Zakarić's anger was slowly consuming him.
Even his face was flushed.
Suk's repeated provocations, the abuse from the crowd, and conceding a goal were all fueling his fury.
A trace of ferocity began to appear in his eyes.
Suk and his teammates had happily returned to their own half. Scoring in the first half had clearly lifted their spirits.
Most importantly, Suk now had an assist to his name.
Two consecutive matches with assists—while he hadn't scored, this was still an excellent performance.
After all, Suk's primary role wasn't scoring, but rather creating chances and drawing defenders away to create space.
Although he played as a center forward, he wasn't the type to hunt goals. Instead, he specialized in assists and link-up play.
That's why he valued teamwork and assists more than personal glory.
You could judge Suk's performance just by looking at Coach Van Stee's face.
He kept rubbing his hands with a smile he couldn't hide.
Though sometimes rigid and stubborn, once Suk settled into his rhythm, he became a huge asset to the team.
Just like this goal—dropping back, organizing the play, dribbling past defenders, and delivering a killer ball into the box.
It could be said that Suk had truly mastered the role of a center forward who drops deep.
This attack was entirely orchestrated by Suk. Modrić had simply carried the ball from the back and passed it to his feet.
The goal was completed by the front three.
That's right!
Suk, Bijar, and Boame had really begun to function like a trident.
"Hey! Suk, let's keep playing like that!"
After enjoying the success, Bijar completely forgot about the team captain sitting on the bench.
He gestured to Suk. "We can crisscross more. I can set you up, and you can return the favor. I'm not as fast as you, but I'm definitely quicker than their fullback."
"No problem!" Suk patted his chest. "I'll set you up next time!"
Bijar grinned with satisfaction.
For a professional player, there's nothing more enjoyable than receiving a perfect pass from a teammate.
Vice-captain Oliveira saw this exchange from the bench. His eyes narrowed, exuding a distant and unapproachable aura.
He felt as though he was being left out by the team.
Yes!
He used to be the one isolating others, but ever since Van Stee took over, he had begun to feel lonely.
Now that Suk and Modrić were siding with Kosopech, the locker room power dynamic had clearly started to shift.
He regretted ignoring Suk in the beginning.
More than regret, he felt resentment.
Why wouldn't those two pass to him?
Back on the field, the game resumed.
With a goal scored, Zrinjski Mostar's attack became even more fluid.
Suk, in particular, was dynamic—dropping deep and surging forward, constantly pulling at the opponent's defense.
If it were just Suk, the threat might be manageable. But now the two wingers were joining the link-up play.
Sometimes they attacked with smooth, coordinated passing and movement.
Other times, they spread wide—one pressing up, the other hanging back.
Suk would drop deep, while the wingers advanced. As soon as he received the ball, he'd play it into open space.
Suk's passes were incredibly hard to defend against, especially since they came from a center forward. The defense was often stretched too thin, leaving gaps wide open.
Moreover, Zrinjski Mostar's wingers were very fast, leaving Borac Banja Luka's defense looking like a flickering candle—on the verge of being snuffed out.
At the 34-minute mark, Suk dropped back again to receive the ball.
"Keep up, idiot!"
The fans shouted insults from the stands.
Veins bulged on Zakarić's forehead. He clenched his jaw, swallowed his rage, and followed.
As Suk received the ball, he immediately sensed pressure from behind.
He stopped, then started swaying left and right with his back to the defender.
Compared to Zakarić, Suk was much more agile. Zakarić struggled to match every feint.
But what irritated him most was Suk showing off right in front of him.
A burning fire surged in Zakarić's chest.
"Get lost!"
He lunged forward, planting a foot between Suk's legs, pressing into him with his body, his knee digging into Suk's waist.
Suk, caught off guard while pivoting, was sent tumbling forward.
He cried out, clutching his lower back in pain.
Beep beep beep~~~~
The referee's whistle rang out sharply.
A yellow card was shown to Zakarić.
He had paid the price for his reckless challenge.
Suk, still clutching his back, turned to look at him.
Zakarić glared back with wild, enraged eyes. He was clearly losing control.
"Idiot! You get a card for defending, you hopeless fool!"
Then Zakarić screamed at the stands:
"Bitch! Come down here! Bitch!"
He charged toward the fans, as if ready to drag one of them onto the field.
The heckler, who had been loud earlier, immediately shriveled at the sight.
After the referee and teammates pulled Zakarić back, the fan started shouting again.
"Zakarić, you're a— Ahhh!!"
Bang!
A soccer ball smashed into the fan's cheek, knocking him over.
Dazed, the man stood up with a swollen face and blood dripping from his nose.
Everyone around froze.
Even Zakarić looked stunned.
At that moment, Modrić calmly raised his hand.
"Sorry, miskick!"
The referee gave him a long look, then simply waved play to continue.
Bilalović stared at Modrić in disbelief.
This guy really dares to do anything.
The furious fan tried to leap over the barrier, but the security guards held him back.
"Aren't you afraid of a fan riot?"
Bilalović asked, still rattled.
Modrić didn't reply.
Just then, Šuker walked over, still rubbing his waist, and held out his hand.
"Nice shot!"
Modrić grinned and gave him a solid high five.
Bilalović: "..."
After this unexpected scene, both teams calmed down a bit.
Even Zakarić, who had been red-hot with rage, had cooled off.
The first half ended soon after.
As the whistle blew, Zakarić walked over to Šuker and said, "Sorry. Is your back okay?"
Šuker waved him off with a smile. "I'm fine. Take care of yourself."
Zakarić laughed.
Šuker glanced toward the stands and said, "Why don't you transfer? They don't respect you at all."
Zakarić shrugged. "If the opportunity comes."
Clearly, this game had left him feeling disheartened.
During halftime, Coach Vestergaard praised the team's performance.
This boosted everyone's confidence even more.
The defense had done exceptionally well, especially Mašović, who won every aerial duel and completely shut down the opposing center forward.
In the second half, the tactics remained the same. But Vestergaard still emphasized: "Keep running!"
"How's your back?" he asked Šuker.
Šuker twisted slightly and grinned. "I'm fine. You recover too, young man."
Vestergaard smiled. Šuker's stamina had always been top-notch—even better than Modrić's.
These two were the team's most tireless runners—and the most dangerous.
After the briefing, the players rested, waiting for the second half to begin.
"The Borac Banja Luka warriors have looked shaky in attack," the commentator Basso Dadić said. "They're struggling to deal with Zrinjski Mostar's intense pressing and high-energy running. They've even lost the ball in their own half several times, almost giving away more goals."
"We're now in the 80th minute..."
He glanced at Šuker and Modrić, still sprinting relentlessly, and sighed. "It's good to be young!"
No one could say exactly how far the two had run in this match, but they were clearly the most active players.
Šuker, in particular, had made several full-field sprints and still looked full of energy.
Zakarić couldn't keep up anymore—he was completely worn out.
Even basic defending had become a challenge.
How does this guy still have so much energy?
Am I really getting old?
He was only 25!
As Zakarić mulled over his struggles, Šuker and Modrić burst forward again, pressing hard from both sides.
Modrić surged ahead with the ball, and Šuker made a diagonal run.
Zakarić panicked.
Who should I mark?
He exchanged glances with his center-back partner, then made his choice—he rushed to cover Šuker.
Šuker was sprinting wildly, and when he sensed Zakarić coming, he bent low and accelerated again.
So fast!
Zakarić reached out, but couldn't grab him.
At the same time, a pass flew across the pitch and dropped right in front of Šuker.
"Offside!" Zakarić shouted, raising his hand.
But the referee pointed forward—no offside.
Šuker got to the ball first. As he neared the goal, he adjusted and struck it with his right foot.
It was one of his best shots—precise and powerful.
But... damn that goalkeeper!
He had guessed right and dived to the side, blocking it with his arm.
The rebound fell straight back to Šuker.
"Don't even think about shooting!"
Zakarić was there now, blocking the angle.
Šuker had no space to shoot.
In an instant, he stepped on the ball and flicked it behind his standing leg.
The ball rolled gently but lethally across the box.
At that moment, Modrić arrived and poked it forward with a soft touch.
It floated past the defenders and keeper—into the net.
Zrinjski Mostar 2 : 0 Borac Banja Luka
As the goal was confirmed, Šuker and Modrić embraced on the pitch.
The Borac Banja Luka players were slumped.
There was no hope left.