101

The Mansory Lamborghini Urus purred beneath him, a mechanical predator with 800 horsepower at his command. Luka adjusted his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, still not entirely comfortable with the vehicle's raw power or its ostentatious presence on Dortmund's streets. Through the panoramic windshield, late afternoon sunlight glinted off passing cars, the day sliding toward evening as he navigated toward the training facility.

"Still getting used to it?" Klaus asked from the passenger seat, his bulky frame making even the spacious SUV seem smaller.

Luka nodded, downshifting as they approached a traffic light. "It's a bit much."

The understatement hung in the air between them. The customized Urus—matte black with subtle yellow accents that Prince Abdullah had thoughtfully added as a nod to Dortmund's colors—was indeed "a bit much."

From its aggressive aerodynamic package to the 24-inch forged wheels to the hand-stitched interior, everything about the vehicle screamed excess. Exactly as its Saudi gifters had intended.

The Ferrari SF90 Stradale remained in the secure parking beneath his new penthouse, too flashy even for Luka's expanded comfort zone. He wondered if he would ever actually drive it, or if it would remain a gleaming museum piece.

As the light changed and Luka accelerated, the Urus's twin-turbocharged V8 responded with a throaty growl that turned heads on the sidewalk. A group of teenagers did double-takes, pointing excitedly as they recognized either the vehicle or its driver. Probably both.

Luka adjusted the climate control, cooling the interior against the unseasonable April warmth. The quarterfinals awaited. Chelsea awaited. Tonight's first leg at Signal Iduna Park represented another step into football's stratosphere, another opportunity to cement their meteoric rise.

Chelsea. The name itself carried weight in European football, conjuring images of Abramovich's billions, of Mourinho stalking technical areas, of Drogba and Lampard and Terry lifting trophies. But this wasn't that, Chelsea. Not anymore.

This was a team in transition. No Hazard slaloming through defenses. No Diego Costa bullying center-backs. No Cech commanding the penalty area with authoritative calm.

Instead, Kepa Arrizabalaga—the world's most expensive goalkeeper whose confidence seemed perpetually fragile. Mason Mount—talented but inconsistent. Kai Havertz—still adapting to Premier League intensity. N'Golo Kanté—brilliant but increasingly injury-prone.

What struck Luka most profoundly—a thought that still disoriented him when it surfaced—was how few of these players would remain at Chelsea three years from now.

Kepa? Playing for Bournemouth.

Mount? Surprisingly a Manchester United player.

Kanté? Still chasing the ball in the Saudi Pro League.

Lukaku? Playing at Napoli.

Havertz? A key player in the squad of Chelsea's rivals—Arsenal.

Rüdiger? Bullying defenders in Spain.

There were so many more names to mention.

Sometimes the knowledge felt surreal, like holding tomorrow's newspaper today. A memory of time that hadn't happened for anyone but him.

Luka navigated onto the highway, merging smoothly as the Urus's acceleration pressed him gently into the hand-stitched seat. His mind drifted back to the PSG match, the intensity that had transformed those two legs into something approaching Champions League finals in their own right. The global attention, the pressure, the drama of penalties—it had altered public perception of Dortmund.

No longer underdogs. No longer plucky overachievers. After dispatching the Qatari-bankrolled super team, Dortmund had become something else: contenders.

He chuckled softly to himself. All Chelsea had to understand was that four teenagers were cooking up a storm. Haaland, Bellingham, Palmer, and himself—a quartet of youth with ice cold in their veins, coming for established powers without a hint of deference.

"Something funny?" Klaus asked, glancing across from the passenger seat.

Luka shook his head. "Just thinking about tonight."

Klaus nodded, saying nothing more.

As they approached the exit for the training ground, Luka felt the familiar pre-match calm descending. Not absence of nerves, but their transformation—anxiety alchemized into focus, pressure into purpose.

The Urus glided into the players' parking area, where several teammates' vehicles already stood—Haaland's Audi RS e-tron GT, Reus's Mercedes AMG, Hummels's Range Rover. Luka pulled into his designated space, the engine note dropping to a whisper before falling silent.

"I'll take it back for you," Klaus said as they exited the vehicle, extending his hand for the keys. "Your penthouse later?"

Luka nodded, dropping the heavy key fob into Klaus's palm. "Thanks. All my stuff's inside already?"

"Equipment team transferred everything this morning," Klaus confirmed. "Focus on the match. I'll handle transportation."

The training facility entrance slid open automatically as Luka approached, the sense of belonging still novel after months with the club. Inside, the building hummed with pre-match energy—staff moving with purposeful efficiency, the atmosphere charged with anticipation rather than anxiety.

The transition from his cramped apartment had been necessary but jarring. After fans had begun appearing at his doorstep with increasing frequency—some respectful, others alarmingly persistent—the need for greater security had become undeniable. But Luka had resisted buying property, uncertain whether his future lay in Dortmund or elsewhere after the season.

The penthouse solution had presented itself through Mendes's connections: a three-bedroom space atop one of Dortmund's most exclusive hotels. The arrangement came with built-in security, absolute privacy, and all the amenities of luxury accommodation. When the hotel management had offered a substantial discount in exchange for occasional promotional appearances, the decision had become even simpler.

Nine hundred and fifty thousand Euros per annum for privacy, security, and comfort.

"There you are!" Bellingham's voice carried down the corridor. His friend approached with his characteristic energy, tracksuit already on, wireless earbuds hanging around his neck. "Was beginning to think you'd crashed that ridiculous truck of yours."

"SUV," Luka corrected with a grin. "And I'm actually early."

"Only technically." Jude fell into step beside him as they headed toward the locker room. "You see Tuchel's comments this morning?"

Luka shook his head. "Trying to avoid press before matches."

"Smart. Nothing worth repeating anyway—standard 'respect for the opponent' stuff." Bellingham nudged Luka's shoulder. "Though he did single you out as 'exceptional talent.' Looked properly worried when he said it, too."

They reached the locker room, where the atmosphere shifted from the controlled efficiency of the facility to the looser, more organic energy of team camaraderie. Players in various stages of preparation occupied the space—some already in training gear, others just arriving, conversations overlapping in multiple languages.

Haaland spotted them from across the room, raising a massive hand in greeting. "The brains arrive just before the brawn," he called out, his accent making the joke sound more serious than intended.

Luka moved to his locker, the number 37 displayed prominently above it. His match kit hung perfectly pressed, waiting for the evening ahead.

"Gentlemen!" A voice called from the doorway. A club media officer stood there, camera operator in tow. "We're doing pre-match content for social media. Luka, would you mind hosting a short segment? Fans love seeing behind the scenes on European nights."

Several teammates chuckled, making exaggerated expressions of jealousy. Luka's profile had made him an increasingly central figure in the club's media strategy.

"Sure," Luka agreed, finishing tying his training shoes. "What do you need?"

"Just walk us through some of your preparation, introduce a few teammates, normal pre-match routines. Be yourself—fans respond to authenticity."

Luka nodded, accepting the wireless microphone being extended toward him. The camera's red light blinked on, and he shifted seamlessly into his public persona—comfortable now in a role that would have paralyzed him months earlier.

"Hey everyone, Luka here at the training center, just a few hours before our Champions League quarterfinal against Chelsea," he began, fluid and confident. "Thought I'd show you a bit of what goes on before these big European nights."

He moved through the locker room, introducing teammates who played along with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Bellingham mugged for the camera, while Hummels offered a dignified nod. Haaland flexed dramatically, drawing laughs from everyone present.

"Now I'll take you through some of my pre-match routine," Luka continued, leading the camera crew toward the performance center. "Every player has their own preparation, but for me, it always includes a visit to this man."

Dr. Braun looked up from his tablet as they entered the medical area, his weathered face breaking into a smile. "Ah, are we making movies now?"

"Just showing fans what happens behind the scenes," Luka explained, gesturing toward the camera. "Dr. Braun keeps us functioning at our best. In my case, he's been monitoring my ankle for a very long time now."

"Which would heal faster if certain players followed instructions better," Braun noted dryly, though his eyes crinkled with affection. "How's it feeling today?"

"Perfect," Luka replied, rotating the ankle in question. "Still no issues."

Braun motioned for him to sit on the examination table. As Luka complied, the doctor knelt to gently manipulate the ankle, expert fingers probing for any signs of inflammation or instability.

"Pain?" Braun asked, applying pressure to specific points.

"None."

"Stiffness after waking?"

"Not anymore."

Braun nodded, satisfied. "Good. Still ice it tonight after the match, twenty minutes minimum. Prevention is better than treatment."

Luka turned to the camera with a grin. "You heard the doctor. No arguing with medical staff—first rule of professional football."

The tour continued through the facility—nutrition center, where Luka explained his carefully tailored pre-match meal consumed exactly four hours before kickoff; tactical room, where video analysts worked surrounded by multiple screens displaying Chelsea footage; recovery area, with its ice baths and compression equipment.

As they approached the tunnel leading to the training pitch for the final light session, the media officer signaled that they had enough footage.

"Thanks, Luka. Perfect as always."

Luka handed back the microphone, feeling the subtle shift as his focus narrowed further, public persona receding as match concentration intensified. The camera crew departed, and Luka stood momentarily alone in the corridor, centering himself before joining his teammates outside.

He breathed deeply, rolling his shoulders to release tension. The quarterfinals awaited. Chelsea awaited.

His visualization was interrupted by the facility doors sliding open behind him. Luka turned, expecting a teammate or staff member.

Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Mendes. Expression inscrutable as always.

"A word," Mendes said, less question than instruction. "Briefly."

Luka glanced toward the training pitch, where teammates were already gathering. "We're about to start final preparations—"

"Two minutes," Mendes insisted quietly. "Important development."

They stepped into an empty meeting room, Mendes closing the door behind them.

"Paris called again," the agent said without preamble. "They're prepared to increase their initial offer. For summer."

Luka felt a familiar tightness in his chest. "I told you—"

"I know what you told me," Mendes cut in smoothly. "I'm merely fulfilling my obligation to inform you of significant developments. Their sporting director will be attending tonight's match."

"To scout me," Luka concluded.

"To scout several players," Mendes corrected. "But primarily, yes. You."

The agent studied Luka's face. "The landscape is developing even more rapidly following the PSG performance. I can't dangle the carrot on the stick forever Luka, sooner than later clubs will want to begin serious talks later. Very soon. Before May—soon. You will need to make your decision by then."

Luka absorbed this information silently.

"Focus on tonight," Mendes said finally, reading Luka's reluctance to engage with transfer talk before a crucial match. "We'll discuss options when the time is right. I simply wanted you aware."

Luka nodded. "Understood. Anything else?"

"Just this," Mendes's expression softened fractionally. "Whatever happens tonight, remember you're playing with house money. No one expected you to reach this stage. Pressure is on them, not you."

Luka appreciated the sentiment, recognizing its truth. They'd already exceeded expectations simply by reaching the quarterfinals. Everything now was bonus territory—a chance to push boundaries further without the weight of expectation.

Mendes departed as quietly as he'd arrived, leaving Luka alone with his thoughts. He allowed himself thirty more seconds of reflection before mentally compartmentalizing the conversation. Transfer talk, future planning, market forces—all concerns for another day.

Tonight belonged to the quarterfinals. To Chelsea. To the continuation of this extraordinary journey.

Luka moved toward the tunnel leading to the training pitch, each step bringing him closer to the evening's challenge. As he walked, he felt the familiar pre-match transformation completing itself—extraneous thoughts falling away, senses sharpening, focus narrowing to what lay directly ahead.

The air changed as he approached the tunnel's end, becoming cooler, fresher. The sounds changed too—coaches' instructions, the rhythm of passing drills, the distinctive thud of balls struck cleanly. Luka quickened his pace slightly, drawn toward the elemental simplicity of ball, grass, teammates.

He emerged into late afternoon sunshine, the training pitch a perfect green canvas awaiting the final brushstrokes of preparation. Most of the squad was already involved in warm-up exercises, their movements fluid and purposeful under the watchful eyes of Rose and his staff.

Here was football.

Hours later, that same clarity carried him through the tunnel at Signal Iduna Park, the Champions League anthem echoing around them, the roar of thousands of supporters filtering through concrete and steel. Ahead lay the pitch, floodlights bathing it in brilliant illumination. Beside him stood teammates, sharing the moment but each experiencing it uniquely.

Chelsea's players waited in the tunnel as well, their blue kits vivid against the surrounding gray. Luka could feel their glances—curious, evaluating, perhaps even concerned.

Word had spread since the PSG victory. The four teenagers of Dortmund had announced themselves to European football's elite.

Luka kept his gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge the attention.

Immortality, perhaps, awaited.

As the teams were signaled forward, Luka stepped into the light, the wall of sound from the Yellow Wall washing over him like a physical force. His eyes remained fixed ahead, focus absolute.

The Falcon had arrived.

<>

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