From the moment Suker stepped onto the pitch, he was the center of attention.
Cameras focused on him every few minutes, with constant close-ups.
His warm-up movements, interactions with teammates, even playful banter—all captured on film.
Perhaps aware of the cameras, Suker toned down his antics a bit.
"Haha! Suker knows he's on camera now," Aldo Serena chuckled from the Italian commentary box.
Just moments ago, Suker had slapped Pirlo's head hard, but after noticing the camera, he gently patted it instead.
Pirlo's reaction was funny—he instinctively shrank his neck, clearly used to getting hit.
"Our team atmosphere is always this good!" Crudeli boasted confidently.
Aldo Serena immediately lost his smile—Crudeli's "we're the best" vibe annoyed him. But everyone knew Crudeli was a true Milan fan, so it was no surprise.
Serena resumed his duties:
"This game, all eyes are on Suker. His performance is crucial to Milan."
Crudeli quickly jumped in:
"No doubt about it! He's always outstanding. I believe he'll show his best again today."
"But Suker has off days too."
Serena sighed deeply.
This old man was so annoying!
After teasing Serena, Crudeli explained:
"As a Milan fan, my job is simple."
"Getting ready to cheer!"
Crudeli laughed heartily.
Milan fans watching at home strongly agreed.
Suker always brings goals, and he would do so today.
Especially against Liverpool — no more playing badly like before.
On the pitch, both teams finished warm-ups and headed to the tunnel.
As the players drew near, their eyes locked, sparks flying.
Suker noticed, especially how Nesta looked at Gerrard with burning intensity.
Clearly, Nesta was still bitter about failing to contain Gerrard two years ago.
Back in the locker room, under Ancelotti's direction, the starters changed into jerseys.
Milan wore their white away kit.
Liverpool donned their red home strip.
Suker put on his jersey, shorts, socks, and boots, then bounced lightly to feel his condition.
"How's your form?" Maldini asked.
"How would I know? Haven't kicked the ball yet."
Suker's performance would decide the game's outcome.
Maldini had full confidence—this lethal weapon in Milan's arsenal always went berserk in crucial matches.
The players finished dressing and gathered together.
"Say something?" Ancelotti looked at Maldini.
Maldini shook his head:
"We've said what we needed. The goal is clear!"
Everyone's expressions turned serious.
Maldini took a deep breath.
Almost in unison, they shouted:
With a sharp, powerful yell, the starters exited the locker room.
Coaches and substitutes lined up on both sides, high-fiving and cheering each starter on.
"Your turn! Suker!" Ambrosini slapped his back firmly.
"Go for it, kid!" Costacurta patted Suker's head.
When Suker neared Ancelotti, the coach nodded slightly.
Suker smiled and stepped out.
At the tunnel, Liverpool arrived at the same time.
The atmosphere instantly thickened, suffocatingly tense.
Suker scratched his head and whispered:
"Captain, shouldn't we shout something? It's too oppressive."
"You shout, we'll back you."
"What should I shout?"
Suddenly Suker yelled loudly:
The shout shattered the silence; all players quickly turned to look at him—even the referee.
Their eyes seemed to say:
"Shout it!" Suker grumbled:
"If you don't, I look like an idiot."
"What shout?" Kaká smiled.
"Shout 'Awesome!' Once more!"
The Milan players responded in unison:
I'm really awesome!To get this generation of Milan players to shout I'm awesome—that's just me.
The shout instantly lifted his spirits.
He noticed someone staring and turned.
It was Xabi Alonso, looking curious.
A dominant midfielder and Liverpool's brain.
Xabi Alonso scratched his cheek awkwardly and looked away.
He thought, was this his first meeting with Suker? Had they met before?
Kaká rolled his eyes.
Compared to you, everyone's shy.
The referee called out, and the tension thickened.
As they moved forward, the Champions League anthem boomed louder, mixed with roaring cheers—the stadium felt ignited.
Through a special archway, stepping on a carpet with the Champions League logo, they entered the pitch.
Players split to opposite sides, lining up.
The music grew even more majestic; cheers, applause, and whistles filled the air.
Suker stood at the back, the cameras almost zooming into his face.
Among the lineup, Suker had the most camera time.
A sign of respect for his performance this season.
Soon the players shook hands.
Revenge or not, handshakes were mandatory, but both sides remained serious.
When the handshake ended, Maldini called for a photo.
"Squat in front, stand behind!"
Suker naturally leaned against the back row, tired of squatting.
"You come up front and squat!" Maldini pointed at him.
"I'm 1.8 meters tall!"
Even from old Maldini, he wouldn't hear about his height.
"You're 1.9, you still squat—strikers squat too!"
Suker cleared his throat.
So it's not because I'm short.
The photo was taken—a shot now known as the 'Milan Dusk.'
Both teams went to their halves.
The captains came to the center for the coin toss.
"Yes," Maldini nodded. "We kick off."
"Yeah!" Suker pumped his fist.
"Why so excited?!" Maldini laughed. Fresh chapters posted on novel⟡fire.net
The coin toss didn't decide much.
Suker shook his head:
"You don't get it. It's metaphysics—all flows naturally. Boss, we'll win!"
Maldini blinked, then nodded:
He didn't know about metaphysics, but if Suker said they'd win, it meant Suker was confident.
If Suker was confident, no one on Milan would back down.
Suker patted Kaká's shoulder.
Kaká pouted, feeling Suker had changed.
Before, Suker had high demands and expectations of him.
Now it seemed he didn't care as much.
So… can I still get my seafood risotto? And that delicious chicken soup, tasty noodles, and special sauce?
Kaká suddenly felt a sense of urgency.