Chapter Text
The sun was blistering through the thick layer of sun protection covering Luka's sweaty face. With barely minutes left to the game he kept running, sliding between the players with an elegant and practised confidence. Exhaustion creeped on his heels, heavily shadowing his every move, but Luka joined the counter-attack, ignoring his ragged breath and heart, heavily thundering in his ears.
The game went deep into overtime when the ball got sent into the penalty box, and Pasalic has barely managed to pass it to Gvardiol. Joshko scored, and the stands exploded with screaming, erupting into the chaos. His team cheered and went running, not quite believing their luck, when a sharp whistle pierced their ears. The referee hurriedly made his way to VAR screens, and Luka stood aside, head spinning and eyes stinging from sweat. For a long minute everything froze, and the stadium seemed to hold one shared anticipatory breath.
Finally, the referee has turned around. "Croatia's player number 20 touched the ball," Luka heard faintly and felt his heart drop. An offside. He stumbled away with a crooked smile, and the playing field started spinning before him, distorted like in a kaleidoscope. A few seconds later another whistle broke through unbearably hot air. Everything was finally over.
The stadium roared like a wounded beast. People were screaming at the top of their lungs, thousands of voices combined in an illegible cacophony, disorienting and uncanny. Luka came to a sudden stop and tightly squeezed his eyes. The stakes for this torturous match ran higher than ever and the unbearable noise briefly stunned him. Adrenaline coursing through his system shot up, finally pushing him over the thin edge he balanced on for months.
He was back in Ugoslavia. Most of their neighbours have already left, escaping from Serbian military forces marching through their land. The air strikes became more frequent, forcing Luka's family to spent long hours in the damp and cramped basement, jerking from every sharp bang in the distance. They have already packed as much as they could carry, but his grandfather still haven't returned from the city, and they were forced to stay behind. Tension permeated every room of their quite little house as they waited, making Luka anxious and jittery.
Luka was always interested in football - his father would later joke about little Luka's whole face transforming if he was shown a ball. One inconspicuous day the quite seemed to finally settle over the village for a few breezy morning hours. With nothing better to do, Luka was playing outside, chasing the old beat up ball into the empty field by the road. He had just jumped other the ditch filled with stale water, making his way through the morning dew and thick fog, when his mother desperately called his name from the distance.
The world exploded. He was thrown back, deafened by the terrible sound that would keep ringing in his ears even three decades later. His mother screamed in agony, rushing over, and everything what happened next got fuzzy.
Later he would learn that he nearly stepped on the landmine.
The spectators continued to rage, their voices blending together into a single oppressing howl of celebration and defeat. He was clapped on the back and consoled by the opponents whose faces he couldn't distinguish. With an empty and cotton-like head, Luka forced his tired legs to keep walking, one in front of the other, when a tall figure appeared to his right.
Cristiano pulled him into a hug and said something sympathetic in Spanish. Luka couldn't make out the words, but a gentle touch and the familiar scent of fresh grass, sweat and Ronaldo's pretentious cologne grounded him better than any useless breathing exercise ever could. They stepped apart and Cristiano combed his fingers through Luka's sweaty hair, stopping his warm hand to rest on the back of Luka's neck. They shared a meaningful look.
Captain of his own national team, Ronaldo intimately knew how important winning a World Cup was to a player their age, and how disastrous Croatia's loss was for Luka's ending football career. They were never particularly close, but he and Luka spent years standing shoulder to shoulder, sharing victories and failures. This match most likely would be the last time they ever shared the pitch. It didn't seem to matter how many times Luka lost with different clubs or in the national team. Every mistake in "Dinamo", every failed El Classico or a World Cup were still weighing heavily on his shoulders. He had an awful habit of taking his team's mistakes like a personal failure, and today's falilure was the worst one yet.
A walk of shame finally over, Luka turned to the dressing room, stubbornly looking down. The memory has passed, leaving him vulnerable and shaky, a buzzing sound still ringing in his ears. It was time to go home.
He used to call "home" a little house hidden on the edge of the village and surrounded by undisturbed wild scenery. His grandmother, making palachinky with cottage cheese and sour cream, or taking him into the forest to help her forage berries and mushrooms. His grandfather, teaching him how to graze cattle, taking him to hunt, or carving him little wooden animals to play with. His parents, always working, but eager to spend with him little free time they had.
All of his early childhood was tainted by war - everything was taken away, burned down or killed, like none of his happiness ever happened, like the immensity of his world turned out to be completely insignificant. His family ran, carrying bare necessities and sentimental keepsakes one could fit in a single bag, to never return back home.
So now his home was an empty road, a refugee camp, a hotel filled with scared and hurt strangers. His teammates - a forlorn mismatched crowd of kids, and his playing field - a parking lot, weathered down and narrow. Football became his focal point, the only familiar thing in a whirlwind that uprooted his whole life. Luka spent endless hours just perfecting his passes and tricks, getting faster and stronger, trying to jump over his own head. He got better until his raw talent became impossible to ignore.
Teams, clubs and countries changed each other with a blink of an eye. He got used to always being on the move for the away-games and tournaments, to new faces and unfamiliar languages. He changed hotel rooms, buses, flats and cars without paying it any mind - nothing around Luka seemed his to keep, and he couldn't stop to think, couldn't rest for a second. For awhile he thought that he might keep a foothold in a Premier League, but Real Madrid's unexpected offer turned his life upside down once again.
The second he stepped down the air plane trap Madrid met him with a ruthless heat of last days of summer, infused with scent of boiling hot concrete and rubber. Grand cathedrals and narrow streets of Old City loomed over Luka's cab as he curiously peered outside. Sitting in the backseat, alone in unfamiliar country and not knowing a single world in Spanish besides an uncertain "si", Luka felt a tentative hope shyly blooming in his chest. The possibilities in front of him were be endless - If he was good enough and fit in a team like he belonged there, if management liked him and their investment in Luka payed off.
With his first salary Luka took out a mortgage for a little villa on Francisco Alcántara street, just a few blocks away from the local art school, surrounded by lavish greenery and quite invisible neighbours. He was barely introduced to the team before joining them in the ongoing ruthless competition for Supercopa de España against Barcelona, but the real challenge was awaiting him later. Сoaching staff learned pretty quickly that Luka's slower playing style was almost impossible to incorporate into the team's rapid dynamic, and his glorious future career in the club has almost ended right then and there. So he did what he does best - worked like a dog, until his muscles crumped and his body hurt like he was being beaten during the practise. He gave everything he had to the club, hoping that Madrid would become a home, and he could stay for good.
Wishful thinking. In years to come he went from the "worst signing of the year" to one one the best mild-fielders in the history of football, but of course it wouldn't have been enough. It took him an embarrassingly long time to understand that football was never about the team, the trophies or even the game itself. At the end of the day it always came down to money.
Long and humiliating negotiations failed, and the truth became undeniable. After 13 long years filled with endless awards and wins, his club simply didn't want him anymore. No matter what he offered in desperation, including an undignified pay-cut, the decision was already made for him. And here Luka was - pushing forty, thrown out on his ass like he wasn't a captain of Real Madrid once.
Laced with bitterness and heartbreak he said his goodbyes to Real Madrid after the match against Paris Saint-Germain, a few hot tears escaping down his face despite his best efforts. In the unusually sombre locker room Bellingham was the first one to tug at Luka's elbow, dragging him into a suffocating and heartfelt hug. Mbappe and Guler joined them, and soon Luka was covered from all sides, surrounded by laughter and warmth. The times were changing, and it seemed like his younger teammates were mourning the era that was inevitably slipping away along with Luka.
Untethered once again, Luka briefly considered retiring, but the thought of staying idle was simply torturous. He still had a few good years in him, and so he went, seen off only by the Madrid's indifferent blue sky and suffocating dusty wind.