Suker walked back to the dormitory with Modrić after the interview.
"He must think we're just big talkers!" Suker said with a laugh.
Modrić replied, "He can't understand what we're thinking."
Suker nodded. "We don't need everyone to understand. When we achieve our goals, they'll get it."
"Yes!" Modrić nodded firmly.
After a pause, he suddenly turned to Suker. "That question earlier—why didn't you defend yourself?"
"About your lack of goals as a center forward!" Modrić frowned. "They only see the number of goals but not your assists or your overall performance on the field. Your role is not just about scoring goals."
Seeing Modrić stand up for him, Suker smiled. "Because I agree with that point of view."
"Huh?" Modrić was surprised. "You also think that scoring goals is the only way to measure a player?"
"To be precise, it's the fundamental standard for judging a center forward," Suker said calmly. "A striker who doesn't score—what's the point of his existence?"
"But you can pass, assist, and bring tactical variety to the team. That's your value."
"But I can't score!" Suker said, then sighed. "You're a midfielder, so you don't understand—the dignity of a striker is in scoring goals."
"I pass, assist, and make runs because I have no other choice. I don't have Kosović's physique. If I want to survive in professional football, I have to find another way."
"I'm not a generous person. I'm not noble enough to willingly give away chances to score. If I had the chance, I'd never pass. Even if I missed, I still wouldn't pass."
"I want to score. More than anyone, I want to score goals. But…"
Suker gestured to indicate his height.
"As you can see, I don't have the physical advantage. And Van Stoyak didn't sign me to score goals either!"
"Believe it or not, if I took a few selfish shots, Van Stoyak would bench me. He likes me now because I listen. He tells me to pass—I pass. To track back—I track back. To pull defenders—I do it."
"I have to follow orders, because I want to stay in the professional game. Until I grow taller, get stronger, and have the ability to say 'no', I have to use every possible way to survive."
"I didn't respond because I agree with what was said."
Suker: "A striker who can't score is worthless!"
Modrić stared blankly at Suker.
To him, Suker had always seemed cheerful, passionate, and full of optimism—like nothing could ever get him down.
But this time, he saw a different side of Suker.
A deep obsession with scoring.
A deep frustration from not scoring.
Even if he didn't agree with Suker's view...
Everyone has their own way of interpreting football.
So—he didn't agree, but he respected it.
Back at the dorm, Suker quickly returned to his cheerful self.
But this time, Modrić understood his friend a little better.
Behind that cheerful and optimistic face, Suker had his own burdens.
Of course—who doesn't?
The weather was cooling down, especially in the mountain valley. The chill was even sharper.
At 2 p.m., when the sun was at its peak, the warmth finally pushed back a bit of the cold.
Basteci, with a camera in hand, stood in the media section of Zrinjski Stadium, looking around in surprise. The stadium was packed—layer upon layer of spectators.
With Zrinjski Mostar securing two consecutive away wins and becoming the top contender for the Bosnian Premier League title, the entire town's enthusiasm seemed to have erupted.
After all, in this small and otherwise dull town, even a trivial incident could be newsworthy.
Let alone their town's football club leading the league.
Today's match was a home game for Zrinjski Mostar against ninth-ranked HŠK Posušje. The opponent was weak, so the fans naturally hoped to witness a glorious win.
Despite some squad rotations in the starting lineup, both Suker and Modrić—the "Mostar Twins"—were still named in the starting XI.
As the team's most important players, Van Stoyak made it clear—he was determined to win all three points at home.
Zrinjski Stadium was old and run-down, but the fans were full of passion.
There were far more spectators than usual—around 5,000 people.
The only seated stand was packed tight, and the three standing terraces were layered with fans.
Even the barriers around the pitch were crowded with fans climbing and clinging to them, the fences creaking under the weight.
Some fans were even sitting on top of the stand roofs.
"Zrinjski Mostar's football scene is crazy!" Basteci couldn't help but sigh.
Such a scene might be normal in Sarajevo, a capital city.
But Mostar was a small town with only about 100,000 residents—and 5,000 showed up today. That's one in twenty—truly impressive.
The stadium DJ began announcing each of the home team's starting players.
When Modrić's name was called, the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers.
Who wouldn't love the Croatian prodigy?
Another wave of cheers followed right after.
Suker entered the field with arms raised high, energetically waving and shouting toward all the stands, which made the volume of cheers rise even higher—it felt like the ground was shaking.
Suker was short, but he was full of presence.
And for Posušje's players, none dared underestimate him because of his height.
After all, this guy had already helped Mostar defeat three Premier League teams with his performances.
". . . Suker passes to Kosović… Kosović returns the pass! They've played a one-two—Suker's through! Suker!!!"
Suddenly, the constant cheering in Zrinjski Stadium stopped.
As if the passion that had been building up had suddenly gone completely silent.
Suker received the return pass from Kosović and accelerated into the penalty area.
As the opposing goalkeeper rushed forward, Suker turned slightly and calmly used the inside of his foot to push the ball forward.
The ball curved, curling around the goalkeeper's dive, and into the far corner of the net.
"In the 9th minute, Suker scores the opening goal for Zrinjski Mostar. They lead Posušje 1-0!"
At that moment, the crowd's long-held passion exploded.
Over 5,000 Mostar fans erupted with wild cheers and screams. They jumped and bounced like an earthquake had hit the stadium.
Suker ran to the stands after scoring, raising both hands and shouting toward the crowd, eyes wide and full of fire. His voice was hoarse—but he didn't care.
And the fans in front of him roared back with even louder cheers.
Modrić watched Suker's celebration, and he began to understand.
The emotional power of scoring a goal—it truly touched the soul.
From the media box, Bastek also watched Suker and Modrić on the pitch.
His view of them had started to change.
Some things can't be explained with words—only felt by experiencing them or watching firsthand.
At this moment, Basteci felt something strange stirring in his heart.
Watching Suker make darting runs, watching Modrić orchestrate the midfield with precision.
Watching them connect and score.
Something clicked inside him.
To him, a dream was something long-term, meaningful, and idealistic.
An inner fantasy—something distant. Unlike a goal, a fantasy might remain forever just that.
Things like the Champions League or the World Cup—they were far too distant.
But to Suker and Modrić, perhaps they weren't fantasy at all—but goals that could truly be reached.
Watching these two young men sweat, run, and perform brilliantly on the field…
He finally understood that truth.
To him—it was a dream.
To them—it was a goal!