Chapter 22: Can’t Run Anymore?

"Alright, lads! Our first-half performance was great. Everything is going according to plan!"

Inside the locker room, Oripe clapped his hands, boosting morale with enthusiasm.

Hearing his words, smiles appeared on the players' faces. The first half had been intense and physically demanding, but they had held the score at 0–0.

"Barkic's saves were brilliant!" Mlinar said with a smile.

Barkic raised his chin proudly. Seeing his smug expression, everyone burst into laughter. His outstanding performance had truly lifted the team's spirits. If he had played like usual—letting in easy goals—they might have conceded several already.

Oripe turned to Suk. Everyone followed his gaze.

"Here!" Suk responded. His face wasn't flushed, and his breathing was steady. Though he was sweating, it was barely noticeable.

Everyone had seen his incredible performance. As a center forward, he could have just waited for passes up front. But instead, he frequently dropped back to defend, disrupting attacks and helping launch counterattacks.

He hadn't taken a single shot, but his accurate passes and link-up play gave the team confidence. The Mostar Wanderers were no longer timid—they now believed they could win.

All thanks to their 'small' center forward.

"How's your stamina?" Oripe asked, concerned after Suk's constant sprinting.

Suk gave a thumbs-up. "Fully charged! Just pass me the ball—I'm ready to break through their defense."

Smiles returned to everyone's faces. Especially Mlinar. If they were going to win, Suk would be the key.

And somehow, Suk looked like he still had energy to spare.

"Very good," Oripe nodded, clenching his fist. "In the second half, let's show them our strength!"

---

Meanwhile, in the other locker room, Van Stejak was fuming.

"The attack is slow and hesitant. The defense is a mess!"

"Where are the overlapping runs from the fullbacks? Where's the width? The midfield is complete chaos!"

"Basterlov! I've told you a hundred times to drop back and receive the ball! Stop camping on the front line. Your job is to pull their defense and create space for the wingers."

Van Stejak pointed outside. "Look at how their center forward plays!"

Basterlov, still in shock from Suk's performance, stared blankly. Van Stejak glared at him.

"Daydreaming during my briefing?"

His voice dropped—low and dangerous. Basterlov panicked and tried to speak: "Coach, I—"

"Just do your job in the second half. I want to see your value."

Basterlov nodded anxiously.

"In the second half, compress the space! Work as a unit in attack and defense! Use your heads!"

He jabbed a finger at his temple.

Then he turned to Pokaki. "Mark their number nine. That little guy drops deep a lot—follow him. Don't let him touch the ball freely."

"Understood," Pokaki replied.

Van Stejak clapped loudly. "Okay. Suk's stamina must be dropping—now's our chance to score."

With that, the team talk ended.

The players exchanged glances.

"Suk?" someone asked.

Modric whispered, "Their number nine."

They were surprised the coach even knew his name.

Van Stejak leaned against the wall, scribbling furiously in his notebook—drawing tactical diagrams, noting runs, and plotting strategies. His eyes lit up as the diagram took shape. It looked messy—like graffiti—but in his mind, the picture was becoming clear.

He exhaled. "Let's take another look."

---

Modric, though concerned about his team, was genuinely happy for his friend Suk.

He had no real attachment to Mostar Zrinjski. For him, Suk's performance was what mattered.

Suk had run relentlessly, cutting off attacks, intercepting, and creating chances with precise passes. He was the reason Mostar Wanderers hadn't conceded.

If they'd had more clinical wingers, Suk's passes would've led to goals.

Modric was even happier about something else—Van Stejak had taken notice. As a Dutch coach who preferred total football, Suk's style matched his vision: high work rate, smart positioning, creative passing.

Despite Suk's small stature, he had impressed Van Stejak deeply.

Zrinjski still relied on long-ball tactics, using the tall striker Kosopek as a battering ram. Modric supported this approach with his long shots from midfield.

But Van Stejak wanted more refined play. He'd tried turning Basterlov into a false nine, but the player couldn't grasp it—slow, confused, tactically dull.

Just when Van Stejak had nearly lost faith, Suk's performance became a ray of hope.

As long as Suk didn't mess up in the second half, everything might change.

Modric smiled.

---

"Something funny?" Kosopek asked.

Modric quickly hid his smile. "Nothing."

Kosopek smiled. "Free tonight? Want to come to my place for dinner?"

He was trying to befriend the quiet Croatian prodigy. But Modric shook his head. "I've got plans."

Kosopek sighed. "Next time, then."

Modric almost said no to that too.

When he returned to the bench, the teams had switched sides for the second half.

The commentator's voice rang out:

"After a surprising first half, the score is still 0–0. Mostar Wanderers are giving the local giants a real scare!"

"Their effort has been tremendous. Especially their 'small' center forward Suk. He's been everywhere. Let's see if he can keep it up!"

Fans had noticed Suk too.

At just 155 cm tall, he was everywhere—attacking, defending, always running. His effort was inspiring.

Zrinjski fans, however, believed it was a fluke. With adjustments made, they were confident they'd take control. Surely Suk couldn't keep that pace.

Then the whistle blew. The second half began.

Suk immediately pushed up to the defensive line and stood his ground.

Pokaki saw this and smirked.

Run all you want—what now?

Can't run anymore, can you?