The holiday was over, and the team returned to training mode. After all, the league season was still ongoing. A short break was fine, but they couldn't afford to stay idle for long.
Training continued to focus on tactical drills, supplemented by small-area passing exercises.
Van Stoyak slightly reduced the training load for some players—they had a double match week coming up.
Besides the Premier League, they also had to play in the Bosnian Cup.
With matches on two fronts, physical fitness was of utmost importance.
That day in training, Suke wore his new boots and got to work.
Whether it was psychological or not, he felt like he was performing better with the new shoes.
Suke delivered several incisive through balls that split the defense. His coordination with Modrić was becoming increasingly fluent.
The only issue was that Suke's connection with the wings wasn't as smooth.
At first, Suke thought it was his fault, but later he realized that after every pass to the wing, he never got a return pass.
Oliveira, it turned out, was a lone wolf.
He would charge down the wing solo, and if he lost the ball, he'd just shrug, spit to the side, and expect his teammates to track back—disgusting behavior.
Still, his dribbling and crossing skills were top-notch.
That was probably why the coach tolerated him.
But working with him was awkward.
After a few fruitless attempts, Suke stopped leaning right altogether and focused on the left wing.
After all, he had the ball—he got to decide who to pass it to.
If you refuse to cooperate, then I refuse to pass to you.
Once Suke stopped passing to Oliveira, Modrić followed suit.
With both playmakers freezing him out, Oliveira didn't touch the ball once in the last 10 minutes.
"Hey! Over here! Pass the ball!"
Oliveira shouted to Suke.
Suke turned to the left as if he hadn't heard, and passed to Villar instead.
A few minutes later, Oliveira called out to Modrić.
"Here! I'm open in front!"
Modrić glanced at him. Oliveira immediately made a forward run—but Modrić turned and passed backward.
Not even a back pass for you!
"Bullshit!"
Oliveira punched the air in frustration.
His furious eyes locked on Suke and Modrić, who both turned their backs on him, making him even angrier.
"Oliveira messed with the wrong guys," said assistant coach Vandir with a shake of his head.
Anyone else, fine—but Suke and Modrić were the two main playmakers.
No exaggeration—60% of Zrinjski Mostar's attacking passes went through Modrić, the remaining 40% through Suke.
They essentially split the team's playmaking duties.
So when Oliveira refused to cooperate with Suke, Suke and Modrić simply stripped Oliveira of his right to touch the ball.
No passes, no game.
On a team, you could mess with almost anyone—even the captain.
But mess with the playmakers, and they'd just cut you off.
Vandir looked at head coach Van Stoyak and said, "Aren't you going to do something about Oliveira?"
Oliveira was a cancer in the squad.
Clubbing, late nights, skipping curfew, partying before matches, even influencing other teammates.
Lately, he had gotten worse.
Still, he was a Zrinjski Mostar product, having risen through the youth ranks to become vice-captain.
Getting rid of someone like him wasn't easy.
But Van Stoyak was clearly already making moves.
"Won't be long now. Let Boame play a few matches soon," he said.
Vandir raised an eyebrow—this was serious now.
In the scrimmage, Suke and Modrić completely ignored Oliveira.
He was practically invisible.
Oliveira had never been treated like this. The moment the scrimmage ended, he stormed toward Suke and Modrić.
"Hey!"
Kosović stepped in to block him.
"This doesn't concern you!"
Oliveira tried to shove him aside.
But at over 190 cm tall and with a solid build, Kosović wasn't going anywhere.
Soon another big guy, Mašović, stepped up beside him. Then came Hačić, Krlpić, Haskević—one after another.
Even keeper Kisch shouted from the side, "Calm down."
He said it neutrally, but his body leaned slightly toward Kosović's side.
Seeing himself surrounded, Oliveira fumed but could only spit out, "Keep your little buddies in line!"
After he left, Kosović sighed as he walked over to Suke and Modrić.
"You guys went too far."
"He doesn't cooperate, so I don't cooperate," Suke said stubbornly.
Modrić was even more blunt: "Why would I pass to someone who doesn't even know how to seize a chance?"
Everyone grinned.
These two were seriously headstrong.
Kosović didn't know how to talk them down.
Anyway, what was done was done. If Oliveira really kicked up a fuss, he'd handle it.
A fight?
He wasn't afraid.
"Ah! Right!"
Suke suddenly shouted and bolted off.
"Where's he going?" Kosović asked curiously.
Modrić shook his head. "No idea."
By then, Suke had sprinted off the field in his new boots, racing toward the office building.
Sure enough, he intercepted the coaching staff along the way.
Panting, he caught their attention.
"What's up?" Van Stoyak asked.
"I want to train strength!" Suke declared firmly.
Before Van Stoyak could reply, the fitness coach shouted, "No! You're still growing. Do you want to stay short?"
Fitness coach Hartbach was very responsible—not just for Suke's present, but also for his future.
Strength training could increase muscle bulk, which could reduce explosiveness and flexibility—bad for development.
Suke quickly explained, "No, no! Just a little bit."
"Even a little is too much!" Hartbach refused again.
Suke was frustrated.
Van Stoyak asked curiously, "Why do you want strength training?"
Suke was at a loss.
How could he explain that he was just two points away from unlocking a massive boost in shooting?
So he made something up.
"I heard that some strength training helps with growing taller."
Van Stoyak didn't know, so he looked to Hartbach.
The latter rubbed his chin. "Some strength training can indeed aid height development, especially with stretching to keep ligaments flexible."
"See! See!" Suke nodded excitedly.
"You want to train strength to grow taller?" Hartbach asked.
He agreed—Suke was a bit short.
Suke nodded like a pecking chick.
Hartbach turned to Van Stoyak. "How about I take over his morning sessions? Tactical training in the afternoon."
Van Stoyak agreed. "Fine by me. Mornings are just basic drills. Doesn't matter if he's there."
Hartbach told Suke, "Meet me at the training ground at 7 a.m. tomorrow. I'll design a personalized strength routine."
Suke was overjoyed and promised to show up at six for a warm-up.
Hartbach laughed, "Sleep is just as important! No height without rest!"
Suke zipped his mouth.
As he skipped away happily, Hartbach watched him with great interest.
"He's got Modrić-level talent. Just hasn't been fully developed."
The others nodded.
All the coaches were Dutch.
Hartbach had previously worked at Ajax's youth academy. Even as a fitness coach, he had methods for nurturing young talent.
Maybe it was his profession, but whenever he saw gifted kids, he couldn't help but get involved.
"What a hassle. Now I have to wake up early," he muttered.
Even as he grumbled, he couldn't hide his smile.
Everyone else chuckled.
Suke was impatient—once he decided on something, he couldn't wait.
But Hartbach had scared him straight.
Strength training might stunt growth. He'd considered sneaking in extra reps, but that could really keep him short forever.
That was serious business. Not something to be careless about.
So he changed direction.
From the still-open equipment room, he grabbed a net full of balls.
He returned to the field, lay the balls down, and got to work.
Time to practice shooting!
The red card boost to his shooting was one thing. His natural ability was another.
He only had six card slots. If better ones came along later, would he still keep the shooting one?
That's why, anything he could train on his own, he would.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the lonely silhouette of a boy stretched long across the field.
Each clean strike of the boot, each swish of the net, played together like a symphony titled "Dream."