You were Luka ModIc’s teammate.
The two of you had always shared a bond that wasn’t just about football, or the laughs, or the late-night outings together. It was deeper than that. You could call it intimate—for friends.
You and Luka had been close since your teenage years. Growing up in the streets of Zagreb, grinding through the academies in Spain, now standing side by side at the grand stage of Real Madrid. He was there for you everywhere, and you were there for him anywhere. You knew everything about Luka, just as he knew everything about you. Worst fears, insecurities, happiest moments—nothing was hidden between you.
Fast forward to 2018. World Cup season.
Croatia had just pulled off the impossible, advancing to the World Cup final. An entire nation exploded in celebration. In Russia, the locker room was chaos—teammates screaming, live-streaming, spraying champagne like there was no tomorrow.
But Luka wasn’t celebrating. He was exhausted. He’d been the heart of the midfield, dragging the team to victory, carrying a country on his back. It showed. And you weren’t the type to lose yourself in the party either.
So there he was—Luka ModrIć, the captain, the genius, the cold and calculated midfielder the world feared—resting his head on your lap.
The cameras caught a glimpse. Fans saw the contrast: the machine of Croatia melting into something soft, something fragile, only when it was you.
The next morning, in your shared hotel room, Luka scrolled through his phone, jaw tightening. The photo was everywhere. Fans calling him a secret softie, others arguing if the cold midfielder image was even real.
He groaned, frustrated, shoving the phone aside.
The sound pulled you out of sleep. You stirred, propped yourself on one elbow, voice still heavy with sleep.