The Gerland Stadium was destined to be a place of heartbreak.
Lyon had united as one in an attempt to bring down the AC Milan dynasty.
But in the end, they couldn't withstand Milan's counterattacks.
Vukojević crouched on the pitch, panting heavily and shaking his head.
Lyon had been performing well in Ligue 1 in recent years, but in the Champions League, they'd lost their former fire.
Especially with Juninho's declining form, their attack had become far less threatening.
Defensively, they couldn't cope with Suker's impact.
This loss? Well deserved.
"Why aren't you crying?"
Vukojević turned his head.
He saw Suker holding his phone, looking dejected.
"I swear, one day I'm gonna snap your phone in half!"
Vukojević gritted his teeth.
Suker shrugged. "You guys are just unlucky. Always running into us in the Champions League."
Vukojević rolled his eyes. He didn't want to bother with Suker.
Suker teased, "Ever thought about joining Milan? We could be teammates."
"No! I want to beat the crap out of you!"
"Good! That's a relief." Suker raised his phone. "My goal is to make all of you cry, one by one."
"Last season it was Luka, this season it's you. Next up—Mario, Srna…"
Suker counted on his fingers.
Vukojević shook his head.
There was no reasoning with Suker's twisted sense of humor.
"Just shut up already!"
Suker chuckled—it was all in good fun.
Sitting down beside Vukojević, he propped himself up and said, "This season's not gonna be easy."
"United, Barcelona, Bayern—they're all strong?"
Suker turned his head. "Bayern? You think they're strong?"
Vukojević twitched.
To AC Milan, Bayern didn't really seem like a threat.
After all, some teams just have a psychological edge.
"But United, yeah—they're seriously strong," Suker said. "After completing their squad overhaul, they're gunning for the Champions League this season."
"Barcelona too. Their possession game is insane—you can't even touch the ball."
"You've played them already?"
"Preseason friendly," Suker nodded.
This was the early version of Guardiola's Barcelona—the beginning of their legendary treble era.
Though Messi hadn't yet been made the central figure—he didn't even wear the No. 10 jersey—and Ronaldinho hadn't left yet, the team's strength was undeniable.
Suker dusted himself off and got up to leave.
"Suker!" Vukojević called out and held up a fist with a smile. "Congrats in advance, Mr. Ballon d'Or!"
Suker froze for a second, then broke into a huge grin.
"Thanks!"
AC Milan's win over Lyon sent shockwaves through the European media once again.
Especially the second goal—Suker's explosive solo run had pundits hailing him as the "Second Alien."
Everyone in Serie A knew just how powerful Ronaldo's explosive pace and drive once were.
During the golden era of Italian football, Ronaldo was the most dangerous striker around.
The nickname "The Alien" wasn't given lightly.
The fact that he could repeatedly rip apart Italian defenses spoke volumes about his power.
Now Suker was being called the second coming of Ronaldo.
Sure, it was mostly media hype.
After all, Suker had only replicated Ronaldo's pendulum dribble and explosive style.
And the defenders he faced weren't on the same level as those from Ronaldo's prime.
But media love this kind of hype and drama.
Besides, Suker was one of the frontrunners for this year's Ballon d'Or.
With another highlight-reel moment added to his collection, Suker was once again the talk of Europe.
Since joining Milan, the buzz around him had never died down.
And with that, his fame only continued to grow.
In the locker room at the training ground—
Pato stared at all the newspapers—every front page was plastered with headlines about Suker.
"Every single one is about you!" Pato said, full of envy. "What does it feel like?"
Suker replied, "In one word—ecstatic!"
Pato looked even more jealous.
"I want that kind of attention too!"
To Pato, Suker was the first true superstar he had met—someone who completely changed how he viewed top-tier football.
Suker was Pato's idol.
He hoped that someday, he could be like Suker.
"How do you get the media to praise you like this?" Pato stared at the papers, full of admiration.
Suker looked at him. "You really want to know?"
Pato nodded eagerly.
The rest of the team rolled their eyes.
"Three key things," Suker said seriously.
Pato stared at him, eyes wide.
"What three things?"
Kaká interrupted grumpily, "You're seriously humoring him?"
Pato ignored him.
Suker raised a finger. "First: work hard."
Pato nodded.
"And the second?"
"Second," Suker said gravely, "work your ass off!"
Kaká laughed, "And the third is: work till you die?"
Suker shook his head.
Pato leaned in. "Then what is it?"
Suker patted Pato's shoulder and said with a heavy tone, "If working hard doesn't work… just give up. You weren't meant to make it."
Pato stared at Suker, betrayed.
This wasn't what he signed up for!
Creak—
The door opened.
Maldini walked into the locker room. He looked around and called out to Suker and Kaká: "You two, head to the coach's office. The boss wants to see you."
"You get into trouble again?" Kaká turned to Suker.
Suker raised an eyebrow. "Why do you assume it's me?"
Kaká said, "If you didn't mess up, why would the boss call us?"
"Why not you, huh?"
They bickered as they left the locker room.
Suker and Kaká were both a little confused.
Why had Ancelotti called them in—together?
Even if it was about contracts or renewals, it would normally be done one-on-one.
They couldn't figure out what Ancelotti was up to.
"Boss!"
"Coach!"
They entered the office to find Ancelotti smoking, seated on the guest sofa.
To one side was a simple tactics board; the other side had some documents.
"Sit down," Ancelotti gestured. Then he got up to open the window to air out the smoke.
When he sat back down, he pointed at the tactics board. "Let's talk about a new tactical setup. This is something Kaká needs to understand as part of his transformation."
Suker's eyes lit up. "Boss, you've figured out how we can play together?"
"Not exactly," Ancelotti waved his hand. "But I've got some ideas."
"First, Suker—some of the tactical focus around you will shift to the midfield."
Suker nodded.
This was part of the tactical direction Milan had been experimenting with.
Ancelotti turned to Kaká. "You need to change your playing style."
Kaká nodded as well.
He understood that to survive in top-level football, he had to adapt.
"That's the basic premise," Ancelotti said.
He instinctively reached for his pocket for a cigarette, but catching sight of Suker and Kaká, he stopped.
He cleared his throat and continued:
"In this new setup, Kaká is the key. Whether he adapts or not will determine everything."
Suker and Kaká glanced at each other.
Kaká asked, "What do I need to change?"
Ancelotti looked at him with appreciation. Sharp guy.
"In the past, your job was to carry the ball forward and make the final pass. But from now on, that will change."
"You'll drop a bit deeper and cover more ground on the wings."
Kaká nodded. "I already figured that much."
Ancelotti continued: "But more importantly, your role is to create space—a situation where Suker can go one-on-one."
Kaká still looked a bit puzzled.
But Suker's eyes lit up.
Now it made sense.
It was hard for Kaká to consistently deliver line-breaking passes.
At least, for now.
But creating one-on-one opportunities? That was much easier.
Suker feared no one in a one-on-one.
In fact, if he got that situation—he was confident he could destroy any defender.
"One-on-two works too!" Suker chimed in.
Ancelotti shot him a look, and Suker immediately shut up.
Kaká finally got it and smacked his forehead. "That's it!"
"What is?" Suker asked.
"I told you before—I had some ideas for the attack. This was it! Just forgot about it later!"
He turned to Ancelotti and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Boss, you're amazing!"
Suker and Ancelotti were stunned.
Was this really the same clueless Kaká they knew?
Since when did he start flattering people?
Suker muttered, "Kaká… you've changed."