Chapter 23 – Eat It Hard!

Suker was positioned in the opponent's defensive line, no longer sprinting and pressing like he did in the first half.

Their tactical approach had clearly changed for the second half.

Suker's "cards" had also been switched. All the interception and prediction cards were swapped out, replaced with Andrei's Scud and Roberts' Dribbling.

The latter was fine, but the former was a lethal weapon.

Now, Suker's speed had increased dramatically—rated at 87 points, an elite level even in the top five leagues.

With that speed and explosiveness combined with Inzaghi's awareness, he could wreak havoc on the opponent's defense.

Of course, that depended on whether Mlinar could withstand the pressure.

"Boss! Hold on!" Suker silently prayed.

Football is a team sport—he couldn't win alone. He needed support.

Mlinar was under serious pressure, but thanks to his teammates draining the opponent's stamina in the first half, things were a bit easier now.

Fatigue had slowed the overall rhythm of the match.

If the game remained fast-paced, Mlinar's efforts would have been wasted.

For now, his main task was to defend.

Mlinar kept chasing and intercepting, holding off the opponent's attacks again and again.

As their tactical system took hold, Mostar Zrinjski pushed forward, even pressing close to the midfield line.

Suker was growing anxious.

Just then, Zrinjski launched a cross.

But their striker, Basterlov, who should have been in position to contest the header, had only just entered the penalty area.

"Damn it!"

Off the field, Coach Van Stejak buried his face in his hands.

"Stupid as a pig!"

Basterlov scrambled forward, but it was too late. The ball was cleared by Rosen, the opposing center-back.

It landed at the feet of Mostar Wanderers' midfielder Kostorechi. With no pressure, he controlled the ball and calmly passed to Mlinar, who was cutting in.

Mlinar carried the ball forward and looked up.

Suker suddenly tensed and made a retreating motion.

"Don't even think about it!"

Pokachi followed immediately.

He knew what would happen if this short striker received the ball.

So when Suker moved, Pokachi stuck to him, determined not to let him control the ball freely like in the first half.

Both moved together—Suker retreated, Pokachi followed.

That opened up space behind them.

Suker and Mlinar spotted it simultaneously.

After a few retreating steps, Suker suddenly planted his foot and spun around.

Caught off guard by the explosiveness, Pokachi was left behind in an instant.

At the same time, Mlinar passed the ball right into the space.

"What!"

Pokachi was stunned. When he turned to chase, Suker was already gone.

Suker's feet moved like pinwheels, his short legs spinning rapidly.

"Suker's sprinting—oh my god!"

The commentator was shocked.

"His speed is insane!"

Compared to him, Pokachi's recovery was hopeless—he was already three or four strides behind.

There was no catching up.

His defensive partner, Moriachi, saw it too and tried to cover.

They both rushed toward the ball.

Suker was slightly farther, but his speed closed the gap fast.

"Go, Suker!"

"Run!"

"So fast!"

"Wind Chaser!"

The fans held their breath. This blistering sprint got their hearts pounding.

"I can't catch him!"

Moriachi was desperate. He tried a slide tackle to stop Suker.

But Suker lowered his head, pushed harder, and even accelerated again, bursting past him.

"He's through! One-on-one!"

The commentator jumped from his seat.

Everyone in the stadium was on edge.

Oripe shouted in excitement.

Modric clenched his fists.

Koso Pechi stared in disbelief.

Even Van Stejak was stunned.

Suker entered the box and looked up.

But suddenly, something caught under his feet.

In the next second, Suker flipped over and tumbled across the pitch.

The ball was already in the hands of the goalkeeper, Paković.

"Ahhhhh!!!"

The commentator held his head:

"Paković's timing was perfect. He shut down the one-on-one, but the ball was too slow getting there."

Oripe held his head in regret.

Modric sighed.

Even Van Stejak frowned and twitched his mouth. He was also disappointed.

But deep down, Van Stejak was impressed.

Suker's explosiveness had surprised him.

Even in his own squad, that kind of speed was rare.

He had assumed Suker's strengths were in pressing, stamina, and link-up play.

But this sudden burst and raw pace?

That was something else.

Two completely different playing styles—fused into one player.

Van Stejak was intrigued.

"Who the hell trained this freak?"

Koso Pechi, Zrinjski's main striker, was also shocked.

"What kind of center forward is this guy?"

Most players have a clear style.

Koso Pechi, for example, used his size and strength as a battering ram.

He didn't have great footwork, but he was tall, powerful, and lethal in the air, with excellent finishing.

That was his identity.

But Suker?

He could pass, steal, sprint, dribble, and read the game.

If you called him all-around, he lacked height and strength.

If you said he wasn't a striker, his influence in the front line proved otherwise.

In short: total chaos.

That unpredictability made him unguardable.

If you didn't mark him, he'd link up the attack.

If you did, he'd burn you with his pace.

How were you supposed to defend this?

Koso Pechi, as a fellow forward, silently prayed for their defenders.

Suker stood up—not the slightest bit frustrated.

He turned, clapped, and shouted:

"Boss! Great pass! I'll definitely score next time!"

"Let's go, guys! We've got this!"

His shout lifted the team's morale.

Mostar Wanderers surged again.

"Mostar Zrinjski is in danger!"

The commentator couldn't help but say.

Once solidly supporting Zrinjski, even the commentators and fans were starting to doubt.

Wave after wave of attacks had shaken their confidence.

Though they hadn't scored, the mounting pressure was bound to crack the defense.

Worse, Zrinjski had a problem:

How do you stop Suker?

They thought staying tight would be enough—but now, he just sprints away.

Zrinjski's defensive line was in chaos.

"I think Coach Van Stejak needs to make adjustments—wait…"

The commentator fell silent.

The camera showed Van Stejak sitting calmly in his seat, scribbling in his notebook, not even watching the game.

He was muttering to himself with excitement.

Inside that notebook was a complete tactical system—built for all-out attack and defense.

And in that system, the name Suker was written at the center forward position.

Van Stejak's eyes gleamed.

A huge smile spread across his face.

Others didn't recognize the look—but Modric did.

"Big baby… another big baby…"

Modric turned away with a look of disgust.

The coach was clearly distracted.

Meanwhile, Zrinjski's defense was in chaos.

Even their midfield was starting to fall apart.

Mlinar's passes came easier, and Wanderers began to dominate.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

"Mark him! Mark Suker!"

"Don't lunge! Don't—damn it!"

Suker received another pass from Mlinar and charged down the sideline.

His pace was blistering.

The defender trying to keep up was already struggling.

Suker pushed the ball to his left.

"Damn it!"

Lovric Tech cursed. He tried to turn, but Suker cut back and nutmegged him.

Lovric sat down hard—completely fooled.

Suker strode into the box.

Facing the last defender and goalkeeper, he faked a shot—his right foot swung, then stopped.

He passed the ball behind him—diagonally.

Everyone had been pulled toward the wing.

The middle of the box was wide open.

Mlinar met the ball and calmly slotted it home.

Swish!!!

The net rippled.

In the 71st minute, Mostar Wanderers scored.

No. 9 Suker assisted.

No. 10 Mlinar scored.

Mostar Wanderers lead Mostar Zrinjski 1–0.