The cryotherapy chamber felt like being buried alive in winter. Minus one hundred and ten degrees Celsius, they'd said, as if numbers could capture the sensation of your blood literally slowing, your thoughts crystallizing like your breath.
Just the shift of his weight—a microscopic movement, sent his hip screaming.
But dwelling on his injury would do no good, instead he fixed his eyes on the television beyond the frosted window.
Liverpool versus Dortmund. Tomorrow.
Damn.
The word echoed in his skull, bouncing off thoughts of Anfield's crowd, of Klopp's Gegenpressing football, of his brothers walking into that cauldron while he stood in a Romanian freezer like expensive meat. One million euros for three weeks of this. Puma paying over half because their golden boy needed fixing. His own money and Mendes' covering another massive chunk because what else were they supposed to do.
The timer read forty seconds.
Each one stretched like taffy.
Through the window, past the medical equipment and into the hallway, he could see Gheorghe mopping the floors. The Romanian janitor was Sixty-something years old, gray-stubbled, built like every Eastern European grandfather who'd survived things that would break modern men.
Their eyes met through the glass. Gheorghe paused, then raised his mop handle in a mock salute. Despite everything, Luka found himself almost smiling.
The old man was overtly genuine, more than many of the people he'd met since he'd landed in Romania.
With Gheorghe there was no deference, no celebrity worship, just "You're blocking my floor, boy" on the first day.
The chamber door hissed open. The rush of eighteen-degree air felt tropical against his frozen skin.
"Inflammation markers look good," said Dr. Radu Popescu, the facility's head of recovery. Unlike the parade of international specialists Mendes had flown in, Popescu was one of the few who were local—trained in Bucharest, perfected his craft with the Romanian Olympic team, spoke English with textbook pronunciation.
"Your tissue responds well to cold."
"Fantastic," Luka muttered, accepting the thick robe. "Maybe I should move to Antarctica."
Popescu's mouth twitched—the closest he came to smiling. "The pool next. Maria is waiting."
Maria. Another Romanian.
The hydrotherapist who'd spent thirty years fixing broken athletes in a country that barely funded sports. She had hands like a blacksmith and approximately zero patience for what she called "Western softness."
The facility sprawled around him as he walked—glass and steel grafted onto an old communist-era training center, like someone had dropped a spacecraft onto a brutalist building. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the Carpathian foothills rolled away in waves of green and morning mist.
Beautiful, if you ignored the circumstances that brought you here.
His phone, clutched in his free hand, buzzed with notifications. The group chat was chaos:
Palmer: "Lads I'm actually shitting myself"
Marco: "First time at Anfield?"
Palmer: "In a match that matters yeah"
Gio: "You'll be fine. Just don't think about the screaming scousers"
Palmer: "Cheers mate really helpful"
Luka typed: "Someone film Erling's pre-match meditation. Comedy gold."
Then deleted it.
It felt… off somehow.
What was the point? He wasn't there.
Wasn't part of the build-up, the nerves, the shared experience that bonded teams.
The hydrotherapy room smelled like chlorine and tiger balm. Maria stood by the pool, arms crossed, a scowl practicaly plastered on her face.
"In," she commanded. "Twenty minutes, building intensity. And no whining like yesterday."
"I didn't whine," Luka protested, dropping the robe.
The water was precisely calibrated—warm enough to promote blood flow, cool enough to prevent inflammation. Luka began walking, then jogging, each step monitored by underwater cameras that fed data to screens he'd learned to ignore. The numbers meant nothing to him. Only the sensation mattered—the deep ache in his hip that had gone from sharp agony to dull reminder.
"Faster," Maria commanded. "You're not here for vacation."
Twenty minutes in water felt like hours. His hip protested, adjusted, protested again. Maria made notes on her waterproof tablet, occasionally barking corrections in both English and Romanian that he'd learned to interpret through tone alone.
When it finally ended, she helped him out with surprising gentleness. Her hands found the joint, manipulating it through range-of-motion tests that told stories in winces and relief.
"Better," she declared. "Maybe you're not completely hopeless."
High praise from Maria.
Soon enough he found himself exploring the facility once again. Not that he needed to, the entire floorplan had already mapped into his brain. Courtesy of countless house walks during moments of hillside boredom.
The facility's main building had been transformed into Mendes' field office. Through glass doors, Luka could see his agent holding court with another set of executives. Yesterday had been Atletico. The day before, emissaries from Milan. Today looked like—he squinted at the presentation on screen—Monaco? No, Lille. The French were making their pitch.
He slipped past, heading for the dining room. Let Mendes handle the circus. All Luka wanted was food and solitude.
The kitchen was run by Mihai, a three-Michelin-star chef who'd given up his Bucharest restaurant for this bizarre gig.
"Better pay, less pretentious customers," he'd explained on Luka's first day, preparing a recovery meal that of grilled chicken that tasted like God's revelation.
"The usual?" Mihai asked, already plating before Luka could answer. "You look tired."
"Yeah. The match..."
"Ah." Mihai's hands moved with deliberate grace, adding microgreens that served no purpose except beauty. "You know, my son plays football. Under-15s. Won't shut up about you."
Everyone had a son, a nephew, a cousin. Everyone wanted a piece of the Luka Zorić story, even while serving him lunch.
"Maybe I could sign something for him?" Luka offered.
"He'd prefer you stayed at Dortmund," Mihai replied, sliding the plate across. "But he's twelve. Doesn't understand money yet."
Neither did Luka, really.
He ate mechanically, scrolling through his phone. Jenna had sent photos from her night shoot—Wednesday Addams in full costume, somehow making psychotic teenager look elegant. Their relationship had shifted from possibility to reality with surprising speed. The world's most eligible young footballer and Hollywood's newest obsession. Their publicists were having collective orgasms.
But when she called late at night, voice tired from filming, it felt real. When she'd spent time with him after Chelsea, wearing his clothes and eating takeaway while binge-watching Croatian films he insisted were classics, it felt normal. Or as normal as anything in his life could be.
"Mr. Zorić?"
He looked up to find Ana, the facility coordinator. Twenty-five, business degree from Poland, somehow juggling the logistics of his recovery with the grace of someone twice her age. "Your session with Professor Ionescu in fifteen minutes."
Professor Ionescu—the biomechanics specialist.
The biomechanics lab looked like something from science fiction. Cameras at every angle, sensors creating mesh patterns on skin, screens showing skeletal overlays and muscle activation patterns. Ionescu himself was pure academic—wire-rimmed glasses, coffee-stained lab coat.
"Today we analyze your plant angle," he announced, barely looking up from his screens.
"Strip."
Luka complied, standing in the sensor field while Ionescu muttered in Bulgarian. The professor had him perform basic movements—squats, lunges, single-leg balances. Each repetition generated data that scrolled across screens in patterns that made Ionescu increasingly animated.
"Here!" The professor pointed at a skeletal overlay. "You see? Three degrees off optimal. This creates kinetic chain disruption, forces compensation through lumbar spine. No wonder your hip gave out."
For the next hour, Ionescu rebuilt Luka's movement patterns from the ground up. Micro-adjustments that felt wrong but supposedly optimized force distribution. By the end, sweat poured down Luka's back despite the climate control.
"Homework," Ionescu declared, handing over a tablet with exercise videos. "Twice daily. Don't skip or I'll know."
The afternoon stretched empty. Treatment was done, meetings were Mendes' problem, and the match wouldn't start for hours. Luka found himself wandering the facility's grounds like usual, eventually settling on a bench overlooking the valley.
His phone rang. Jude.
"Shouldn't you be in team meetings?" Luka answered.
"Tactical walk-through in twenty. Just wanted to check you're not going mental."
"Only slightly." Luka watched a hawk circle overhead. "How's everyone?"
"Pre match nerves are in there air. Malen keeps talking about Salah like he's superhuman. Erling's doing his meditation."
"And you?"
A pause. Then, with characteristic Bellingham honesty: "Trying not to think about how we have to adapt without you."
There was weight to the statement. He was a vital part of the creativity in Dortmund. Often it would be Luka's flairful genius and Jude's intelligence combining into something greater that won matches.
Now wit Brandt likely playing in his position. Jude would have to compensate, different passes, different movements, less chemistry..
"You'll be fine," Luka said. "Just—"
"Stay wide when they press, look for Palmer's runs, don't let Henderson get in my head." Jude laughed. "I've watched the same videos you have, mate."
"Actually I was going to say don't try to do too much. Let the game come to you."
"Yeah, right. Mr. I'm Going To Dribble Through Three Players has advice about restraint."
They talked for ten more minutes—tactics and gossip, the transfer saga, whether Erling would stay another season. Normal conversation between friends, if you ignored the stakes and setting. When they hung up, Luka felt the absence like a physical thing.
The sun was setting when his phone buzzed. Jenna, finally done with her night shoot.
"I'm in a car," she announced without preamble. "Three hours to you. Tell security I'm coming so they don't shoot me."
"Jenna—"
"Don't argue. I have two days off and my boyfriend is injured in Romania. Where else would I go?"
Boyfriend. The word still sent something warm through his chest.
"Drive safe," he said. "The roads up here are terrible."
"Please. I learned to drive in California. Romanian mountain roads are nothing."
After she hung up, Luka made his way back inside. The facility was quieter now—day staff gone home, only the night medical team remaining. Through Mendes' office window, he could see his agent still in meetings, now with someone bearing Real Madrid's crest on his tablet case.
The circus never stopped.
— — + — —
Dawn in Liverpool came with the sound of seagulls and distant ferry horns. Jude lay in his hotel bed, staring at the ceiling while his mind ran through tactical permutations. Without Luka, everything shifted. The spaces he usually occupied, the runs that created chaos, the moments of genius that turned matches—all absent.
His phone showed 5:23 AM. Still early, but sleep was done. He could feel it in his bones, that match-day electricity that made rest impossible.
The group chat was already stirring:
Erling: "Morning champions 🏆"
Jude smiled despite his nerves. This was ritual—Erling's relentless positivity.
He rolled out of bed, feet finding carpet as Liverpool murmured beyond his window. Somewhere in this city, Trent was probably awake too. They'd been England roommates last camp, spent hours playing FIFA and talking about everything except football. Tonight they'd try to destroy each other. Tomorrow they'd be brothers again.
That was football's beautiful madness.
The shower ran hot, steam filling the bathroom while Jude let his mind wander. He thought about Birmingham, about the academy days when Champions League semifinals seemed like impossible dreams. His little brother had called yesterday, jealous about missing school for the match. "Score one for me," he'd demanded with fifteen-year-old certainty.
Everyone wanted something. His agent with contract offers that made his head spin—City promising Pep's tutelage, Liverpool offering the chance to live in England, PSG throwing money like confetti.
His parents just wanted him happy. His coaches wanted him focused. The fans wanted miracles.
What did Jude want?
At nineteen, life had become a series of massive decisions disguised as opportunities. Stay at Dortmund where he'd become essential? Join a super-club where he'd be another talent in the collection? Follow Luka wherever his Croatian genius led?
Because that was the unspoken truth—those in the club with offers from bigger teams future depended on Luka's decision.
If he stayed, others might too.
If he left for Madrid or Manchester, the exodus would begin.
Palmer was already gone, City was probably preparing a new contract package that would make him one of England's highest-paid teenagers. Erling had bigger dreams than the Bundesliga could satisfy.
And Jude? Jude was tired of being the adult in rooms full of millionaire children.
Breakfast happened in the team's private dining room. The usual suspects were already there—Dahoud, Akanji, the younger players trying to seem calm while radiating nervousness.
"Can't believe you're awake." Palmer said, sliding in beside him.
"Couldn't sleep. You?"
"Dreamt about van Dijk. Kept growing taller every time I tried to pass him." Palmer shook his head. "My subconscious is a dick."
They ate in comfortable silence, watching Liverpool wake through rain-streaked windows. The city had football in its DNA—you could feel it in the air, the way people moved with match-day purpose even hours before kickoff.
Rose entered at seven sharp, commanding attention without raising his voice. The manager had that gift—authority that didn't require volume.
"Gentlemen," he began, coffee in hand. "Light training at ten, lunch at one, final meeting at three. Bus leaves at five-fifteen." He paused, scanning faces. "I know what you're thinking. How do we cope without Luka? The answer is simple—we don't cope. We adapt. We evolve. We show that Dortmund is more than one player."
Easy words. Harder execution. Often times it would be Luka's creativity that would change games for them.
The training session was light—possession drills, set-piece review, enough movement to activate muscles without draining energy. Jude found himself dropping deeper than usual, already adjusting to the space he'd need to cover.
"Oi, Bellingham!" A coach called out during a water break. "Good work sor far but push higher. Brandt will be there to help in defense."
Simple advice that hit harder than intended. How much of his game had become compensation for his friend's absence? How much was authentic Bellingham versus borrowed Zorić?
Back at the hotel, lunch was communal but quiet. The staff had learned their preferences—what settled nervous stomachs, what provided energy without weight. Jude picked at his pasta, mind already in the stadium.
His phone buzzed. A photo from Luka—him in what looked like a medical pool.
The caption: "Living my best life. Destroy them."
At five, they boarded the bus. Police motorcycles led them through Liverpool's streets while crowds pressed close whenever traffic slowed. Faces against windows, scarves waved like battle standards, the passion palpable even through reinforced glass.
Jude put his headphones on but played no music. He preferred absorbing the atmosphere—the songs already starting, the rivers of red converging on Anfield, the weight of history in every brick.
His phone lit up with messages. Family, friends, agents, sponsors. He ignored them all except one—a voice note from his little brother: "Remember you promised to score for me. Don't bottle it."
No pressure then.
Anfield loomed ahead, its famous gates already surrounded by thousands. This was Liverpool's fortress, where European dreams came to die. The Kop was already in voice, their songs carrying across Stanley Park like ancient war cries.
Inside, everything intensified. The narrow corridors felt like they were closing in, designed to intimidate before you even reached the pitch. The famous "This Is Anfield" sign hung above the tunnel—some players touched it for luck, others ignored it from superstition.
Jude did neither. He simply noted its presence, filing it away with all the other details that made this night special.