Chapter 130: Give Me Suker!

At the training base of Dinamo Zagreb, a practice match was underway. Substitutes vs. Starters. The substitutes were fired up, eager to prove themselves. "Here! Over here!" Rakitić broke into space, waving for the ball. From the right-back position, Strinić immediately passed the ball to him. "Nice!" Rakitić was delighted, but just as he turned and looked up, two players suddenly appeared in front of him. Suker and Dujmović flanked him on both sides. Rakitić hastily tried to control the ball, but Dujmović had already closed in. With Dujmović's physicality, the 16-year-old Rakitić posed no real threat. He stumbled and lost possession. "Suker!" Dujmović quickly passed the ball horizontally to Suker. Rakitić, now alert again, immediately chased after Suker. He wanted to win the ball back himself. Suker looked at the aggressive Rakitić. Instead of moving toward the ball, he waited a beat. Just as Rakitić thought he could make a tackle, Suker flicked the ball lightly with his right foot—a nutmeg! He smoothly slid past him. "Ohh!!—" Dujmović and the others hollered. They knew Suker was about to put on a dribbling show. "Crap!" Seeing Rakitić beaten, Strinić quickly stepped up to challenge. Suker pushed the ball laterally to create space, feinted a sprint forward, then shifted directions just as Strinić lost his balance. "So fast!" Strinić tried to recover, but Suker changed direction again. After a series of feints and sharp turns, Strinić lost balance and fell to the ground. "Ohhh!!!" "Another one!" Dujmović was ecstatic. Suker entered the penalty area and was within shooting range. Backup goalkeeper Subašić stood firm. Substitute center-back Šildenfeld rushed to block him, but Suker cut the ball once more, creating a clear shooting angle—and fired with his right foot. Whoosh!!!— The match had barely started—less than 2 minutes—and the substitutes had already conceded a goal. They stared wide-eyed, watching Suker shrug and jog back, their minds replaying his mesmerizing dribble. How do you even defend that?! The match continued. But for the starters, this was a one-sided domination. Suker went on a scoring rampage. In just 30 minutes, he scored 6 goals. Modrić added two more with a long-range shot and a free kick, while Mandžukić and Dujmović each got one. 10:0! The substitutes had completely collapsed. Seeing this, head coach Bešić had to blow the whistle. "That's it for the scrimmage!" At his command, the match stopped. The substitutes sat on the ground, panting heavily. Their eyes were filled with confusion. These were supposed to be Croatia's young talents, yet the gap between them and the starters felt like another dimension. They couldn't complete three passes without losing the ball, constantly pressured by the opponents. Strinić and the older players were better off, but the younger ones like Rakitić were nearly in tears. Rakitić's eyes were red and brimming with tears, but he held them back. He was deeply dissatisfied with himself. And burning with unwillingness. He hadn't completed a single successful dribble. His passing success rate was embarrassingly low. Why was the gap so big?! He refused to accept it. "Don't run! Let's keep playing! If you're so good, keep going!" Sniffling, Rakitić shouted defiantly. Suker, not far away, turned and looked at him. Rakitić instinctively shrank back. This devil of a player had just scored six goals on them. Suker glared at him, then turned to shout: "20 sprints! If you don't meet the distance standard, figure out your own punishment!" At Suker's command, Dujmović and the others followed him to the edge of the field. "Last one gets an ass-kick—I'll count!" "One, two—GO!!" Dujmović paused for a moment watching Suker dash ahead, then cursed and chased. "Shameless! You false-started!" Suker shouted back: "If you're slow, I'll kick your butt!" "Aaaahhhhhh!!" "Let's go!!" "I don't want an ass-kick!" "Faster! Faster!" The substitutes sat by the field, staring blankly as the starters sprinted with vigor. After 30 minutes of intense match play, they were almost out of energy. But Suker and his group seemed unfazed—they were doing fitness drills! This crushed the substitutes even more. Rakitić couldn't stop the tears from falling. So weak! Most of these substitutes had just joined the team and brought their egos with them—each one was considered a prodigy from their respective clubs. That's why Bešić arranged this match—to help them recognize the gap. But he didn't expect Suker and the others to completely shatter their confidence. What was supposed to be a motivational competition turned into something else entirely—the subs now feared the starters. In the tactics room, Bešić looked at everyone and said: "The league opens on July 17, and our first round of Champions League qualifiers has been confirmed!" "On July 19, we'll host the first leg of the Champions League qualifier!" Everyone immediately sat up straight. Compared to the league, they now cared more about the Champions League. "Our opponent is FC Pyunik from Yerevan, Armenia!" Everyone looked at each other—clearly unfamiliar with this team. UEFA has many smaller leagues. Armenia's league ranks near the bottom, even lower than Bosnia's. So this draw was quite favorable. "Pyunik plays traditional English-style football—very physical." Bešić added, "Suker, don't hold onto the ball too long!" Suker nodded quickly. "There's not much data on them, so we'll focus on solidifying our defense in training." "Score as many goals as possible at home!" After the meeting, Bešić sighed. Pyunik, huh. Not a strong team, but the region is tricky. Armenia's average altitude is about 1,000 meters, and Yerevan is even higher—1,500 meters. Not quite enough for full altitude sickness, but oxygen levels are lower than in lowland areas. Bešić feared accidents could happen, ruining all their efforts. He wished he had the time and money to take the team to high-altitude training camps—to boost endurance and explosiveness, and prepare for that environment. But that wasn't realistic. It wasn't a huge issue, but still a risk. North London, England. At Arsenal's training ground. After signing a transfer contract, Arsène Wenger asked: "Still no reply from Dinamo Zagreb?" The staff shook his head. "This is the second offer, but they haven't responded." Wenger frowned, then said, "Got it. You may go." Once alone, Wenger dialed a number. Busy tone. He narrowed his eyes and dialed another number. This time, it connected. "Hello, who is this?" "Mamićh, it's Arsène Wenger." "..." "I know you're with Davor. You're always together. Give him the phone!" Wenger's tone was annoyed. Muffled whispers followed. Soon, Davor Šuker came on the line. "Professor, good afternoon. I lost my phone, so..." "I don't care if you lost your phone—as long as I haven't lost the player!" "...This..." Šuker's voice became flustered. Wenger sensed something was wrong. "Did something happen?" Šuker sighed. "To be honest, you might not be able to sign him this season." "Oh?" Wenger raised an eyebrow. "The club won't sell?" "The coach won't release him. I'll be honest—" As Šuker explained, Wenger's frown deepened. What the hell have you done?! "So you contacted me behind the coach's back, before the player had even spent a full season at the club?" "You realize, if Bešić presses charges, we could both be accused of illegal poaching?" "It's not that serious. Bešić just wants him to stay one more season. And let's be honest, 95% of transfers involve some backdoor talks. You contacted me that way too..." "Enough!" Wenger cut him off. "So they're not selling this season?" Šuker nodded. "Correct." "What about the player's own wishes?" Šuker was stunned. "You're not thinking of activating his release clause, are you?" Wenger, famously frugal, triggering a buyout clause? Wenger said, "I'm just asking." Šuker sighed in relief. "He also wants to stay one more season." "But is he interested in joining Arsenal?" "Yes!" Šuker answered firmly. "Good." Wenger nodded. "I'll try again in the winter window." "A whole season!" Šuker insisted. "Summer window only!" Wenger didn't care. "I'll try anyway." On a Spanish island resort. Šuker sat on a beach chair. After hanging up, he sighed in relief. "He's delayed." Next to him, Boban raised an eyebrow. "Wenger hasn't given up?" "He says he'll try again in the winter. Maybe he'll wait for summer." Šuker exhaled. "At least we've bought some time." Boban sat up, visibly agitated. "How is that good? Why is Wenger so persistent—for a kid?" "He's not just any kid. He's a genius!" Šuker looked at Boban strangely. "You sound like you want Wenger to give up." Boban scratched his cheek. "I thought he would..." Šuker shrugged. "But he didn't." Boban let out a long breath. "This is going to be tricky!" Seeing Boban's conflicted expression, Šuker asked: "What's going on? You look weird." Boban pursed his lips, then suddenly said: "Mate, give me Suker." "Give you? What do you mean?" Šuker looked puzzled—then suddenly stood up, face changed. "AC Milan?!" Boban nodded vigorously. "Milan wants him too. It's from Ancelotti himself!"