The intra-squad match ended, and Suker and the others rushed over to the fitness coach.
"How many kilometers did we run?"
The fitness coach looked at them and said, "About 5 kilometers."
In this era, without GPS positioning or heat maps, coaches had to rely on their experienced eyes to estimate.
Forty minutes—about the length of half a match—and they'd run five kilometers. They had definitely exceeded expectations.
"Whoa!! I'm exhausted!"
Suker plopped down onto the ground.
The others were sprawled out as well, lying in all directions, but the smiles on their faces couldn't be hidden.
Despite the physical fatigue from all the running, the match had been a blast—they'd put immense pressure on the veterans.
Even with experienced players like Davor Šuker on the opposing side, they had been made to look quite embarrassed.
"Hey! How was my shot?"
"Suker, we should try more one-twos! I think I've found the rhythm."
"Luka, you should attack the far post more often. Let's just all go full sprint!"
"Hahaha! Running like that felt amazing!"
The young players laughed and exchanged excited chatter.
They were dripping in sweat and utterly exhausted.
But their smiles were genuine.
On the other side, Davor Šuker and the veterans sat leaning against the railings.
Compared to the younger players, they looked even more worn out.
Their chests were heaving like bellows, and they were gasping for air.
"These kids… they can really run!" Štimac panted, feeling like his lungs were on fire and his legs were trembling.
"Do we really have to push this hard for a training match?" Jarni shook his head in disbelief.
Davor Šuker didn't speak. His eyes were fixed on the young players.
Watching them laugh and fool around, a look of satisfaction crossed his face.
"They've found their path," he said quietly.
"What?" Jarni didn't hear clearly.
Davor shook his head, pushed himself off the ground, and said, "We need to work on our fitness too. Otherwise, we won't be able to keep up with them in the matches."
Štimac and Jarni grimaced.
They were at retirement age—sprinting with the young guys was like giving up half their lives.
But seeing the youngsters run so freely filled them with excitement, as if they themselves were young again.
"Let's get ready for the next match. The next opponent won't be easy."
"We're up against Lokomotiva Zagreb!"
The tactics room suddenly went silent.
Lokomotiva Zagreb and Dinamo Zagreb were city rivals, which naturally created tension.
This was a battle for resources—a fierce derby born from rivalry.
In the past, Lokomotiva had been no match for Dinamo. But after the Mostečić brothers' sabotage, many of Dinamo's key players transferred to Lokomotiva.
You could think of today's Lokomotiva as essentially the Dinamo Zagreb from two years ago—the team that had dominated the Croatian league.
"Kalenović, their No. 9 striker, stands 195 cm tall. He's not only strong in the air but also a two-time Golden Boot winner. A true finisher!"
"Dabrović, another forward, is different from Kalenović. He's lightning fast, great at making runs, and always finds space to go one-on-one with the keeper."
"Kačalida, Lokomotiva's No. 10 and midfield core. Excellent technique and vision—he can control the tempo and unlock defenses."
"Šimunić, the central defender, and also a starter for the Croatian national team. Currently on loan to Lokomotiva, but he'll return to Hamburg in the Bundesliga after this season. He's the pillar of their defense!"
"Butina, their starting goalkeeper and Croatian international!"
After briefly introducing these key players, Bešić delved into detailed tactical analysis.
Everyone listened intently.
This was a crucial match.
The Zagreb Derby, compounded by the chaos caused by the Mostečić brothers… This update is available on Nove1Fire.net
Both teams were burning with desire to win.
Lokomotiva wanted to take advantage of their current strength and seize power.
Dinamo wanted to release their pent-up frustration—after all, losing that match before Christmas last year had ruined their holidays.
The tactics session lasted over an hour. Bešić had clearly done his homework.
And the players now understood how tough the upcoming opponent was.
As the session ended and the team started to leave, Bešić called Suker back alone.
Suker looked puzzled as he returned.
Bešić rarely called a player in alone.
Bešić motioned toward the chair, and Suker sat opposite him immediately.
After tidying up the documents, Bešić looked up and said, "I'll be direct. In the next match, you're the attacking core!"
Suker felt his heart skip a beat!
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
"What about the captain…?"
He was worried Davor Šuker might object—he was Dinamo's star player, after all.
"I've discussed it with him. He agrees it's the best choice."
Bešić smiled. "In the warm-ups and the first three official matches, you've proven yourself—to me and to Davor."
"Truth be told, Davor's explosiveness in front of goal has declined. He's relying on experience now, but against a strong, evenly-matched opponent, that won't cut it."
"We both agree—you're the best option for this role!"
Suker had been deadly on the wing, though previously restricted by Van Stuyak's tactics and later tasked mainly with feeding Davor.
In short, he was never treated as the main striker.
But now, Bešić planned to unleash him completely.
He would receive full support, full authority, and total freedom to shoot.
Bešić wanted to see what Suker could really do when given complete control.
"In this next game, the whole team will support you. Even Davor will move aside for you. Every pass will go through you. And I have only one demand," Bešić's eyes burned with intensity, "score goals!"
"You don't like the No. 7, right?" he asked.
"No. 9 is off limits. At least until Davor retires."
"But No. 10—win this match, and it's yours!"
After Suker left, Bešić stayed behind in the tactics room, still organizing his materials.
Davor Šuker was leaning against the doorframe.
Bešić nodded. "I did."
"Nothing much. But he promised he'd be ready."
Davor smiled. "That's good enough. I've seen his background—he'll grab this chance with everything he's got."
Bešić nodded. "Suker may seem cheerful and mischievous, but he's gone through a lot to get here. He knows how rare these chances are—and how to seize them."
"A seedling growing through cracks will absorb every drop of water, fight for every ray of sunlight."
"He's not a seedling."
"It's just a metaphor," Davor chuckled. "I think we made the right decision. Not everyone grows at the same pace—some players need special roles and responsibility to accelerate."
Bešić sighed, "But Lokomotiva won't be easy. If we lose…"
He fell silent. A loss would be disastrous.
It would negate all the progress they'd made, and cast doubt on Bešić's entire rebuilding plan.
Davor patted his shoulder. "Trust the young guys. They'll surprise you."
"I don't care about surprises anymore," Bešić said. "We've come this far. All we can do is believe in them."
Davor smiled. "Don't worry. He'll deliver. You've all been overlooking one of his scariest abilities."
"Suker has another one?" Bešić was confused.
He thought he'd already fully tapped Suke's potential.
Davor pointed to his temple.
"Just wait. He's going to blow your mind."
Suker lay under his blanket, staring blankly at the ceiling.
A year had passed without him even realizing it—from Mostar to Zagreb, he had lost a lot, but also gained a lot.
To stay in the professional game, he'd given up his role as center forward, given up shooting, and accepted being a supporting player.
He'd grabbed every chance, clawed his way up.
And now, a golden opportunity was right in front of him.
He clenched his fist and muttered:
The room was pitch dark.
Only his eyes—shining like stars—glowed brightly in the night.