The stadium erupted in a deafening roar as the final whistle echoed across Signal Iduna Park. The Dortmund players collapsed to the pitch—some on their knees, others flat on their backs, all consumed by a cocktail of exhaustion and euphoria. They had done the impossible. Down 3-1 with minutes remaining, they had clawed their way back, survived the penalty shootout, and now the Champions League quarter finals awaited.
Luka remained on his knees for a moment longer than the others, eyes closed, lungs burning. The screams of seventy thousand delirious fans washed over him in crashing waves. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Haaland extending a hand toward him.
"Get up, wonderkid," he said, his usually stern face split by a grin.
Luka grasped the offered hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Around them, teammates embraced, some openly weeping with relief and joy. Bellingham stood nearby, hands on his knees, still struggling to regulate his breathing after 120 minutes of relentless effort.
"We did it," Luka said, the words sounding strangely inadequate against the magnitude of what had just transpired.
"No," Haaland corrected, pointing toward the Yellow Wall where the Südtribüne faithful were bouncing in perfect synchronicity, a heaving mass of black and yellow passion. "We did it. All of us."
The Dortmund squad began a slow procession toward their supporters. Luka felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Rose.
"That," Rose said, voice hoarse from shouting instructions over two hours of tactical warfare, "is what courage looks like. Remember this feeling."
As they approached the Yellow Wall, the noise somehow intensified. Luka had experienced passionate crowds before, but nothing like this—the overwhelming sense of communion between players and supporters.
Palmer was pulled aside by a UEFA official, the MOTM medal already being draped around his neck. Two goals, including the equalizer that forced extra time. The English winger looked almost embarrassed by the attention, his usual cool demeanor cracking as teammates ruffled his hair and clapped his back.
Not far away, Luka caught sight of Donnarumma, the Italian goalkeeper sitting dejectedly on the pitch. Despite fourteen saves—a knockout round record—he would be remembered as the goalkeeper who couldn't prevent Dortmund's miraculous comeback. The cruel mathematics of knockout football.
Luka approached him, extending a hand. Professional respect transcending rivalry.
"Grande partita," he said in halting Italian. Great game.
Donnarumma looked up, surprised by the gesture. For a moment, professional disappointment battled with personal grace. Grace won. He took Luka's hand.
"Sei speciale," he replied. You're special. "Next time, I stop everything."
Luka nodded, understanding the competitive fire that already looked toward future battles. "We'll see."
They separated, returning to their respective worlds—Donnarumma to the consolation of teammates, Luka to the euphoric Dortmund celebrations. As he turned, he caught sight of Mbappé watching him from a distance, the Frenchman's expression unreadable.
Marco Reus was standing before the Yellow Wall now, arms raised, conducting the orchestra of supporters like a maestro.
Haaland reappeared at Luka's side, draping a massive arm around his shoulders. "You feel that?" he shouted over the noise, pointing toward their ecstatic supporters. "That's what we live for!"
Without warning, the Norwegian grabbed Luka by the waist and hoisted him into the air, presenting him to the crowd like a trophy. "LUKA ZORIĆ!" he bellowed.
"LUKA ZORIĆ!" The Yellow Wall responded, voices chanting his name in perfect unison.
Heat rushed to Luka's face, embarrassment battling pride as he was quite literally elevated before the supporters. But there was something undeniably intoxicating about it—the adoration of thousands, the sense of having earned their respect through actions rather than words.
When Haaland finally set him down, Luka found himself face-to-face with Bellingham, his normally composed features alive with boyish excitement.
"Not bad for a couple of teenagers, eh?" Jude grinned, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Not bad at all," Luka agreed, the understatement drawing laughs from both of them.
"Quarter finals," Bellingham said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Chelsea, Lille, Madrid, Bayern, Liverpool—whoever comes next, they better be ready for us."
The Dortmund players formed a line, linking arms before their supporters for the traditional salute. As they bowed in unison, the roar redoubled, washing over them like a physical force. Luka felt it in his chest—a vibration that seemed to resonate with his very heartbeat.
As they finally turned to leave the pitch, heading toward the tunnel, Luka felt a hand on his chest, stopping him. Leandro Paredes stood before him, the PSG midfielder's expression tight with frustration.
"That was fortunate," Paredes said, his voice carrying an edge. "A fluke. You understand? Next season, you'll see what real winning looks like."
Luka looked down at the hand on his chest, then back up at Paredes' face. A chuckle escaped him—not derisive, just genuinely amused by the older player's attempt at intimidation.
"Maybe I will, maybe I won't," he replied, gently removing Paredes' hand.
Paredes' expression darkened. He reached for Luka's arm, gripping it tightly. "Listen, you little—"
Before he could finish, security personnel materialized around them, separating them easily. From the corner of his eye, Luka saw Haaland moving toward them, predatory intent in his stride, but the he was intercepted by the other teammates. No sense risking a suspension for the quarter finals over post-match pleasantries.
"Save it for next time," a security officer murmured, guiding Luka toward the tunnel.
Luka didn't look back. Paredes' words, intended to unsettle him, had achieved the opposite. They had reinforced what he already knew: his performance over these two legs hadn't just helped Dortmund advance; it had made powerful people elsewhere reconsider their valuations of him.
As he entered the tunnel, the stadium's roar muted slightly, replaced by the chaos of post-match media obligations. Camera crews jostled for position, reporters shouted questions in multiple languages, and UEFA officials attempted to create some semblance of order.
Palmer stood before a UEFA backdrop, patiently answering questions with the practiced neutrality of a player trained in the Guardiola school of media management. Nearby, Rose was engaged in an animated conversation with a German broadcaster, gesturing emphatically as he broke down tactical elements of the victory.
Luka navigated through the chaos, offering brief responses to shouted questions without breaking stride. The real celebration awaited in the privacy of the dressing room, away from the prying lenses of cameras
EXECUTIVE BOX
In the executive box, Nasser Al-Khelaifi stood motionless, his carefully cultivated aura of calm authority shattered. The PSG chairman stared down at the celebrating Dortmund players, his expression carved from stone.
"This is unacceptable," he said finally, his voice quiet but carrying unmistakable menace. "Completely unacceptable."
Jean-Claude Blanc approached cautiously, maintaining a respectful distance from his superior's evident fury. "A disappointing result, certainly, but—"
"Disappointing?" Al-Khelaifi's laugh was brittle. "Three billion euros invested over eleven years. Eight domestic titles. Zero European Cups. 'Disappointing' doesn't begin to describe it."
The executive's phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID and a subtle shift came over his features—something approaching dread momentarily replacing anger. Without explanation to his colleagues, he stepped away, moving to a corner of the box where his conversation might remain private.
"Mr. President," he answered, his tone instantly modulated to respectful deference.
Emmanuel Macron's voice carried clearly despite the ambient noise of the departing stadium. "Nasser. This is becoming a pattern, isn't it?"
Al-Khelaifi closed his eyes briefly. "An unfortunate result, Mr. President. The team showed great character but—"
"Character?" Macron interrupted, his tone coldly analytical. "Is that what we're calling it now? Because from my perspective, what I witnessed was the collapse of a team that contains three of the world's most expensive players."
"Football has its uncertainties, its—"
"Don't lecture me about football, Nasser. I may be President of the Republic, but I am also a supporter. And more importantly, I am keenly aware of the diplomatic and economic implications of these... failures."
Al-Khelaifi's jaw tightened. "We will have an agreement in place for the boy. For summer. His performance tonight only confirms his value."
"So we've replaced development with procurement?" Macron's voice dripped with disdain. "The sporting and diplomatic returns on Qatar's investment were clearly outlined. Influence in European capitals. Cultural soft power. Global brand enhancement. None of which is served by consistent failure on the greatest stage."
Al-Khelaifi remained silent, recognizing the futility of excuses.
"Fix this," Macron concluded. "Or we may need to reconsider certain arrangements that have benefited all parties until now."
The call ended without pleasantries. Al-Khelaifi stared at his phone for a long moment before returning it to his pocket. When he turned back to face his colleagues, his expression had reset to its customary mask of impassive authority.
"Preparations for summer transfers begin tomorrow," he announced. "No budget limitations. No negotiating constraints. Everything else is secondary."
The Sheikh nodded silently, understanding perfectly the implications. Failure would not be tolerated again.
CROTIA PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
In a government conference room in Zagreb, the Croatian cabinet meeting had disintegrated into joyous chaos. Ministers who moments earlier had been discussing taxation policy now stood clustered around a laptop streaming the match, ties loosened, formality abandoned.
"INCREDIBLE!" exclaimed Prime Minister Andrej Plenković, pounding the conference table with his fist. "Did you see that Panenka? The audacity of the boy!"
Foreign Minister Gordan Grlić-Radman nodded enthusiastically, his usual diplomatic reserve completely abandoned. "At seventeen! SEVENTEEN! Against Donnarumma! It's unbelievable!"
"We are set for the World Cup," observed Sports Minister Nikolina Brnjac, already calculating the implications. "With Modrić orchestrating midfield and Zorić in attack, not to mention the rest of our roster—Gvardiol, Kovacić, Brozović, Vlasić, Perisić, Kramarić, Stanisić… We could improve on Russia."
"Improve?" Finance Minister Zdravko Marić laughed incredulously. "We could win the whole thing! Did you see how he responded to pressure? That's Croatian spirit incarnate!"
Plenković raised his water glass in an impromptu toast. "To Luka Zorić. Today Dortmund, tomorrow Croatia, and then—the world!"
The assembled ministers raised their glasses in raucous agreement, thoughts of budget deficits and policy initiatives temporarily forgotten in the shared joy of national sporting pride.
VIP SECTION
In the VIP section, Jorge Mendes ended his call and tucked his phone away, a smile of satisfaction playing across his features.
David Beckham approached, hand extended. "Jorge. Quite the night for your young client."
Mendes accepted the handshake, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Football is about moments, David. Creating them, seizing them."
"And capitalizing on them?" Beckham suggested with knowing amusement.
Mendes shrugged elegantly. "I merely facilitate the recognition of value. The market determines price."
"And what price does the market place on him now, I wonder?" Beckham glanced down at the pitch where stadium staff were beginning the post-match clean-up.
"That depends," Mendes replied carefully, "on which market we're discussing. The transfer market? The commercial market? The cultural capital market?"
Beckham laughed. "All of them, I'd imagine."
"Then the price," Mendes said, lowering his voice slightly, "is whatever I say it is."
The agent's phone vibrated again. He glanced at it briefly. "If you'll excuse me, David. Duty calls."
As Mendes moved away, already engaged in his next conversation, Beckham shook his head in bemused admiration. In the cutthroat world of football business, few played the game with Jorge's ruthless efficiency.
Across the VIP section, in a cordoned-off area reserved for the most exclusive guests, Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia clasped hands with Yasir Al-Rumayyan, both men exuding satisfaction without the open celebrations visible elsewhere.
"Our arrangement?" Prince Abdullah inquired discreetly.
Al-Rumayyan nodded once. "Being finalized as we speak.."
"Excellent." The prince watched as Jenna Ortega made her way toward the exit, surrounded by security personnel. "And the... personal connection?"
"Being respectfully spectated," Al-Rumayyan confirmed. "These things require delicacy."
"Indeed." Prince Abdullah's smile was thin. "But they can be most effective in creating... influence."
They watched as Mendes intercepted Jenna near the exit, exchanging brief words before the young actress nodded and followed a security guard toward a private elevator.
"The Qataris focus too much on contracts," Prince Abdullah observed. "They forget that loyalty is earned through relationships, not signatures."
Al-Rumayyan nodded sagely. "That has always been their weakness. They buy compliance rather than cultivating allegiance."
Both men turned their attention back to the pitch, their expressions revealing nothing of the complex machinations already set in motion.
LOCKER ROOM
The Dortmund dressing room had transformed into a scene of controlled pandemonium. Music blasted from portable speakers, players danced in varying states of undress, and the occasional champagne spray punctuated the festivities.
Marco Rose stood to the side, allowing his players their moment of jubilation. The manager knew from experience that such celebrations needed to happen, that the emotional release was as important as the tactical debrief that would come later.
Beside him, Haaland stretched his massive frame on a massage table, the Norwegian already focused on physical recovery even as chaos reigned around him.
"You need to celebrate too," Rose told him, voice raised to be heard over the music.
Haaland shook his head. "Round of sixteens aren't trophies."
Rose smiled at the response, recognizing the elite mentality that separated good players from great ones. His eyes drifted to where Luka sat on a bench, phone in hand, apparently oblivious to the celebrations around him.
"Is he injured?" Rose asked, nodding toward Luka.
Haaland glanced over. "No. He's an overthinker. Probably already thinking about the next game."
Rose considered this. Both of them were already processing, analyzing, planning. It was simultaneously impressive and slightly unnerving.
Across the room, Marco Reus embraced Palmer, the captain's words lost in the ambient noise but his meaning clear from his expression: welcome to folklore, kid.
A staff member approached Rose, leaning close to speak directly into his ear. "Military escort is ready whenever the team is prepared to depart."
Rose nodded. The world outside still existed, with all its complications. Reports had already reached him of celebrations turning aggressive in some areas surrounding the stadium—the heightened emotions of victory sometimes manifesting in less savory ways.
"Give them another fifteen minutes," he decided. "Then recovery protocols and bus departure."
As the staff member moved away, Rose noticed Jorge Mendes entering the dressing room, the agent's tailored suit and composed demeanor standing in stark contrast to the sweaty exuberance around him. Mendes navigated the chaos with practiced ease, making a direct line toward Luka.
Rose watched as Mendes leaned down, speaking briefly to the teenager. Luka nodded, tucked his phone away, and rose to follow the agent from the room, likely for an interview.
The manager made no move to intervene. He understood the realities of modern football—that players like Luka existed simultaneously in multiple worlds. The team world. The agent world. The commercial world. The media world. All demanding attention, all pulling in different directions.
For now, he would let them have these moments. Tomorrow, the focus would shift to the quarter finals. New opponents. New challenges. New opportunities for glory.
The Champions League journey continued.