Klaus said quietly, already fading into the background with remarkable discretion for a man of his size.

Luka took a deep breath, removed the sunglasses, and began walking toward Jenna, with every meter, his awareness heightened – the subtle scent of her perfume beginning to reach him, the musical lilt of her laughter, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled.

He was three steps away when she turned, her eyes widening in recognition, her sentence to her castmate left unfinished as their gazes locked.

"Luka," she said, his name in her voice sending an electric current down his spine. "You made it."

For a moment, he just stood there, taking her in. The reality of Jenna Ortega was somehow even more striking than the carefully filtered Instagram posts he'd been studying all morning.

"Yeah," he managed, suddenly acutely aware of his Carhartt jacket once again. "I did."

Her castmate whispered something in Jenna's ear before discreetly stepping away with a knowing smile. The subtle departure left them in a bubble of relative privacy despite the bustling venue.

"You look great," Luka said, the words tumbling out before he could overthink them. He gestured vaguely at her outfit. "Really great."

Jenna's lips curved into an amused smile. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself. Much better than the post-match sweaty look."

However, not that his sunglasses were off a ripple of recognition spread through the nearby crowd. Heads turned, phones raised, and whispers intensified as people began to realize who was standing among them.

"Isn't that—"

"The football player from the PSG match—"

"IS THAT KSI!?"

Jenna glanced around, noting the growing attention. "Looks like someone's popular," she observed with a hint of irony. She'd been a main attraction minutes ago, but the dynamic was rapidly shifting.

"Come on," she said, lightly touching his arm. "I know a place where we can actually hear ourselves think."

Without waiting for his response, she led him toward a door marked "Staff Only," flashing a VIP badge at the security guard who nodded them through. The corridor beyond was mercifully quiet—a stark contrast to the fan-filled exhibition hall.

"Perks of being the star," she explained with a self-deprecating shrug as they walked. "Though I should probably be saying that to you these days. Your follower count has officially surpassed mine, you know."

Luka felt his cheeks warm. "It's all happened so fast. Still doesn't feel real."

They emerged into a small lounge area—evidently set aside for the film's cast to retreat between public appearances. Large windows overlooked the city, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the skyline.

"How's the rest of your event schedule going?" Luka asked, trying to maintain some semblance of casual conversation despite his racing heart.

"Exhausting but good," Jenna replied, dropping onto a comfortable sofa and gesturing for him to join her. "Amsterdam yesterday, here today, Berlin tomorrow. Soon enough it will be Antartica right after. It's a whirlwind, but that's promotion for you. How about you? I've been following the aftermath of your Paris performance. Seems like things got a bit intense."

Luka settled beside her, careful to leave respectful space between them. "That's one way to put it."

"I saw the videos," she said, her tone shifting to something more serious. "Those fans outside your hotel—that looked scary."

He hadn't expected her to bring that up so directly. Most people danced around the incident, focusing instead on the goals, the adulation, the rapidly accumulating sponsorship deals.

"It was," he admitted, surprised by his own candor. "One minute I was just getting some air, and the next..." He made a vague explosive gesture with his hands.

"And suddenly you're at the center of an international incident," Jenna finished for him. "I get it. Not football riots, obviously, but I've had my share of security scares. Goes with the territory, unfortunately."

There was something disarming about her understanding—not patronizing sympathy, but genuine recognition of shared experience despite their different worlds.

"I've been meaning to ask," she said, shifting topics with practiced ease, "are you a United fan? I grew up watching them with my dad. He's obsessed."

Luka's tension eased slightly at the familiar territory. "I grew up one, yeah. Posters all over my walls. But it's... complicated now." He chose his words carefully.

"I can imagine," Jenna replied, not pressing the issue. "Must be strange, being both the fan and the thing other people are fans of."

"Exactly," Luka said, relieved by her perception. "Like, I still get excited meeting players I admired growing up, but now even they treat me like something special. It doesn't compute sometimes."

Jenna laughed. "I still have moments where I forget I'm famous until someone asks for a photo. Then I'm like, 'Oh right, I'm not just a normal person anymore.'"

They eyes each other for a moment.

"Do you believe in magic?" she asked suddenly, the question catching him off guard.

Luka raised an eyebrow. "Magic? Not really. Why?"

A mischievous smile spread across her face. "I could show you some tricks that might make you believe."

"I hope so," he replied, his tone unconsciously dropping lower, the words carrying a weight he hadn't intended.

Something shifted in the air between them. Jenna's eyes widened slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she realized the inadvertent double meaning.

"I meant actual magic tricks," she clarified, though her smile remained. "I learned a bunch for a role last year."

"Right, of course," Luka said quickly, both embarrassed and secretly thrilled by the momentary tension. "I'd like to see those sometime."

Jenna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "So, film promotion aside, I've got some exciting news. Just signed with Adidas for their new campaign."

"That's huge," Luka said, genuinely impressed. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. Though I hear you've got me beat there too. Flagship athlete for Puma? That's major league."

Luka shrugged modestly. "It's a good deal. Five years."

"I bet," Jenna nodded. "I've been checking your stuff out. Kind of wild how things have exploded for you."

"It's been..." Luka searched for the right word, "disorienting. But cool."

"Welcome to the madness," Jenna laughed. "I remember when I was on Jane the Virgin, suddenly people cared what coffee I ordered. It never stops being weird."

"Favorite ice cream?" Luka asked, abruptly changing the subject. Something about her made him want to know these small, human details.

Jenna tilted her head. "Random question, but okay. Let's count down and say it at the same time. Three, two, one—"

"Chocolate chip mint," they said in unison.

They stared at each other in surprise.

"Wait, that's crazy," they exclaimed simultaneously again.

Laughter erupted between them, the coincidence breaking any remaining tension.

"Stop that!" Jenna said through her laughter. "Are you messing with me?"

"I swear I'm not," Luka replied, grinning. "That was weird."

"Maybe there's some magic after all," Jenna teased.

Their conversation flowed naturally after that, drifting from topic to topic. Luka told her about his little sister, who demanded video calls after every match to critique his performance with brutal honesty.

"She's absolutely wild," he explained, smiling fondly. "Thinks she's going to be the first female Ballon d'Or winner playing for the men's team."

"I love that," Jenna said. "Does she live with your parents?"

"Yeah, in the house we just got in Manchester. Part of the Puma deal, actually."

"Must be quite a place," Jenna remarked.

"It's..." Luka hesitated, still uncomfortable discussing certain matters, "bigger than we need, honestly. But it makes my mom happy to have a proper garden. She's from Croatia originally, grew up with all this open space, so living in apartments has been hard for her."

"And your dad?"

"English. Manchester born and raised. They met when he was doing business in Zagreb. I was actually born in Portugal while they were on vacation. Made my passport situation interesting."

They found themselves wandering toward an exit that led to a small, enclosed garden area—presumably another retreat for the cast and crew. The late afternoon air was crisp but not unpleasant.

"So this Puma deal," Jenna probed gently, "is it as massive as the rumors say?"

Luka hesitated only briefly. "Thirty million over five years. Plus bonuses..."

Jenna let out a low whistle. "Woah. That's... substantial."

"It sounds crazy when I say it out loud," Luka admitted. "Especially since I still have to ask Klaus—my security guy—to supervise me when I drive because I don't have my full license yet."

This made Jenna laugh again. "The dichotomy of being a teenage millionaire."

"What about you?" Luka asked. "You're staying at a hotel here?"

"The Mandarin Oriental," she confirmed. "Nice place, but hotel rooms all start to look the same after a while. I miss having a real space. Your apartment here must be nice."

"It's nothing special," Luka said. "Just a place the club arranged. But it has a great view of the city."

Jenna's eyes met his. "Maybe I should come see it sometime."

The suggestion hung between them, charged with possibility.

Luka surprised himself with his reply. "Why not tonight? I could show you some of Dortmund first—there's this amazing restaurant by the old market. Low-key, private. Then maybe..." He left the sentence unfinished, a newfound confidence mixing with his natural caution.

"Bold," Jenna observed with an appreciative smile. "I like it. But I should warn you, I'm... careful with certain things…" She didn't need to explain for Luka to understand. "My life is complicated enough without tabloids speculating about every dinner I have."

"Why do we have to take it that far?" Luka countered, though his racing heart betrayed his casual tone. "Just two friends having dinner. Who happen to both like mint chocolate chip ice cream."

Jenna studied him for a moment. "You're different than I expected, Luka Zorić."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Definitely good," she said. "Most athletes I've met can't stop talking about themselves. You actually listen."

Luka shrugged. "My dad always says listening gets you further than talking ever will. Besides, your life is more interesting than mine."

"I seriously doubt that," Jenna laughed. "But I appreciate the sentiment." She glanced at her watch. "I should get back. One more press line to finish before I'm free."

"And then?" Luka asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"And then," Jenna said with a smile that made his heart skip, "you can show me this amazing restaurant. Text me the details? Around eight?"

"Eight works," Luka agreed, fighting to keep his voice casual. "I'll drive us. More privacy that way."

As they walked back toward the main exhibition hall, Luka felt a strange sense of alignment—as if some cosmic force had decided to balance the chaotic whirlwind of his professional life.

At the door, Jenna paused. "Fair warning—the minute we walk back in there, people are going to be watching. You ready for that?"

Luka thought about the crowds in Paris, the mobs of fans, the executives and agents who had been circling him for weeks. Somehow, the prospect of being seen with Jenna felt different—not an obligation or a performance, but something he was actually looking forward to.

"Go ahead." he said with confidence.

Jenna smiled and pushed open the door, the noise of the event washing over them. As expected, heads turned immediately, but Luka didn't mind the attention.