Luka Zoric

The final whistle blew, cementing Dortmund's 4-2 victory over Frankfurt. As the players congratulated each other on the pitch, the stadium echoed with chants of "Zorić! Zorić!" He couldn't help but grin, still catching his breath from his last-minute wonder goal.

As the team made their way towards the tunnel, Luka found himself mobbed by his teammates. Haaland ruffled his hair, while Reus gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "Not bad for your Bundesliga debut," the captain said with a wink.

The next morning, Luka arrived at the training ground, his body still aching from the intensity of the match. As he walked through the parking lot, he was surprised to see a small group of fans waiting by the entrance. When they spotted him, they erupted in cheers.

"Luka! Luka! Can you sign my shirt?" a young boy called out, holding a freshly bought Dortmund jersey with 'Zorić 37' printed on the back.

Luka smiled and nodded, taking the marker offered to him. As he signed the shirt, more fans approached, holding out programs, footballs, and even phones for selfies. Luka obliged as many as he could, still somewhat overwhelmed by the attention.

"You're going to be better than Sancho!" one fan exclaimed as Luka posed for a photo with him.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Luka laughed, but he couldn't deny the warm feeling in his chest at the comparison.

After about fifteen minutes, a member of the Dortmund staff gently ushered Luka inside, reminding him of the training session ahead.

As Luka changed out of his training kit after training, he noticed his phone vibrating incessantly in his locker. Curious, he picked it up to find an overwhelming flood of notifications - messages from friends and family, new social media followers, and most surprisingly, a barrage of missed calls and voicemails from numbers he didn't recognize.

Frowning, Luka began to listen to the messages, his confusion growing with each one.

"Hello, Luka. This is Martin from Pro11 Agency. We were incredibly impressed by your performance yesterday. We'd love to discuss how we can help guide your career. Please give us a call back."

Luka's brow furrowed. Pro11 Agency? He'd never heard of them. And how did they get his number?

The next message played: "Hi there, Luka. It's Sarah from Top Corner Management. Your debut was fantastic! We specialize in young talents like yourself. Let's set up a meeting to talk about your future."

Message after message followed, each from a different agency or individual agent. Luka heard from First Eleven, KeySports Management, Stellar Football Ltd, and at least a dozen others he'd never heard of. Each promised to take his career to new heights, secure lucrative contracts, and make him a household name.

As he scrolled through the missed calls, Luka's head spun. How had all these people gotten his private number? He hadn't even had time to update his social media profiles.

Just as he was about to put his phone away, it buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen made Luka's heart skip a beat: Jorge Mendes.

With shaking hands, Luka answered the call.

"Hello, Luka," came a smooth, accented voice. "This is Jorge Mendes. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

Luka swallowed hard. "No, no, it's fine," he managed to say, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Excellent. I'll keep this brief. Your performance yesterday was truly exceptional. I believe you have the potential to become one of the world's best players. I'd like to meet with you to discuss how I can help make that happen. Are you free for dinner this week?"

Luka's mind raced. Jorge Mendes, the super-agent who represented Cristiano Ronaldo and José Mourinho, wanted to have dinner with him?

"I... I'd need to check my schedule," Luka stammered. "And talk to my parents and the club..."

"Of course, of course," Mendes replied smoothly. "Take your time. But don't take too long. Opportunities like this don't come around often. I'll have my assistant send you the details. Looking forward to meeting you, Luka."

The call ended, leaving Luka staring at his phone in disbelief. As if on cue, it buzzed again with another unknown number. Hesitantly, he answered.

"Luka Zorić? This is Stefan from Soccer Stars Agency. We're a boutique agency specializing in Eastern European talents. We'd love to..."

Luka politely interrupted, "I'm sorry, how did you get this number?"

There was a brief pause. "Oh, we have our ways of keeping track of promising talents. Now, about your representation..."

Luka quickly ended the call, feeling overwhelmed and slightly unnerved. He looked at his phone, now constantly lighting up with new messages and calls from unfamiliar numbers. With a deep breath, he turned it off.

As he left the training ground, Luka made a mental note to change his phone number as soon as possible. He needed to regain some control over his suddenly very public life.

<>

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit office at St. George's Park, the English Football Association's headquarters, a group of officials were huddled around a table, discussing potential call-ups for the upcoming U21 European Championship qualifiers.

"Right, let's talk about this Zorić lad," said John McDermott, the FA's Technical Director. "He's eligible for us, you know. Born in Portugal, but he's been in England since he was a nipper."

Lee Carsley, the England U21 manager, nodded. "I've been watching him closely. His performance in the DFB-Pokal was exceptional. And he's carried that form into the Bundesliga. Two friendlies for Dortmund so far - against Athletic Bilbao and Bologna. Best player on the pitch in both games, from what I've heard."

Gareth Southgate, who had joined the meeting to discuss potential future senior team prospects, furrowed his brow. "But he's playing as a winger, isn't he? We've got plenty of those. Sancho, Rashford, Sterling... do we really need another?"

McDermott sighed. "Gareth, with all due respect, he's more than just a winger. His vision and passing range suggest he could play centrally too. We can't afford to be short-sighted here."

Carsley nodded in agreement. "Plus, he's versatile. Could play as a number 10 or even as a false 9 if needed. That kind of flexibility is invaluable."

"I don't know," Southgate mused. "Seems a bit too... foreign, doesn't he? Not sure he'd fit in with the lads."

The room fell silent for a moment, everyone taken aback by Southgate's comment.

McDermott cleared his throat. "Moving on... there's another issue we need to consider. He doesn't have an agent yet."

"No agent?" Southgate perked up. "Well, that's good, isn't it? Less hassle for us."

Carsley shook his head. "Not necessarily, Gareth. It means other countries might have an easier time approaching him directly. We need to move fast if we want to secure him for England."

As the conversation in England continued, a more enthusiastic discussion was taking place in Zagreb, Croatia.

Zlatko Dalić, the Croatia national team manager, was pacing excitedly in his office. "We need to get Zorić. Now. Today. Call him, call his parents, call Dortmund if you have to!"

His assistant looked up from his laptop. "Boss, calm down. We can't just..."

"Can't what?" Dalić interrupted. "We can't let another Croatian talent slip away! Did you see what he did in that cup game? Fifteen successful dribbles! Fifteen! Not even Modrić in his prime could do that!"

The Technical Director tried to interject. "Zlatko, we understand your excitement, but..."

"But nothing!" Dalić exclaimed. "Look, he doesn't have an agent. This is our chance. We can approach him directly, make him feel wanted. Tell him about our plans, how he could be the future of Croatian football."

The assistant nodded slowly. "That's true. No agent does make things easier. But what about his position? He's playing as a winger for Dortmund."

Dalić waved dismissively. "So? Modrić was a number 10 when he started. We moved him deeper. We can do the same with Zorić. Or keep him as a winger. The point is, he's talented and he's Croatian. We need him."

The Technical Director leaned forward. "What's your pitch, Zlatko? How do we convince him to choose Croatia over England or Portugal?"

Dalić's eyes gleamed. "We offer him a place in the senior squad. Immediately. For the World Cup qualifiers. We show him he's not just the future, he's the present. We tell him about our success in 2018, how he could be part of the next golden generation. We appeal to his Croatian heritage, his family's roots."

In Lisbon, the Portuguese Football Federation's boardroom was abuzz with activity. Fernando Santos, the national team manager, sat at the head of the table, surrounded by his coaching staff and federation officials. An unexpected presence at the meeting was a representative from Jorge Mendes' agency, Gestifute.

Santos began the discussion. "So, let's talk about Luka Zorić. Born here in Portugal, Croatian parents, now making waves in Germany. What's our position?"

The Gestifute representative leaned forward. "Jorge believes the boy has immense potential. He's keen to represent him. If that happens, Jorge thinks Luka could be ready for the senior squad sooner rather than later."

A murmur went around the room. One of the coaches spoke up, "But he's only played one competitive match for Dortmund. Isn't it too soon?"

Santos held up a hand. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. What's Zorić's current situation?"

The Technical Director consulted his notes. "He's unattached - no agent yet. Playing primarily as a winger for Dortmund, but has shown the versatility to play centrally. That debut in the DFB-Pokal was impressive - broke the record for successful dribbles in a single match."

The Gestifute representative nodded eagerly. "Exactly. Jorge sees him as a potential superstar. If we can get him on board with Portugal, and with Gestifute, it could be a win-win situation."

Santos frowned slightly. "I'm not comfortable with making national team call-ups conditional on a player's choice of agent. That's not how we operate."

The federation president, who had been quiet until now, spoke up. "What if we approach this differently? We reach out to Zorić, express our interest, maybe invite him to train with the U21s. No pressure, no conditions. If he continues to perform well, we can consider a senior team call-up down the line."

Santos nodded slowly. "That seems more reasonable. We don't want to rush things, but we also don't want to lose him to Croatia or England."

The Gestifute representative looked like he wanted to object, but held his tongue.

One of the younger coaches chimed in, "I've been watching his recent friendlies with Dortmund. He's been impressive. If he can translate that form to competitive matches, he could be a real asset."

Santos leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "Alright, here's what we'll do. We'll contact Zorić, congratulate him on his recent performances, and express our interest. We'll invite him to train with the U21s during the next international break. No promises beyond that, but we'll make it clear that we're monitoring his progress closely."

The Technical Director nodded. "And if he asks about the senior team?"

"We tell him the truth," Santos replied firmly. "That if he continues to perform at a high level, a senior call-up could be a possibility in the future. But for now, we're offering him a chance to get to know our setup with the U21s."

The federation president smiled. "I like it. It shows we're interested without putting too much pressure on the boy. And it gives us a chance to see him up close."

The Gestifute representative cleared his throat. "And if he asks about representation?"

Santos fixed him with a stern look. "We tell him that's a personal decision and not something the federation gets involved with. Is that clear?"

The representative nodded, looking slightly deflated.

"Good," Santos concluded. "Let's draft a letter to Zorić. Keep it warm but professional. We want him to feel valued, but not overwhelmed. And let's make sure we're ready to move quickly if Croatia or England start making overtures.

Little did they know that similar conversations were happening in Zagreb and London, each federation formulating their own strategies to woo the young star.