Chapter 58: Oliveira's Disaster

The next day, after training camp ended, Suker went to find head coach Van Stoyak. After hearing Suker, Van Stoyak's expression turned grim. "You're sure it was Potrac who approached you?" Suker nodded and gestured, "Wearing a suit, about 175 cm tall, very skinny, high cheekbones, slightly protruding mouth—looks like a rat." With Suker's detailed description, Van Stoyak was convinced. "No doubt about it!" Van Stoyak stood up. "Wait here." He left briefly and returned with another man. Suker had seen this man the day before—Kelly Wickmanzic, the sporting director of Zrinjski Mostar. Wickmanzic looked equally serious. He walked up to Suk and asked directly, "The man called himself Potrac?" Suker didn't know why they were so hung up on that name, but he still nodded. "Yes." Then he described him again. As Suker recounted, Wickmanzic's face grew darker. Van Stoyak chimed in, "I told you, we should've dealt with this problem sooner." Wickmanzic pressed his lips together. "I'll investigate. Give me two weeks." "Good," Van Stoyak nodded. Before Wickmanzic left, he patted Suker on the shoulder. "Well done, Suker. In the future, report things like this to the club immediately. You don't need to worry about what comes next—we'll handle it." Suker nodded. "Understood." At that point, Suker was still puzzled. Why were they so sensitive about this name? When he returned to the dormitory, Suker learned more from Modrić. "Potrac is the agent of our vice-captain Oliveira. When I joined Zrinjski Mostar, Oliveira introduced him to me, but I was planning to return to Dinamo Zagreb, so I didn't sign with him." Then it clicked for Suker—now he understood why the club had such a strong reaction. This could mean vice-captain Oliveira was possibly involved in match-fixing. If Potrac had approached Suker so openly, then the likelihood of Oliveira, who had worked with Potrac for a long time, not being involved was very low. Match-fixing is always a highly sensitive and complicated issue—no wonder the club was handling it so cautiously. Still, Suker didn't understand why Potrac had come to him so directly. Was he trying to set Oliveira up? Suker didn't know the full story, but after the third day of training, he saw the sporting director call Oliveira away. It was rare for the sporting director to appear before the first team. Zrinjski Mostar had a clearly separated management structure. The coach handled training; management stayed out of it, avoiding the training ground altogether. So when the sporting director personally came to fetch Oliveira, it meant this was serious. Of course, people are naturally curious and gossipy. In the locker room, the players had started whispering. "Mr. Wickmanzic looked furious. Oliveira's in trouble?" "Can't be anything good!" "I'm curious what kind of trouble he's in." Suker and Modrić remained silent. There was no need to say anything. They just had to wait for the outcome. Meanwhile, Oliveira stumbled out of the sporting director's office in panic. He got in his car and sped away, arriving quickly at a graffiti-covered area in Neum Port. It was a two-story building. On the ground floor loitered a bunch of sketchy-looking guys dressed like street punks. Oliveira stormed up the stairs and barged into an office. "Bastard! Look what you've done!" He burst in and saw Potrac lounging lazily in a chair, wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. With a mocking smile, he said, "Well, if it isn't our football star!" "You approached the club?" Oliveira asked, his face dark. Potrac shrugged. "You could say that." "The sporting director came to me today. He's going to investigate me," Oliveira said nervously. "We need to prepare." "Prepare for what?" Potrac replied in mock surprise. "That's your problem—what's it got to do with us?" Oliveira froze, his face flushing with rage. "Don't forget, you dragged me into this." "Idiot!" Potrac sneered. "You couldn't resist temptation. You could've said no, but you accepted. It was your decision—so it's your mess." "Bastard! You bastard!" BANG! Oliveira slammed the desk with a snarl. His bloodshot eyes and snarling face made him look like a beast. "If I go down, you're coming with me!" he threatened. Potrac replied coldly, "Got any proof? We're a legitimate football agency. If you're caught, we'll sue you for breach of contract." With the same mocking expression, Potrac added, "Fool." Oliveira felt the world spinning. Threats didn't work, so he tried to plead. "I can still make money for you. I can fix more matches—we still have a future together." "You even make the team these days?" Potrac scoffed. "How long has it been since you played? You've lost your value." "Get lost, idiot!" Oliveira stumbled out of the office like a broken man, panic written all over his face. He regretted his choices. If only he'd resisted temptation—he wouldn't be in this mess. Oliveira had once been a local prodigy in Mostar, a product of Zrinjski Mostar's youth academy—a true hometown star. He had once played with passion, holding on to dreams of football glory. But somewhere along the way, he lost himself and began to spiral. He started chasing fame and money. He formed cliques in the locker room, isolated others. Eventually, he sold out to Potrac for more income. Now, everything was falling apart. Yes—investigation was just a matter of time. Oliveira had too many corspe to hide. He had ruined everything! Under the night sky, Oliveira wandered down the road like a zombie. His eyes were vacant, his mind blank, replaying memories of the past. Those passionate years. Those innocent dreams. Beautiful memories. He tried to reach for them—but grasped nothing. Yes... The past can't be changed. Standing under a streetlamp, his shadow stretched long across the road. His shoulders trembled. Tears streamed down his face as fear, regret, and helplessness overwhelmed him. Since that day, Suker and the others hadn't seen Oliveira on the training ground. The investigation must have begun, and he had no energy left to train. Although the results hadn't been made public, the rumor that Oliveira was involved in match-fixing had begun to circulate. The players were furious. While they had been fighting tooth and nail to win, someone had been stabbing them in the back. Unforgivable. Oliveira was finished. His departure had a massive positive effect on the locker room atmosphere. Many players who'd previously been bullied now felt liberated—especially Boame. Boame had been Oliveira's main competitor, and Oliveira had targeted him frequently. But now that Oliveira was gone, Boame had a strong chance to claim a starting position. Of course, that starting spot was still up for grabs. Suker now played as a wide midfielder, occupying a winger's role. Since Suker was central to the team's rhythm and structure, Boame wasn't directly competing with him but with Biliar, who played the same position. Under this setup, Biliar was feeling the heat. Since Van Stoyak took over, although he kept most of the starting lineup, competition for positions had intensified. Aside from the goalkeeper, the defense, Modrić, and Suker—no one was guaranteed a spot. Even Kosovic had to step aside for tactical reasons to make room for Suker. In just over two months, Suker had gone from a total newcomer to the team's de facto leader. Offense, defense, tracking back, organizing—he did it all! A one-man army—who could possibly replace him? "Tomorrow, we're heading to Sarajevo. Get ready!" After training, Coach Van Stoyak addressed the team. The league had entered its second round, and Zrinjski Mostar was facing two away games in a row. The last match was against FK Sarajevo; this one was against FK Željezničar Sarajevo. Suker had made his debut against them—they had powerful players like Vukočević and Pošćenović. Crucially, that game, they hadn't fielded their full squad. Winger Mekic and center-back Vrhovac missed the match due to injuries. Now, after the first round, both had returned, strengthening the team significantly. "Vrhovac is under 180 cm but plays center-back because he's fast, agile, and most importantly—very tough!" Coach Van Stoyak looked at Suker: "Be careful with Vrhovac. Compared to tall defenders, he's your worst matchup." Suker nodded. "As for Mekic, he's just as fast as you. Excellent ball control and a deadly shot after cutting inside." "He's only 168 cm—just seven cm taller than you—but he's built like a tank. Knocking him over is no easy feat." Suker winced. Stop singling me out! "Mekic is quick, so we'll need our wide midfielders to track back." Once again, Van Stoyak looked at Suker. After seeing Suker's mule-like stamina in the last game, he'd started assigning more and more roles to him. The capable do more! At this point, Suker was truly irreplaceable in Zrinjski Mostar. Offense? Suker.Defense? Suker.Tracking back? Suker.Playmaking? Still Suker! One man, all jobs. Who else could do that?