Hours Left

The Hours Before

March 9 | 2022 | 10:13 AM

The Dortmund training facility was eerily quiet. Most players had already completed their morning routines—light stretches, mental preparation, carefully orchestrated nutrition plans—but Luka remained, sprawled on a massage table in the athletic therapy room, staring at the ceiling.

Jorge Mendes stood by the window, his silhouette framed against the gray German morning. The agent's phone buzzed constantly, but he ignored it—unusual for a man known to conduct three negotiations simultaneously.

"You should see the texts I'm getting," Mendes said finally, breaking the silence. "Everyone wants a piece of you today."

Luka didn't respond, his gaze fixed on a small crack in the ceiling plaster that branched like a river delta.

"Six more offers came in last night," Mendes continued, turning toward his client. "Bayern, Chelsea again but higher, United doubled their previous—"

"Not now," Luka murmured, his voice barely audible.

Mendes slipped his phone into his pocket and approached the table. For a moment, he studied the Luka's face—the tightness around his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw.

"This pressure," Mendes said softly, "it's different, no? Not like anything before."

Luka closed his eyes. "I can feel it. In my chest. Like something sitting on me."

"Listen to me, Luka." Mendes pulled up a stool, their eyes now level. "Tonight, you don't have to be a star. You just have to be a winner."

The words hung in the air between them. Luka opened his eyes, finding Mendes watching him with an expression that few ever saw from the notorious agent—genuine concern.

"One-point-one billion people watched the first leg," Luka said. "They're expecting—"

"They're expecting whatever they want to expect," Mendes interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "That's their problem, not yours."

Luka sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the table. "Everyone's saying I need to dominate again."

"And you dominated at Beşiktaş, yes?" Mendes asked, his tone shifting.

Luka's expression darkened. "I was injured."

"Completely invisible," Mendes agreed. "Zero goals, zero assists, the match that you needed to win to make it to the knockout rounds—where you are right now."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"And did Dortmund lose?"

Luka shook his head. "We won."

"Exactly. Because Bellingham stepped up. Dahoud controlled the midfield. Haaland scored when it mattered." Mendes leaned closer. "Your teammates—the ones who got you here in the first place—they carried you when you needed it."

The teenager's shoulders relaxed slightly, the first sign that Mendes' words were penetrating the wall of anxiety.

"You know what separates the legends from the merely talented?" Mendes continued. "Trust. Ronaldo—"

"Here we go," Luka said with the ghost of a smile. "Another Ronaldo story."

"Because there's truth in them," Mendes replied, unapologetic. "The Euro 2016 final. Portugal against France. Ronaldo injured, crying as they carried him off. You remember this?"

"Of course."

"What did he do? Did he sit quietly on the bench, hoping his teammates wouldn't embarrass him?"

Luka shook his head. "No. He was like... another coach."

"Exactly. Limping up and down the touchline, shouting instructions, believing in his team when even they didn't believe in themselves." Mendes pointed at Luka's chest. "That's what champions do. They carry the fire, and when they can't run with it themselves, they pass it to others."

Something shifted in Luka's expression—a subtle change that Mendes, after years of reading athletes in moments of doubt, recognized immediately.

"You felt it in Paris, didn't you?" Mendes asked quietly. "In the second half, when you scored the equalizer. That fire inside."

Luka nodded slowly. "It was different. Like everything slowed down. Like I could see three moves ahead."

"Jordan calls it being in the zone. Kobe called it Mamba Mentality. Ronaldo just calls it hunger." Mendes stood, straightening his impeccable suit. "Whatever name you give it, you've found it now. The question is whether you can summon it when you need it most."

Luka rose from the table, stretching his arms overhead. "I've felt it all week. During training. Even at night, trying to sleep."

"Good," Mendes smiled. "Use it. But remember—tonight isn't just about Luka Zorić. It's about Dortmund. It's about eleven men against eleven men."

"And if we lose?"

"Then we lose," Mendes shrugged. "The sun rises tomorrow. But you will have given everything, and that—" he tapped Luka's temple "—is what lets you sleep at night, win or lose."

March 9 | 2022 | 2:46 PM

The unmarked SUV crawled through Dortmund's streets, which already teemed with yellow and black despite the early hour. Klaus had been called away earlier today, replaced by a mountain of a man named Henrik who drove with military precision, his eyes constantly scanning for threats.

Luka sat in the back, separated from the driver by a privacy partition. Beside him, Jenna scrolled through her phone, occasionally tilting the screen to show him something that made them both laugh. Mendes occupied the passenger seat, conducting a whispered conversation in Portuguese.

"Nervous?" Jenna asked, setting her phone aside.

Luka shrugged. "Different now. This morning was worse."

"I get that," she nodded. "When I was doing filming for Scream I would be sick with nerves the night before shooting a big scene. But once I was in the makeup chair? Something clicks."

"What did you do? To stay calm?"

Jenna thought for a moment. "I had this weird ritual. I'd find the smallest, most insignificant object on set—a paper clip, a piece of tape, whatever—and I'd focus on it completely for thirty seconds."

"Why?"

"Perspective," she explained. "Reminding my brain that this massive thing I'm anxious about is just another object in the universe, like that paper clip. Sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

"No," Luka said, considering. "It makes sense."

Through the window, he watched as fans began to recognize the vehicle, pointing and following despite its unmarked status. Henrik accelerated slightly, putting distance between them and the growing crowd.

"It's already crazy out there," Jenna observed. "And it's not even four o'clock."

"The city has been like this for days," Luka replied. "Police everywhere. Schools closing early today. It's like a holiday, but... angrier."

Jenna's hand brushed against his on the seat between them—casual, perhaps accidental, but lingering just long enough to register as intentional.

"You're going to be amazing," she said, her voice softer now. "I've never seen anyone with your focus."

Luka turned to face her. "How would you know? You've been back with me in person for what, three days?"

"Four, I got back from Berlin two days ago." she corrected with a smile. "And I've spent my life reading people. It's literally my job."

The car slowed as they approached a police checkpoint. Henrik lowered his window, showing identification that granted them access to the restricted zone around the stadium.

"I'll be watching," Jenna continued. "From the VIP box."

"Good," Luka nodded. "Maybe you can explain the offside rule to Mendes here. He still doesn't understand it."

From the front seat, Mendes snorted without turning around. "I understand money. That's enough."

March 9 | 2022 | 4:21 PM

Signal Iduna Park stood empty but alive—a sleeping giant preparing to wake. Staff bustled about, making final preparations for the spectacle to come. Security personnel patrolled the concourses, German shepherds sniffing methodically for threats both conventional and chemical.

On the pristine pitch, Luka went through a solitary pre-match routine. While most players saved their energy for the match itself, he had always preferred these quiet moments, two hours before the stadium filled—just him, a bag of balls, and the sacred geometry of the penalty area.

Twenty-five free kicks from the edge of the box. Left side, right side, and center.

The ball curled into the top corner for the nineteenth time in a row when he noticed movement across the field. Three PSG players had emerged for their own early warm-up—Messi among them, immediately recognizable even at a distance.

Luka's next shot sailed wide, his concentration broken. He reset, placing another ball, aware now of eyes watching from the opposite end. The familiar weight of expectation settled on his shoulders, but differently now—not the abstract burden of a billion viewers, but the concrete reality of Messi's presence.

His next shot rocketed into the top corner, harder and more precise than any before it.

From across the field, Mbappé casually juggled a ball while observing. A small nod—barely perceptible—followed Luka's strike. The acknowledgment, tiny as it was, sent a surge of something electric through the teenager's chest.

"That's where you've been hiding."

Luka turned to find Rose approaching, clipboard in hand.

"Sorry, coach. Just wanted to get a feel for the surface."

"Twenty minutes, then inside," Rose instructed. "Save your legs. We need you for ninety tonight."

As the coach walked away, Luka glanced back toward the PSG players. They had moved to the center circle, engaged in their own drills. Mbappé, however, remained in place, still watching. Their eyes met briefly across the expanse of green, a moment that stretched beyond its seconds.

March 9 | 2022 | 6:14 PM

The locker room buzzed with controlled energy. Some players sat in silence, headphones isolating them in private worlds of preparation. Others chatted in small groups, nervous energy channeled into banter and laughter.

Luka sat before his locker, phone pressed to his ear. His cousin's voice came through, a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

"Everyone's here," Nina was saying. "Uncle Stefan brought homemade rakija. He says it's for afterwards, but he's already opened it."

"Sounds about right," Luka replied, his tone measured.

"Your father wants to speak to you."

A shuffling sound, then David's steady voice. "All set, son?"

"Yeah."

"You sound tense."

Luka closed his eyes. "How can I smile when the whole world's watching? When one mistake could—"

"Stop right there," David interrupted. "The world can watch all it wants. This is still just football. The same game you played in our garden when you were four."

A team assistant appeared at the doorway, signaling five minutes until tactical meeting.

"I have to go," Luka said.

"We love you," his father replied. "No matter what happens tonight."

As he ended the call, Luka glanced down at his wrist where a thin fabric bracelet—frayed and faded—circled his skin.

March 9 | 2022 | 4:49 PM

"You're quiet," Jenna observed as the car approached the stadium's VIP entrance.

Luka stared out the window, watching yellow and black masses begin to congregate around the security perimeters. "Just focusing."

"I have something for you," she said, reaching into her purse. "A good luck charm."

She produced a slender band of fabric—once bright but now faded, clearly well-worn.

"What is it?"

"The wrap I wore on my wrist during my first screen test for 'Jane the Virgin. I was so nervous I thought I'd pass out, but then..." she smiled at the memory. "I got the part that changed everything."

She took his hand, sliding the band over his wrist. "Now don't lose it."

Luka examined the delicate fabric. "This can rip easily."

"Yeah," Jenna nodded, her eyes meeting his. "So be careful with it."

March 9 | 2022 | 7:03 PM

In the locker room, Luka carefully wrapped athletic tape around his wrist, covering Jenna's bracelet but leaving just enough exposed to glimpse the color. Too thin to offer any support, but perfect for protection against grabbing hands and sliding against turf.

Around him, final preparations reached fever pitch. The room smelled of liniment and anxiety, familiar yet heightened by the occasion.

Haaland paced nearby, muttering to himself in Norwegian. Bellingham sat motionless, eyes closed in meditation. Can approached Luka, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Ready to make history, little brother?"

Luka nodded, a calmness settling over him that hadn't been there earlier. "Born ready."

March 9 | 2022 | 7:45 PM

Luka stood slightly apart from his teammates, performing small hip movements to maintain loose muscles.

Behind him, movement caught his attention. A group of PSG players had entered the tunnel through a side corridor—early arrivals for the lineup. Messi among them, along with Paredes, Sergio Rico, and others.

The PSG contingent paused, their path taking them directly behind where Luka continued his warm-up movements. For a moment, they simply watched—professional curiosity mingled with something else. Assessment. Recognition.

Messi detached from the group, approaching Luka with a casual stride that belied the occasion. The Argentine—shorter in person than he appeared on television—extended a hand.

"Good luck," he said in accented English, the words simple but delivered with sincerity.

Luka turned, momentarily startled. He accepted the handshake, feeling the callused palm of one of two of football's greatest living artist against his own.

"You too," he replied, searching for something more profound but finding only honest simplicity.

Messi nodded, a ghost of a smile crossing his features before he rejoined his teammates. The brief exchange, witnessed by players from both sides, carried weight beyond its brevity.

The tunnel began to fill properly now, teams assembling in formation. Match officials emerged from their room, clipboards and flags in hand. The Champions League anthem echoed faintly from speakers inside the stadium, the orchestral swell that had accompanied Luka's dreams since childhood.

Captain's armbands were adjusted. Final words exchanged between teammates. Last-minute instructions from coaches delivered in urgent whispers.

Luka took his position in line, the bracelet secure beneath his tape, the fire in his chest no longer anxiety but purpose. He closed his eyes briefly, the visualization techniques he'd practiced since youth academy flowing naturally now.

March 9 | 2022 | 8:00 PM

The players walk out.