Hans-Joachim Watzke moved through the corridors of Signal Iduna Park with the measured pace of a man who understood that this evening would either crown his life's work or serve as its most painful footnote.
The Dortmund CEO's footsteps echoed against marble floors that had been polished to mirror perfection for tonight's occasion, reflecting the faces of dignitaries who had traveled from across Europe to witness what many considered the most significant match in German football's recent history.
The executive lounge hummed with conversation conducted in six different languages, a polyglot symphony of power and influence that would have been impossible to imagine when Watzke first joined the club decades earlier.
German Chancellor Olaf Scholz stood near the panoramic windows, his presence serving as governmental endorsement of tonight's symbolic importance. Members of various royal families had made the journey to Dortmund—not for Bayern Munich's predictable excellence, but to witness something unprecedented: a German club other than Bayern representing the Bundesliga at this stage of the Champions League.
For over a decade, German football had been reduced to a single narrative in the eyes of global audiences. Bayern's dominance had become so complete, so suffocating, that even their own achievements felt hollow.
Tonight offered the possibility of resurrection, of proving that German football possessed depth beyond what Munich had to offer.
Watzke paused beside a display case containing memorabilia from Dortmund's various triumphs and near-misses, his eyes settling on photographs from the 2013 Champions League final where they'd fallen to Bayern at Wembley.
The symmetry wasn't lost on him—then, as now, they'd been the underdogs carrying German football's creative spirit against establishment power.
But this team felt different.
More complete, perhaps.
Certainly more unpredictable.
His mind drifted to a meeting room many months earlier, where he'd sat across from scouts presenting analysis of a sixteen-year-old Manchester United academy player who'd impressed in exactly three training sessions.
The price tag had seemed astronomical for such limited exposure—two million pounds for a teenager who'd never played professional football, whose entire reputation rested on whispered recommendations and YouTube compilation videos.
"Far too much money," he'd muttered, studying grainy footage of Luka Zorić weaving through youth defenders with close control that suggested either exceptional talent or carefully edited highlights.
The boy had been in United's academy for years on end and despite his obvious technical ability, had barely resigtered on most scouting networks.
He understood why, after careful review they came to one, unanimous conclusion:
The boy was mediocre.
Not at the particular time in which they learned of him—No, his ability was far too tremendous to suggest as such.
But during his tenures in the U15's and U13's, there was nothing suggestive of what he'd become today.
The decision to proceed had been based more on intuition than analysis.
One that scrapped every thought conjoured from viewing 15 to 12 year old Zorić.
Something about the way the kid moved, the casual efficiency with which he eliminated defenders.
They'd taken the punt despite internal skepticism, despite financial constraints that made such risks potentially catastrophic.
Almost one season later, that punt had transformed into something approaching alchemy.
Luka Zorić's market value now exceeded one hundred million pounds, with clubs across Europe preparing offers that would establish him among the sport's financial elite before his nineteenth birthday.
In the event they themselves failed to sign Luka, which seemed more likley each day that passed—there would be no return on investment. Yet the cultural impact would be far more significant than even one hundred million pounds earned through sale.
Watzke allowed himself a moment of profound satisfaction as he surveyed the assembled dignitaries. These people hadn't come to witness another Bayern procession or Real Madrid's inevitable march toward glory. They had come because a Croatian teenager's genius had transformed Dortmund from perpetual underdogs into genuine contenders.
The philosophy that other clubs derided as naive, buying young, developing brilliantly, selling at vast profits, had produced something unprecedented. Not just individual success stories, but a complete team capable of challenging for European football's ultimate prize. The irony that their greatest achievement coincided with the vultures already circling wasn't lost on him.
Manchester City had begun preliminary discussions about Haaland, their offer structure designed to trigger release clauses that would make resistance futile. Liverpool had expressed interest in Bellingham, recognizing in the teenager the kind of complete midfielder who could define the next decade of English football. And Zorić himself would face decisions that could reshape the continental transfer market.
But tonight belonged to the present, to the culmination of patient development and tactical innovation. Through the lounge's floor-to-ceiling windows, supporters were finding their voices, their songs rising from the terraces like prayers offered to whatever footballing gods might be listening. .
The sound penetrated even the insulated luxury of the executive lounge, reminding everyone present that beneath corporate machinations and transfer negotiations lay something pure and uncomplicated—the simple human desire to witness greatness, to be present when ordinary athletes transcended their limitations to achieve something extraordinary.
Liverpool awaited on the pitch below, their red-shirted players visible through the windows as they completed final warm-up routines. Klopp's team represented everything Dortmund aspired to become—a club that had transformed potential into sustained excellence, that had learned to keep their best players rather than selling them to finance the next generation's development.
Yet tonight, for ninety precious minutes, those different philosophies would meet on equal terms.
Watzke straightened his tie and moved toward his seat.
Whatever happened, they had earned the right to dream at football's highest level. That achievement alone justified every risk, every difficult decision, every moment of doubt that had brought them to this point.
The boy from Manchester United's academy had already provided value beyond calculation. Tonight would determine whether that investment could yield football's ultimate prize.
— — —
"So," Maya said, settling deeper into the expensive leather sofa with wine glass in hand, "how did the conversation with Luka go about the kissing scene?"
Jenna felt her stomach drop, though she tried to keep her expression neutral. "I didn't tell him."
The silence that followed was immediate and loaded with judgment.
"Girl, why?" Elena asked, her photographer's instincts recognizing evasion when she saw it.
"Because..." Jenna shrugged, reaching for her own glass to buy time. "I think he'll feel insecure about it. When I asked him hypothetically how he'd feel, he was already uncomfortable."
"Ugh, men and their fragile egos," Maya muttered, rolling her eyes. "It's literally your job, Jen. Professional kissing isn't the same as personal kissing."
"But he's too sweet," Jenna protested, surprising herself with how defensive she sounded. "It's not about ego or possession. He genuinely cares enough to be bothered by it, and that's... actually kind of refreshing?"
Elena raised an eyebrow. "Refreshing enough to lie by omission?"
"I'm not lying," Jenna insisted weakly. "I'm just... postponing a difficult conversation."
"Until when?" Maya pressed. "Until it comes out in the tabloids? Until some journalist asks him about it during an interview?"
Jenna groaned, sinking deeper into the cushions. "You're right. I know you're right. I just... when am I supposed to bring this up? Hey Luka, great match tonight, by the way I kissed someone for work yesterday?"
"That's literally exactly how you bring it up," Elena said with a laugh. "Rip the band-aid off. He'll understand."
"Will he though?" Jenna asked quietly.
— — —
Dayot Upamecano stared at his reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror, the journalist's question still echoing in his ears: "Do you feel any regret about the challenge that injured Luka Zorić?"
His answer had been brutally honest: "It sounds bad, but it helps us, so no."
Now, three hours later, he was beginning to question whether honesty had been the best policy.
His phone buzzed with another Twitter notification, more abuse from Dortmund fans who'd branded him everything from cynical to criminal. The irony wasn't lost on him that these same supporters would celebrate if key Bayern players suffered similar injuries during crucial moments.
He'd spoken the truth that everyone in professional football understood but rarely admitted: injuries to key opponents were tactically advantageous, regardless of personal feelings about the individuals involved. Zorić's absence made Bayern's path to silverware easier. That was mathematical reality, not moral judgment.
But reality made for uncomfortable headlines.
A knock at his door interrupted his brooding. "Dayot? Team meeting in five minutes," came the voice of Bayern's media officer.
"Coming," he called back, taking one last look at his reflection.
He didn't regret the challenge itself—it had been instinctive, necessary, completely within the rules of competitive football. But perhaps he regretted admitting that its consequences served Bayern's interests.
— — —
The laboratory felt like stepping into a video game designed by scientists with unlimited budgets and questionable understanding of entertainment value.
Luka stood in the center of a room filled with targets, barriers, and enough monitoring equipment to track a small spacecraft, while Dr. Andreas Mueller prepared to conduct what he'd described as "creativity assessment under dynamic conditions."
"Today we explore spatial reasoning," Mueller explained, his German accent making everything sound more official than necessary. "You pass to targets while avoiding obstacles. But the obstacles move randomly, forcing constant recalculation."
Luka nodded, ball at his feet, surrounded by glowing targets that looked like props from a particularly expensive science fiction film. "Sounds straightforward enough."
"We shall see," Mueller replied with the kind of smile that suggested hidden complications.
The first few passes were simple—stationary targets, no obstacles, basic technique that any professional could execute. But as Mueller activated his computerized barrier system, glass panels began descending from the ceiling at random intervals, creating constantly shifting pathways that required split-second adjustments.
Luka's passes began incorporating elements that seemed to transcend mere problem-solving—delicate chips over barriers that appeared at precisely the wrong moment, spinning balls that curved around obstacles with millimeter precision, occasional decisions to use walls as passing partners when direct routes became impossible.
Mueller watched his monitors with increasing fascination as data streams showed neural patterns that suggested Luka was processing multiple solutions simultaneously rather than working through options sequentially. "Extraordinary," he muttered. "You're not reacting to the barriers—you're anticipating configurations that haven't appeared yet."
After twenty-five successful passes through increasingly complex scenarios, Mueller decided to implement the test's final protocol. Without warning, he programmed the system to create an impossible situation—barriers positioned to block every possible direct route to the target.
"Pass straight to the target," he instructed.
Luka attempted the pass as requested, watching the ball strike a glass barrier and bounce harmlessly back toward his feet. His expression shifted from confusion to understanding as realization dawned.
"The barriers were moving the whole time." he said, voice carrying notes of both surprise and admiration.
Mueller nodded approvingly. "Your spatial awareness operates at levels that approach precognition. You weren't avoiding barriers—you were predicting where they would appear based on patterns that exist below conscious recognition."
"Meaning?" Luka asked, though part of him suspected he already knew.
"Meaning your brain processes tactical information in ways that conventional coaching can't replicate or improve," Mueller replied, beginning to disconnect the monitoring equipment. "What you do on a football pitch isn't just technical skill—it's a form of intelligence that operates according to entirely different principles."
As they concluded the session, Luka found himself considering implications that extended far beyond injury recovery. If his abilities were truly intuitive rather than learned, what did that suggest exactly?
"Doctor," he asked as they prepared to leave the laboratory, "if my spatial awareness is really that unusual, does that change how I should approach the game?"
Mueller paused, considering the question with scientific precision. "It suggests you should trust your instincts more. Your brain is already calculating solutions that tactical analysis takes hours to discover."
Walking back through the facility's corridors, Luka reflected on advice that felt both liberating and terrifying.
— — —
"The fundamental question," Edu Gaspar said, gesturing toward financial projections spread across Arsenal's conference table, "is whether Europa League participation changes our attractiveness to elite targets."
The concern was valid and immediate. Arsenal's position in the Premier League table suggested Champions League qualification was slipping beyond reach, potentially undermining recruitment strategies that had been months in development.
"Our intelligence suggests Zorić's camp isn't particularly concerned about European competition status," reported Jason Ayto, head of recruitment. "If anything, he seems attracted to the possibility of building something rather than joining something already established."
Arsenal's commercial director raised practical concerns about image rights and sponsorship implications, but those felt secondary to fundamental questions about convincing a seventeen-year-old with unlimited options that North London represented optimal development environment.
"The psychological profile is fascinating," Edu continued, referring to reports compiled through extensive observation and source development. "Zorić appears motivated by creative expression and tactical innovation."
The irony wasn't lost on anyone present that their most compelling argument might be the very uncertainty that traditional recruitment wisdom suggested they should minimize. At Arsenal, Zorić would arrive as their unquestioned creative focal point, with systems adjusted to maximize his strengths and marketing built around his global appeal.
At established super-clubs, he would be another talented addition to squads already containing multiple world-class players. The responsibility and creative freedom that came with being one of Arsenal's cornerstones might prove more attractive than guaranteed trophies or Champions League participation.
"The Bellingham factor remains unpredictable," Ayto observed. "If Liverpool or Real Madrid makes serious moves for Jude, it could impact Luka's considerations in ways we can't easily forecast."
As discussions continued into the evening, Arsenal's executives found themselves navigating negotiations that felt more like diplomatic relations than conventional football business. They were competing not just against other clubs' financial offers, but against entirely different visions of what constituted optimal career development.
But ultimately, the decision would come down to a seventeen-year-old psychology processing options that most adults would find overwhelming. Arsenal could provide structure, opportunity, and development. Whether those offerings could compete against Real Madrid's prestige or Manchester City's financial power remained the summer's most significant unknown.
Outside the conference room windows, London's evening rush hour created patterns of movement that seemed appropriate somehow—thousands of individual decisions combining to create larger flows that couldn't be predicted or controlled, only influenced through careful positioning and patient preparation.
They could make their offer, present their vision, and hope that Luka Zorić's unique perspective would recognize opportunities that uncertainty could provide.
Whatever he decided would reshape not just his own trajectory, but the competitive balance of European football for years to come.