Chapter 169: He Can’t Catch Up

"Michael Owen continues to relentlessly attack Dinamo Zagreb's defensive line!"

"With the relentless assault from England's 'Boy Wonder,' Real Madrid's offense in the first half has become incredibly sharp!"

Zidane's signature Marseille turn smoothly redirects the ball out wide.

"Owen!"

Zidane shouts.

Owen bursts forward, sprinting down the wing.

Zidane's eyes shine with energy. Owen's addition has injected fresh vitality into this aging Galácticos lineup.

At least the wing breakthroughs have become noticeably sharper.

Whoosh!

A flash of blue streaks across his vision.

Owen is fast.

But he is just as fast!

Zidane quickly turns his head.

He sees Owen sprinting ahead, while Suker is furiously chasing from behind.

Both are incredibly fast, but the off-ball sprinting Suker is faster.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

"Oh my!! Suker is chasing him down!! My god! He's so fast!!!"

At the Bernabéu Stadium, Suker is sprinting with wild spirit.

He is at full throttle, running like a madman.

His eyes are locked on the white number 11 shirt ahead of him—Michael Owen.

The same English wonder boy who once amazed him from the TV screen.

From Mostar to Spain.

Suker has been chasing him all the way.

Now, they are only three meters apart.

"Accelerate!"

Suker growls, digging in hard with his feet.

He finally catches up to Owen.

The two are neck and neck!

"He caught up!! He actually caught up!!"

"Oh my god!! Owen is fast, but Suker is just as quick!"

"He chased all the way from his own half and finally cornered Owen at the touchline!"

Suker is panting heavily, eyes locked onto Owen.

Owen, too, is breathing hard.

This is the first time someone has shut him down so effectively.

His once prideful speed has repeatedly been matched this game, greatly reducing his offensive threat.

As the two remain in a standoff, Pranjić finally catches up.

Suker immediately closes in.

"Get him!"

They shrink the space together, looking to trap and press.

But Owen gives a slight twitch of his calf, trying to thread the ball between them.

Swish!

Pranjić sticks out a foot.

His toe brushes the ball.

"I got it!"

Pranjić turns quickly.

But the ball still finds its way to Zidane's feet.

Zidane carries the ball down the inside channel, unpressured, and fires a shot.

A diagonal strike.

The ball goes through Štimac's legs and into the left side of the net.

"Zidane!! The French superstar scores Real Madrid's third goal!!"

"3-2!! We take the lead again!"

At the 39th minute, Zidane restores Real Madrid's lead.

Suker is still gasping for breath.

"Damn! This is exhausting!"

In this match, Owen started, making Madrid's wing attack much more dangerous.

Suker had to constantly fall back. In Dinamo Zagreb's lineup, only Suker could keep up with Owen.

Sometimes he couldn't even push forward—he had to stay back to monitor Owen.

Suker looks over at Owen.

At this point in time, Owen hasn't suffered injuries yet. He's still that blazing-fast "Boy Wonder."

At the same time, Owen looks over at Suker.

Their gazes collide in the air.

Suker fears Owen.

But Owen feels the same.

Few can match his speed. He was nicknamed the "Boy Who Chased the Wind" for a reason.

But today, he encountered Suker.

"That number 9, Suker, can actually catch me!"

Owen's tone is heavy.

Zidane nods. He knows it too. It's happened repeatedly this match.

Owen presses his lips together in silence.

Was it really as simple as getting caught?

That guy kept sprinting up and down—it's like he ran twice as far as Owen!

Owen only moved in the opponent's half.

Suker was sprinting the entire sideline, up and down, nonstop.

What kind of stamina monster is this guy?!

Soon, the first half ends.

Both teams head back to the locker room.

"In the first half, it's 3:2. Both sides are going all-out attack!"

"Real Madrid, relying on Owen's pace, repeatedly broke down Zagreb's defense. On the other hand, Dinamo Zagreb relied on Suker and Mandzukic to hammer at Madrid's backline."

"Five goals in 45 minutes!"

"It's a tense and thrilling goal fest!"

Inside the locker room.

"Owen is too fast! If it wasn't for Suker, I would've been blown up on the flank!"

Pranjić gasps for air.

The other defenders are also panting—Real Madrid fully utilized Owen's speed.

With Zidane, Beckham, and other midfield masters delivering pinpoint passes, Madrid continually launched attacks.

As a result, Dinamo Zagreb conceded three goals.

Raúl scored twice, Zidane once.

For Dinamo Zagreb, Suker and Mandzukic each netted one.

Halftime score: 3:2!

"In the second half, we must lock down the flanks. Suker, drop back more!"

Coach Bešić gives his instruction.

Faced with this situation, he pins his hope on Suker's defense.

But Suker forces a bitter smile.

"We've overlooked one thing..."

Everyone turns, confused.

Suker sighs, "Owen has kept hitting our defense all first half. Judging by his intensity, he never intended to play the second half."

Šimunić and others blink.

Modrić suddenly says, "Ronaldo!"

"Ronaldo didn't start today!"

Suker grins: "Real Madrid is planning to unleash their ultimate weapon in the second half!"

Sure, Ronaldo is getting older now.

But with Owen tiring Zagreb's backline, bringing Ronaldo on will be devastating against a fatigued defense.

Everyone looks at each other, stunned.

Damn!

Real Madrid set them up!

55th minute of the second half.

Ronaldo takes the field.

Owen is subbed off, and the "Alien" steps onto the pitch.

".Vukojević and Modrić are all over Zidane, but he still manages to poke the ball through—Ronaldo!!"

The Spanish commentator roars.

The entire Bernabéu erupts.

Under the gaze of thousands, Ronaldo charges the defense.

Jarní steps up—but Ronaldo is already shimmying!

His signature "pendulum" step-over dribbles.

His wildly shifting upper body makes Jarní flinch.

"Don't reach!"

Štimac yells.

Too late.

The moment Jarní extends his leg, Ronaldo cuts, bursts past him, and unleashes a rocket.

The ball flies through the keeper's hands.

67th minute—Ronaldo scores!

Real Madrid 4:2 Dinamo Zagreb.

"They've opened the gap!"

Suker shakes his head but immediately claps and shouts: "Don't give up! Stay calm! One goal at a time!"

Zidane, catching his breath, watches Suker shouting.

"This guy hasn't given up."

"That's what makes them tough," Ronaldo mutters. "If Owen hadn't worn them down in the first half, we wouldn't have won so easily."

Zidane nods in agreement.

Zagreb's offense is strong.

But their defense is a mess!

Sure enough, five minutes after Madrid's goal, Zagreb launches a counter.

"Modrić passes!! Suker's sprinting!! But wait—Ronaldo?!"

The Spanish commentator exclaims, "Ronaldo is tracking back?!"

Suker just begins to accelerate at midfield—but Ronaldo is already cutting him off.

Suker looks stunned.

Ronaldo is defending? Seriously?

Ronaldo grins, showing his trademark buck teeth.

Suker taps the ball forward, excited now.

He tries a feint—Ronaldo doesn't bite.

Madrid's defense begins to regroup.

Suker grits his teeth and knocks the ball ahead.

Time for a power run!

"Suker knocks it forward—he's going to use pure speed to beat Ronaldo? Doesn't he know Ronaldo—"

The Spanish commentator's teasing voice suddenly stops.

Just one stride—and Suker leaves Ronaldo behind.

Behind him—

Ronaldo is gritting his teeth, head down, arms pumping, but it's as if his legs are shackled.

He… can't get up to speed!

The one who once ran like the wind—

The untouchable "Alien"—

Now, with just one sprint, he's falling behind.

"This…"

The Spanish commentator chokes.

His eyes blur.

The young Suker races forward.

Behind him, the aging Ronaldo struggles, even nodding his head with effort.

But his clumsy legs just can't produce that once-legendary pace.

Two number 9s.

The once-invincible alien—now with a helpless back view.

He stumbles. He grits his teeth. He chases.

But the gap just widens…

The Spanish commentator suddenly feels a lump in his throat.

His voice trembles—

"He can't catch Suker…"

"No! He can't catch up… to the invincible version of himself."