The morning air bit at exposed skin as Luka stepped onto Dortmund's main training pitch, his breath visible in small clouds that dissipated against the grey May sky.
Seven degrees Celsius, the same temperature as when he'd landed yesterday, but now it felt different.
Sweat was already beading at his temples despite the chill. Twenty minutes into the session and his body had reacquainted itself with the rhythm of professional training, the explosive movements, the sudden changes of direction, the constant demand for precision under pressure.
"Again!" Rose's voice cut across the pitch, sharp with focus. "Luka, quicker on the turn!"
The agility ladder stretched before him like a yellow plastic snake, each square demanding perfect foot placement at increasing speed. Luka's legs pumped with mechanical precision—in, out, in, out—his enhanced proprioception allowing him to feel exactly where each step would land before his foot made contact with the ground.
Behind him, Palmer was working through the same drill, his breathing harder, movements less fluid. "How are you not dying right now?" Palmer gasped between repetitions. "You've been out for three weeks."
Luka didn't answer immediately, too focused on the sensation of his body responding to demands that should have been impossible after his layoff. The muscle memory was intact, but added was a precision that felt almost robotic in its efficiency.
"Different training regimen," he said finally, completing the ladder and jogging back to the start. "Very different."
Rose moved between stations with clipboard in hand, monitoring each player's work rate with the intensity of someone who understood that margins at this level were measured in fractions of seconds, degrees of sharpness that could determine championship outcomes.
"Five-a-side," he announced after another fifteen minutes of individual drills. "Yellows versus blues. Twenty minutes, full intensity."
Luka found himself pulling on a yellow training bib alongside Reyna, Akanji, Witsel, and Bellingham—a midfield combination that on paper should have dominated possession against any opposition the second team could field. But football, as Rose constantly reminded them, wasn't played on paper.
The ball came to Luka's feet within seconds of kickoff, his first touch cushioning Witsel's pass while his head was already scanning for options. Reyna was making a run down the left, dragging his marker wide. Jude was pointing toward space behind the defensive line, calling for the through ball with urgency.
"Jude!" Luka called, but instead of playing the obvious pass, he chopped the ball back with his left foot, wrong-footing the defender who had committed to the interception. The space opened like a door swinging wide—suddenly he was through, one-on-one with the goalkeeper, the goal yawning ahead of him.
The finish was struck with his right foot, low and hard toward the near post. The net bulged with satisfying finality, the sound of ball against netting triggering a endorphin rush that made everything else worthwhile.
"Yeahhh!" Jude screamed, sprinting over to embrace him. "Like you never left!"
But the celebration was brief. Rose's whistle had already restarted play, the intensity unrelenting despite the training ground setting. This was the Dortmund way, no moment for self-congratulation, only the next action, the next decision, the next opportunity to improve.
Ten minutes later, Luka found himself defending a corner kick, his lack of aerial ability making him the logical choice to mark space rather than specific players. He positioned himself on the edge of the penalty area, ready to close down any loose balls that might fall to opposition feet.
The delivery was perfect, curling toward the back post where bodies converged in a tangle of yellow and blue training bibs. Luka watched the ball's flight, calculating where it might drop, positioning himself to apply pressure without committing to challenges he couldn't win.
The header came down exactly where he'd anticipated. He closed the distance quickly, applying pressure as the opposing midfielder tried to control the bouncing ball. Not a tackle, his defensive instincts weren't reliable enough for that, but presence, disruption, forcing a hurried decision that sent the ball spinning harmlessly wide.
"Good," Rose called out. "Pressure without diving in. That's all we need from you defensively."
The session continued with relentless intensity, each small-sided game bleeding into fitness drills that bled into tactical work that bled into more small-sided games. By the end, Luka's shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back like a second skin that had absorbed the salt and effort of reintroduction to elite training.
Most players headed straight for the showers as the session concluded, their energy depleted by ninety minutes of high-intensity work. But Luka lingered on the training ground, collecting balls from around the penalty area with methodical precision.
Twenty penalties.
He placed the first ball on the spot, adjusting it twice before stepping back to begin his approach.
The run-up was always the same—six steps back, slight angle to the right, deep breath to center himself. His left foot struck the ball cleanly, sending it toward the bottom corner with enough pace to beat any goalkeeper who guessed wrong.
Net.
The second penalty was aimed toward the opposite corner, his right foot this time, the connection just as clean. The ball flew with certainty.
Net.
By the fifteenth penalty, his legs were beginning to feel the accumulated fatigue of training and repetition. But this was when it mattered most, when the muscles were tired, when concentration wavered, when the pressure of real match situations could be replicated through sheer determination.
The final penalty was struck with his weaker left foot, aimed toward the center of the goal, not the most spectacular choice, but reliable under pressure when goalkeepers committed to corners that never came.
Net.
Twenty from twenthy.
Luka collected the balls one final time, stacking them in the equipment bag before walking toward the center circle. The training ground was empty now except for groundskeeping staff preparing the pitch for tomorrow's session. He lay down on the grass, ignoring the cold that immediately began seeping through his training shirt.
The sky above was the color of old pewter, clouds moving with the deliberate pace of German weather systems that promised rain but hadn't yet delivered. He pulled his water bottle from the ground beside him, drinking deeply while his heart rate gradually returned to resting levels.
May 14th was three days away. Hertha Berlin at Signal Iduna Park, with Bayern Munich playing Köln simultaneously. One point separated the teams. Ninety minutes to decide eleven years of Bayern dominance or Dortmund's return to glory.
Then May 28th.
Stade de France.
Real Madrid in the Champions League final.
—
The penthouse pool sparkled under artificial lighting, its surface disturbed only by Luka's steady strokes as he completed his morning routine. Fifty lengths of freestyle, twenty-five of backstroke, fifteen of butterfly that left his shoulders burning with productive fatigue.
The heated water felt perfect against skin that had adjusted to Romanian mountain temperatures, each stroke stretching muscles. Swimming had become his meditation, repetitive movement that cleared his mind while maintaining the cardiovascular fitness that would be essential over the next month.
He pulled himself from the pool, water streaming from his body as he reached for the towel waiting on the marble poolside. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Dortmund spread beneath him in patterns of grey and green, the city continuing its ordinary Friday morning routine while he prepared for extraordinary circumstances.
His phone buzzed from the kitchen counter where he'd left it during his swim. Jenna's name appeared on the screen, her photograph, taken during their night in Chelsea.
"Morning, beautiful," he said, settling onto the sofa with an apple and protein shake that would constitute breakfast. The fruit was perfectly ripe, sweet juice requiring a napkin as he bit into it while navigating the phone's speaker function.
"It's afternoon here," Jenna replied, her voice carrying the exhaustion that came with night shoots and irregular schedules. "Just finished filming this insane scene where I had to cry for like forty-five minutes straight. My face feels like I've been stung by bees."
Luka laughed, the sound echoing in the penthouse's open plan living area. "Sounds glamorous."
"Oh, incredibly. Nothing says movie star like having snot frozen to your face in front of a crew of sixty people." Her tone was dry but affectionate. "How are you feeling? Ready for tomorrow's training?"
"Ready for everything," he replied, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "It's strange—three weeks ago I was terrified about the injury, about missing everything important. Now I feel like I could run through walls."
"Don't run through any walls until after the Champions League final," Jenna said. "I've already cleared my schedule to be there. Wouldn't miss watching my boyfriend play for anything."
The word "boyfriend" still sent something warm through his chest, even after weeks of growing certainty about their relationship.
They talked for twenty minutes about nothing consequential, her filming schedule, his swimming routine, whether the penthouse's kitchen needed upgrading, plans for the summer that felt simultaneously immediate and impossibly distant.
"I should let you go," Jenna said finally. "You've got training, I've got another scene in an hour. But Luka?"
"Yeah?"
"Win everything. I want to date a Champions League winner."
After the call ended, Luka finished his apple while scrolling through news updates that confirmed what everyone already kne, —the weekend would determine everything. Bayern's match against Köln, Dortmund's final showdown with Hertha Berlin, the culmination of months of calculated pressure and accumulated expectation.
The gym beckoned.
An hour later, sweat poured down his back as he completed his final set of deadlifts, the weight plates clanging against each other with metallic finality. His legs burned with the kind of productive pain that indicated systems working at maximum efficiency.
"Ahh," he breathed through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to drop the weight before completing the full repetition. The enhanced muscle coordination allowed him to maintain perfect form even as fatigue accumulated.
The final rep was completed with deliberate control, the weight touching the ground with precision rather than the crash that would indicate technical breakdown under pressure. Luka stood slowly, rolling his shoulders as lactic acid gradually cleared from overworked muscles.
May 14th was two days away.
—
Dawn revealed Dortmund's training facility from a perspective usually reserved for helicopters and surveillance drones. The complex spread across perfectly manicured grounds like a monument to systematic excellence.
The engine was running at maximum efficiency, every component optimized for the performance that would define careers and legacies.
Rose's office overlooked the main training pitch, its floor-to-ceiling windows providing unobstructed views of tactical preparations that had occupied his thoughts for months. On his desk, tactical diagrams competed for space with medical reports and psychological assessments, the accumulated data of modern football management.
Below, players moved through rehearsed patterns that would become instinct under pressure. Passing combinations designed to break down defensive structures. Movement sequences intended to create space where none appeared to exist. The systematic dismantling of opposition through preparation that bordered on obsession.
The sports science department hummed with activity as specialists monitored biometric data that would determine individual training loads, ensuring peak physical condition without risking breakdown during the crucial period. Heart rate variability, muscle tension, sleep quality, every aspect of athletic performance measured and optimized.
In the psychology wing, mental conditioning sessions prepared players for pressure that would test not just technical ability but character, resilience, the capacity to perform when millions of people were watching and seasons hung in balance.
The machinery of elite football operating at frequencies invisible to casual observation, every detail calibrated to produce moments of brilliance when they mattered most.
—
Saturday, May 14th.
The final day of the Bundesliga season arrived with weather that seemed designed for drama, overcast skies that threatened rain without delivering it, temperature hovering just above comfortable, wind carrying the tension of a city holding its breath.
Bayern Munich's team bus departed their Munich hotel at 1:47 PM, beginning the journey to Köln that would either secure their twelfth consecutive Bundesliga title or mark the end of unprecedented dominance. Through tinted windows, players who had become accustomed to championship parades now faced the possibility of explaining failure.
But in Dortmund, a different energy was building.
The first signs appeared at dawn, yellow and black flags emerging from apartment windows like flowers blooming in fast motion. By mid-morning, every major street leading toward Signal Iduna Park displayed some form of support, from professional banners to children's drawings taped to lamp posts.
Cars moved through the city with unusual decoration, Dortmund scarves trailing from windows, horns honking in rhythms that approximated stadium chants. The sound created a urban symphony of hope that grew louder as afternoon approached.
Helicopters circled overhead, their cameras broadcasting images of a city transforming itself into something approaching carnival. News crews from across Europe had descended on Dortmund, recognizing that this single match might represent a historical pivot point in German football.
Politicians arrived in official motorcades, their presence acknowledging that sport sometimes transcended entertainment to become cultural statement. The mayor of Dortmund, the minister-president of North Rhine-Westphalia, representatives from Berlin who understood that football success translated into economic and social benefits that extended far beyond stadium walls.
The convergence was complete, fans, media, officials, and players drawn toward a single point in space and time where everything would be decided by the fundamental simplicity of football: twenty-two players, one ball, ninety minutes to determine eleven years of accumulated dreams and disappointments.
Signal Iduna Park rose from the urban landscape like a concrete cathedral, its yellow and black exterior already glowing under floodlights that wouldn't be necessary for hours but served as beacon for supporters streaming toward their football pilgrimage.
Inside, the pitch waited in perfect condition, grass cut to precise specifications, lines painted with mathematical accuracy.
The stage was set.
Everything was ready.
Dortmund.