The air at Signal Iduna Park crackled with anticipation as the Champions League anthem echoed through the stadium. Luka stood in the tunnel, eyes fixed forward, his mind already on the pitch that awaited. The roar from the Yellow Wall penetrated even the concrete surroundings.
Chelsea's players were arranged alongside them in the tunnel, their blue kits a stark contrast to Dortmund's vibrant yellow. Luka caught Pulisic's eye—the American nodding slightly in acknowledgment. They'd never met personally, but football's fraternity created instant recognition. Chelsea's number ten had once worn Dortmund yellow, the connection adding another layer to an already complex narrative.
"Ready?" Bellingham asked, adjusting the captain's armband that seemed increasingly natural on his young frame.
Luka nodded, his expression betraying nothing of the butterflies that fluttered in his stomach. The quarterfinals. Chelsea. Another step into football's stratosphere.
The referee signaled forward, and Luka stepped into the wall of sound, the Yellow Wall's coordinated display transforming the south stand into a sea of black and yellow, an intimidating sight for any visiting team, even one as experienced as Chelsea.
As they lined up for the pre-match formalities, Luka studied their opponents. This Chelsea wasn't the dominant force of previous years, but they remained dangerous—a team in transition yet still packed with quality. Thomas Tuchel stood in the technical area, his intense gaze scanning the Dortmund lineup. The German knew this stadium intimately from his own time at the club, adding yet another subplot to the evening's drama.
"Zorić," a voice said as they moved through the handshake line. Luka looked up to find Kai Havertz extending his hand. "Looking forward to this."
The formality of the German's tone couldn't disguise the competitive edge beneath. Luka gripped his hand firmly. "Same here."
These micro-interactions—the handshakes, the brief exchanges, the measured assessments—were as much part of elite football as the action itself. Psychological chess before the physical battle.
The coin toss went Chelsea's way, Thiago Silva choosing to swap ends rather than kick-off. The teams dispersed to their positions, Luka taking his place on the left. Across the pitch, Reece James adjusted his socks, preparing to mark Luka down Chelsea's right flank—a matchup that promised to define much of the contest.
Bellingham gathered the team for a final huddle. "We belong here," he reminded them, his voice carrying the confidence that had become trademark. "PSG was no fluke. Let's show them who we are."
The whistle blew, and football's beautiful chaos began.
Chelsea started with composed possession, Jorginho and Kanté establishing immediate control in midfield. The Londoners' approach was methodical, probing for weaknesses rather than committing to direct attacks. Luka dropped deeper than usual, helping to close passing lanes as Chelsea circulated the ball with patient confidence.
"They'll do this all night if we let them," Bellingham muttered as they reset their defensive shape Chelsea's control was built on comfort—allow them to establish their patterns, and their quality would eventually create openings. Disruption was essential.
When Jorginho received his next pass, Luka was already moving—not lunging recklessly but applying intelligent pressure, forcing the Italian to play quicker than he wanted. The pass to Havertz was fractionally overhit, allowing Hummels to step forward and intercept.
"Jetzt!" Hummels shouted—Now!—triggering Dortmund's transition.
The ball moved quickly through midfield—Dahoud to Bellingham to Palmer—each touch purposeful, each pass progressive. Luka had already begun his run, exploiting the space behind James who had been drawn infield by Palmer's movement.
Bellingham spotted the run, lifting a perfectly weighted pass into Luka's path. The weight was exquisite—firm enough to cover the distance but soft enough to die into Luka's stride as he approached the penalty area.
His first touch was deliberate, cushioning the ball into his path while simultaneously surveying the penalty area. Haaland had positioned himself intelligently between Chelsea's center-backs, creating separation from both. The cutback opportunity beckoned.
Reece James recovered ground impressively, closing the angle for the simple ball across goal. Luka hesitated, foot hovering over the ball, the momentary pause creating uncertainty in James's defensive stance. Then, decisively, he dropped his shoulder left before cutting back right, creating just enough separation to deliver.
The cross was whipped rather than floated, skimming beyond Rüdiger's desperate lunge, arriving at Haaland's feet with pace. The Norwegian's first touch was heavy—uncharacteristically so—allowing Thiago Silva to slide in with perfect timing, clearing the danger before Haaland could recover.
"Unlucky," Luka called to Haaland as they reset defensively. The Norwegian nodded, already focused on the next opportunity.
Chelsea resumed their patient approach, now with greater caution, respecting the threat Dortmund had demonstrated. Tuchel gesticulated from the touchline, urging his team to maintain width, stretching Dortmund's defensive structure.
Twenty minutes passed with neither team establishing clear dominance. Luka found himself increasingly involved defensively, the one skill he was less than mediocre at.
That much was evident when attemption to track arguably the best right back in football—James', forward runs, all while seeking opportunities to transition quickly when possession changed hands.
The game's first flashpoint came from a seemingly innocuous situation. A Chelsea attack broke down, the ball falling to Dahoud who turned quickly, looking to release Palmer on the counter. Kanté lunged in, catching the German midfielder late, sending him sprawling.
The referee immediately produced a yellow card, Kanté accepting the punishment without complaint. As Dahoud received treatment, players from both teams used the break to hydrate, the April evening warmer than typical for Dortmund this time of year.
"They're tight on you," Bellingham observed, passing Luka a water bottle. "Might be space centrally if you draw James inside."
Luka nodded, already processing the tactical adjustment. "I'll hold wider initially, get him committed."
Play resumed with a Dortmund free kick just inside their own half. Rather than launch it forward, Hummels played short to Akanji, who in turn found Bellingham in space. The captain turned smoothly, immediately looking for progressive options.
Luka had positioned himself exactly as discussed—wider than previously, hugging the touchline, demanding James's attention. As Chelsea's defensive line shifted to account for this positioning, space opened centrally for Palmer, who had drifted between the lines.
Bellingham found him with a crisp pass to feet. Palmer received on the half-turn, immediately aware of Luka's movements. Rather than force the issue, he recycled possession calmly, maintaining Dortmund's control while allowing the attack to develop organically.
The patience was deliberate—stretching Chelsea horizontally, creating the gaps that could be exploited. When the ball eventually reached Luka again, he had James isolated, exactly the scenario they had engineered.
His first touch was toward the touchline, inviting James to commit. The English defender approached cautiously, aware of Luka's technical ability but equally conscious of his defensive responsibilities.
Luka placed his foot on the ball, momentarily pausing play, a heartbeat where possibilities hung suspended.
The pause itself was tactical—drawing James closer, encouraging him to engage. When the defender edged forward, Luka accelerated suddenly, pushing the ball toward the byline before sharply cutting inside.
James responded admirably, shifting his weight to intercept the change of direction. But Luka had anticipated this, executing a rapid stop-start movement that left the defender momentarily wrong-footed.
The space created was minimal but sufficient. Luka whipped a cross toward the near post, where Haaland had made a characteristic dart ahead of his marker. The Norwegian's connection was solid but not perfectly clean, sending the ball skimming wide of Kepa's left post.
"So close!" The commentator's voice rose above the collective groan from the Yellow Wall. "Brilliant work from young Zorić to create the opportunity!"
As play continued, the tactical patterns became increasingly defined. Chelsea sought to control through possession, their midfield establishing territorial dominance. Dortmund, meanwhile, looked most dangerous in transition.
The match's rhythm established itself—Chelsea probing, Dortmund absorbing before countering. Neither approach yet yielding the game's first goal, but the tension building with each passing minute.
Thirty-five minutes in, the deadlock nearly broke. Mount, finding rare space between Dortmund's defensive lines, threaded a perfectly weighted pass to Havertz. The German's first touch was immaculate, creating the angle for a shot that seemed destined for the bottom corner until Kobel's fingertips diverted it inches wide.
"Outstanding save!" The commentary team enthused. "The Swiss goalkeeper keeping Dortmund level with fantastic reflexes!"
The resulting corner came to nothing, but Chelsea's threat was clear. Their patient approach was creating opportunities, their technical quality evident despite the hostile environment.
Minutes later, Dortmund earned their first set-piece in a dangerous position—Palmer fouled by Rüdiger twenty-five yards from goal, slightly left of center. As Bellingham placed the ball, Luka approached him.
"I'll take it," he said simply.
Bellingham nodded. "You know it's yours."
The confidence wasn't arrogance but calculated assessment. Through hours of practice and match footage analysis, Luka knew Kepa's tendencies intimately. The Spanish goalkeeper had a particular weakness against shots to his top-right corner, his footwork often betraying him when forced to push off to his weaker side.
As Luka placed the ball, organizing his run-up, he felt a strange calm descend. The stadium noise receded, his focus narrowing to the task at hand—the ball, the wall, the goalkeeper, the target. He visualized the shot before taking it, seeing its arc and destination with perfect clarity.
The referee's whistle cut through his concentration. Three steps back, one to the side—his routine was consistent, practiced thousands of times on training grounds far from the spotlight's glare.
His approach was smooth, gathering momentum with each stride. The connection was clean—instep rather than laces, imparting the perfect combination of power and precision. The ball rose over the wall before dipping viciously, its trajectory taking it toward the top right corner that Luka had identified as Kepa's vulnerability.
The goalkeeper's reaction was impressive—explosive movement, full extension—but ultimately futile. The ball kissed the underside of the crossbar before nestling in the net, the ripple of satisfaction confirming what the Yellow Wall's eruption already announced.
1-0 to Dortmund.
Luka's celebration was understated—a raised fist toward the Yellow Wall as teammates converged around him.
"ZORIĆ! WHAT A FREE KICK!" The commentator's voice soared with admiration. "The teenage sensation delivers once again in the Champions League quarterfinal stage! Absolutely magnificent technique!"
As they reset for the restart, Bellingham jogged alongside him. "Knew you'd score," he said simply. "Saw you watching Kepa during warm-ups."
Luka smiled slightly, appreciating his friend's observation.
Chelsea responded immediately, their possession becoming more direct, their attacks more vertical. Tuchel gestured animatedly from the touchline, urging his team forward while simultaneously organizing their defensive structure to prevent counter-attacks.
The increased urgency nearly paid dividends immediately—Mount finding space behind Dortmund's midfield before releasing Pulisic down the right. The American's cross found Havertz unmarked, but the German's header lacked direction, floating comfortably into Kobel's waiting arms.
Another breakthrough came not long after from a moment of individual brilliance.
Receiving possession near the halfway line, Luka turned smoothly away from Kanté's challenge before accelerating into space. The field opened before him, Chelsea's defensive line retreating to delay his advance.
Reece James approached cautiously from the right, attempting to channel Luka toward the congested central areas. Instead, Luka slowed deliberately, foot on the ball, inviting pressure while scanning for options.
The momentary pause drew James closer, exactly as intended. As the defender committed, Luka executed a rapid drag-back, creating separation before accelerating along the touchline. James recovered admirably, positioning himself between Luka and the goal.
As James closed in from behind, Luka sensed rather than saw the defender's position.
In one fluid motion, Luka flicked the ball with the outside of his left foot, while crossing his right leg over his body—sending the ball looping through the small gap made by his two legs. The technique—part skill, part instinct—took the ball around the opposite side from where James anticipated, creating a clear path toward the penalty area.
Swiftly correcting his footing, he dashed toward goal.
"Sensational skill from Zorić!" The commentator's admiration was evident. "That's outrageous technique under pressure!"
Now advancing into the penalty area with James trailing, Luka looked up to find Haaland making a near-post run, drawing Rüdiger with him. The space created behind the German defender beckoned—an invitation for the perfect delivery.
Luka didn't need a second invitation. Without breaking stride, he executed a trivela—using the outside of his right foot to impart vicious curl on the cross, bending it around Rüdiger and into the path of Haaland.
The Norwegian had anticipated the delivery perfectly, timing his movement to lose his marker before sliding to connect with the cross. His contact was clean, directing the ball beyond Kepa's despairing dive and into the bottom corner.
2-0 to Dortmund, and Signal Iduna Park erupted.
Haaland's celebration was characteristically minimalist—arms extended as he jogged toward the corner flag. Luka reached him first, the two teammates embracing briefly before being engulfed by the rest of the squad.
"Incredible assist," Haaland acknowledged as they walked back for the restart. "Perfect."
Chelsea pushed for a goal from the jump of kickoff, committing additional numbers forward. Dortmund, meanwhile, sought to exploit the resulting spaces, looking for the third goal that would significantly alter the tie's complexion.
Chelsea's pressure finally told. A seemingly innocuous attack developed unexpected danger when Pulisic's cross was partially cleared, falling to Mount at the edge of the area. The English midfielder's shot was blocked, but the ricochet fell kindly to Pulisic, who had continued his run into the box.
The American's first touch was slightly heavy, seemingly taking the opportunity away. But as the ball squirmed across the six-yard box, a series of attempted clearances and blocks created pinball-like chaos. The final touch came off Hummels, inadvertently directing the ball past the helpless Kobel.
2-1, with the final action of the first half.
Chelsea's players celebrated enthusiastically, acknowledging the psychological value of equalizing just before the interval. Pulisic's celebration was respectful—a raised hand toward the Dortmund supporters who had once cheered his name, but unmistakable satisfaction at his contribution.
"Such a scrappy goal," Bellingham muttered as they walked toward the tunnel. "Completely against the run of play."
Luka said nothing, already processing the half's events, analyzing what had worked and what needed adjustment. The scoreline might be level, but he felt Dortmund held the tactical advantage—their transitions causing consistent problems for Chelsea's defense.
As they reached the tunnel, Pulisic fell into step beside him. "Nice free kick," the American offered genuinely. "Kepa had no chance."
"Lucky deflection," Luka replied with a small smile, nodding toward Chelsea's equalizer.
Pulisic laughed. "They all count the same. Good first half—but it's going to get tougher now."
The locker room hummed with focused energy as Rose addressed the team, his tactical adjustments clear and concise. "We're creating problems for them," he emphasized. "Their back three struggles when we switch play quickly. Luka, Palmer—higher and wider starting positions when we transition. Make them defend the full width."
The instruction made immediate sense to Luka. Chelsea's back three became most vulnerable when stretched horizontally, the spaces between defenders creating corridors to exploit. By positioning wider initially, Dortmund could force uncomfortable decisions—compress to protect central areas or expand to cover width, either choice creating exploitable consequences.
"They'll make adjustments too," Rose continued, anticipating Tuchel's halftime interventions. "Expect Kanté to man-mark Jude more closely. We'll need to build through different channels."
The granular tactical discussion continued—specific pressing triggers, defensive rotations, set-piece responsibilities—each instruction building upon the established game plan rather than overloading players with new information.
The teams re-emerged to renewed roars from the capacity crowd, the April evening having deepened into night, floodlights bathing the pitch in brilliant illumination. As they took their positions for the second half kickoff, Luka noted Chelsea's tactical adjustment—Pulisic and Mount had switched sides, likely an attempt to create different matchups against Dortmund's fullbacks.
The whistle blew, and the battle resumed.