Friday's training match.
"Beautiful!"
With a feint, Suk dodged the defender and received Modrić's pass on the opposite side, executing the entire move with fluid grace.
Suk couldn't help but smile to himself.
Seeing Suk break free, Barton immediately turned and chased back. But just then, Suk flicked the ball with the outside of his foot—right through Barton's legs.
Humiliated by the nutmeg, Barton's face turned red, and he charged at Suk even harder.
Suk reached the ball again, stepped on it, and when Barton lunged, he pulled it back—nutmegging him a second time and slipping past.
Two nutmegs in a row caused cheers to erupt from the surrounding teammates. They swarmed Suk, laughing and slapping his back in admiration—a ritual of respect in football.
Suk grinned.
Barton, however, wasn't as happy.
"You okay?" Suk offered a hand. His turn to say those words.
Barton looked at him. "You're holding a grudge, huh?"
Suk chuckled. He was—after getting bumped all week, it felt good to return the favor.
He helped Barton up, and the match went on.
With Suk shaking off Barton's defense, the main team's attack flowed much more smoothly.
On the sideline, Coach Van Stijak smiled. "He can finally receive the ball properly."
Assistant Coach Van der grinned. For a week, Suk had been getting pushed around. But after constant adjustments, his connection with Modrić was starting to work—an encouraging sign.
And for the coaches, seeing players actively solve problems together was a huge win.
Team cohesion at Mostar Zrinjski was clearly improving.
In just two weeks since Suk's arrival, the change was visible.
The previously dull team was waking up. There were more smiles, more communication—and most importantly, Modrić had opened up and was finally integrating with the team.
Everything pointed toward a promising future.
"Training's done. Pack up—we're taking the evening train to Banja Luka!" Van Stijak announced.
It was the fifth round of the 2002/2003 Bosnian Premier League, and their opponent was Borac Banja Luka.
As soon as the name came up, the atmosphere turned tense.
Banja Luka was not just a city—it was the de facto capital of Republika Srpska, and with the legacy of the Yugoslav Wars, tensions between Serbs and Croats were high.
This match wasn't just about football—it was a showdown between ethnic groups.
Borac Banja Luka: mostly Serbian.
Mostar Zrinjski: mostly Croatian.
These games were often called the "Ethnic Derby" or "Bloody Derby."
Coach Van Stijak named the 18-man squad—Suk was included.
He boarded the bus with Modrić and the others, heading to the station. At 6 PM, they caught the evening train.
It was slow, an old green train—nothing close to high-speed.
The carriage was mostly empty, giving Suk room to stretch out and nap.
Modrić followed and lay down across from him.
"Get some sleep now—you might not get any tonight," said Kosorčić.
"Why not?" Suk asked.
"Usually when we arrive, Serb fans wait for us—shouting curses, setting off fireworks, keeping us up all night."
Suk blinked, then quickly closed his eyes. "Then I'd better catch up on sleep now!"
At 9 PM, the train arrived in Banja Luka.
A local bus waited in the underground garage—Van Stijak clearly didn't want attention.
But the Serb fans still found them, tailing the bus and shouting abuse.
Suk looked out and saw some youths screaming, leaning from car windows, flipping obscene gestures.
"I really want to punch that guy," he muttered.
"Me too," Školnik replied. "So annoying."
As they neared the hotel, security finally blocked the fans.
Peace returned—until fireworks exploded overhead with a bang, making Suk jump.
"At night, they'll keep doing that," Kosorčić said, smiling. "To stop us from sleeping."
"What if I can't sleep?" Suk asked nervously.
"Figure it out yourself." Kosorčić pulled out a pair of earplugs. "I always bring these for away games."
Coach Van Stijak led them to check into a small, modest hotel—more like a guesthouse.
Rooming with Modrić, Suk washed up and collapsed on the bed.
Modrić took out tissue paper. "Here—stuff these in your ears—"
But Suk was already asleep, snoring lightly.
Smiling, Modrić helped him off with his shoes and socks, shifted him into bed, and tucked him in.
Bang!
Fireworks lit up the sky. Outside, the Borac fans were still jeering.
Modrić closed the curtains and looked back at Suk—who was still sleeping soundly.
"Out like a rock."
Suk had amazing sleep quality—once asleep, nothing could wake him.
And in this situation, that was a blessing.
The next morning, Suk woke up refreshed and stretched with satisfaction.
Modrić yawned, pulling tissue from his ears.
"Come on, let's eat," Suk said.
They washed up and went to breakfast.
Kosorčić was already there—slumped, eyes baggy and unfocused.
"Morning!" Suk said, grabbing food and sitting beside him.
Kosorčić nodded, took a bite of bread, and yawned again.
"Didn't sleep well, captain?"
"Didn't sleep at all," he groaned.
"There's a match today!"
Kosorčić sighed.
Coach Van Stijak entered and did a headcount. A few players hadn't slept well—mostly older ones.
The young ones, like Suk, seemed fine.
Van Stijak turned to Kosorčić. "Skip the pitch inspection. Go rest."
Kosorčić nodded. He was exhausted, but still couldn't sleep.
Later, as Suk returned from the stadium, he saw Kosorčić looking even worse—shaky, pale, yawning constantly.
Clearly not fit to play.
Suk understood: this was the "accident" the coach warned about.
Van Stijak had no choice.
"Change of plans. Suk, you're starting today," he announced.
He added, "Suk and Boame will start. Kosorčić and Oliveira will be substitutes."
Oliveira's eyes widened. "Why am I benched? I slept fine!"
Van Stijak didn't even respond.
He turned to Kiš, the goalkeeper. "You're captain today. Keep morale high."
Kiš nodded. "No problem."