The tension of the draw was back.
The quarterfinal draw would pair the remaining eight teams, and from this stage onward, it was all about heavyweight clashes. Luck alone couldn't carry anyone this far—only sheer strength mattered.
But even among these elite teams, there were clear hierarchies.
Take the two monstrous superclubs, for example:
Real Madrid and Barcelona.
These were the opponents every other Champions League quarterfinalist dreaded facing.
Drawing either was practically a death sentence!
Teams and fans alike gathered in front of their TVs to watch the draw ceremony.
Under the spotlight, the first team was drawn.
A white spiral-like crest adorned with a crown.
Groans erupted across living rooms and locker rooms.
Whoever came next was doomed.
Though secretly, many hoped Barcelona would be next—let the two titans tear each other apart in the quarterfinals, leaving one crippled and the other eliminated.
That way, the rest could swoop in and pick up the pieces.
But the world wasn't that kind.
Real Madrid's opponent was revealed.
A blue bird.
"Shit!"
In the Tottenham Hotspur locker room, Rafael van der Vaart couldn't help but curse.
They'd fought hard to eliminate AC Milan and reach the quarterfinals, only to draw the strongest team left.
Real Madrid.
This was going to be a nightmare.
Some players looked visibly pained, while others—like Gareth Bale—were buzzing with excitement.
As Spurs' current star, Bale had risen to fame after outrunning Maicon in a now-legendary sprint. Since then, his performances had been stellar, carrying Tottenham past Inter Milan to top their group.
Now, facing Real Madrid, Bale felt less fear and more fierce determination.
After his tactical reinvention, he believed he'd grown immensely. But how would he stack up against this juggernaut and its galaxy of stars? The challenge thrilled him.
Van der Vaart noticed Bale's expression and sighed. Youthful fearlessness.
If he were younger and hadn't witnessed Real Madrid's dominance firsthand, he'd feel the same.
But as a former Madrid player, Van der Vaart knew exactly how terrifying this squad was—especially Suker.
The British media might hype Bale endlessly, but his "versatility" paled next to Suker's.
If Suker was a hexagon of perfection, Bale only matched him in speed. Every other attribute? Miles behind.
"We're really up against Suker and the captain?" Vedran Ćorluka groaned.
Niko Kranjčar sighed. "No choice. We'll just have to grit our teeth and fight."
Drawing Real Madrid had cast a gloom over the Spurs squad.
They'd just mocked Arsenal for getting dismantled by Madrid.
Now, it was their turn to face the music.
"Tottenham Hotspur?"
In Real Madrid's tactical room, Suker raised an eyebrow.
Spurs had been solid since their rise, even reaching a Champions League final (though trophies eluded them).
But this iteration was hard to judge.
In another timeline, this Spurs side had been orchestrated by Luka Modrić.
Their so-called "trident" had been Peter Crouch, Bale, and Modrić.
But now, Modrić anchored Manchester United's midfield, and Bale had been repurposed earlier in his career. How strong were they really?
Beating Inter Milan wasn't much of a benchmark—Benítez had broken that team beyond recognition.
"Didn't expect Spurs," Srna mused. "Guess we'll see Ćorluka and Kranjčar again."
"Who?" Suker blinked. "They're at Spurs now?"
"You didn't know?" Srna stared.
Suker shrugged. "Why would I? They're not starters."
Srna: "..."
"Ćorluka joined in summer 2008. Kranjčar arrived a year later."
Suker nodded. "Explains why Kranjčar's technique looks rougher. Premier League's done a number on him."
Srna rolled his eyes. "He was at Portsmouth before. But they hit financial trouble in 2009 and had to sell. Kranjčar landed at Spurs, and Portsmouth went into administration by winter 2010. Relegated this season."
Suker whistled. "Escaped one fire just to jump into another."
"Another fire?" Srna frowned. "What fire?"
Suker waved him off. "Never mind. Point is, prep for the next match."
"What prep?"
"Speed training," Suker grinned. "You think Mourinho will let Marcelo mark Bale? Or you?"
Srna froze, then cursed.
Maicon's market value had tanked after Bale ripped him apart.
Srna's pace was similar to Maicon's—he'd get torched too.
"Don't worry too much." Suker chuckled. "Maicon got exposed partly because of Benítez's tactics. Last season's Inter wouldn't have collapsed like that."
Srna turned. "You'll track back to help, right?"
Suker: "Why would I race Bale for fun? Besides, pure speed-wise, we're about even."
98 acceleration, 98 sprint speed.
Suker had every reason to be confident.
But against a thoroughbred speedster like Bale? No chance of completely outpacing him—they'd be neck and neck.
Champions League Quarterfinal Draw:
Real Madrid vs. Tottenham Hotspur
Barcelona vs. Shakhtar Donetsk
Inter Milan vs. Schalke 04
Manchester United vs. Chelsea
Suker almost laughed.
First Arsenal, now Spurs?
Next up, Chelsea?
Was UEFA trying to crown Real Madrid "Kings of London"?
Two league games stood between them and the quarterfinals, plus a Euro qualifier.
This time, Suker and Srna were called up, but Modrić and Mandžukić rested.
Even so, Suker's blistering form carried Croatia to a 3-1 away win over Georgia.
Back at the club, Real Madrid prepared for La Liga's 29th round—an away Madrid derby against Atlético.
But this match took an unexpected turn.
Atlético held firm against Real's onslaught for 89 minutes, until Suker finally broke through with a worldie.
It took Real until the second half to realize:
These bastards were playing for a draw to snap our winning streak!
The mastermind? A black-suited, black-shirted, bearded man prowling the touchline—Diego Simeone, Atlético's soon-to-be cult hero manager, nicknamed "El Cholo."
Simeone had just taken over, but his imprint was already clear:
Relentless running.
Brutal physicality.
Passionate, chaotic football.
Without Suker's moment of magic, Real might've stumbled.
"That almost ended our streak," Srna panted. "Since when did they run this much?"
The game had been a war of attrition—more about stamina and tackles than skill, exactly how Simeone wanted it.
"Never!" Ramos spat. "They used to play fancy football. Now they're a bunch of goddamn bandits!"
Bandits indeed.
Atlético's newfound aggression infuriated Ramos.
Real had chances on the break, but Atlético's players sprinted back like their lives depended on it—a far cry from their usual lethargy.
Even their former attacking spark, Simão, had vanished.
The winger's dribbling was sharp, but his defensive work rate was nonexistent—clearly axed by Simeone.
(Rumors said he'd been sold to a Turkish club for €7.2 million.)
With Simão gone, Simeone tightened his grip and began reshaping Atlético in his image.
Iron-blooded manager, iron-fisted rule.
Suker smirked.
Simeone's arrival marked the dawn of "Atlético de Simeone"—the third force in La Liga was rising.
"Damn it! Champions League pressure wasn't enough? Now we've got these savages in the league too?" Suker griped while driving.
Real Madrid had historically dominated Atlético, but that was largely thanks to Cristiano Ronaldo's psychological hold.
(In another timeline, even at Juventus, Ronaldo had crushed Atlético with a hat-trick after a first-leg deficit.)
Now, that responsibility fell to Suker.
Iron-blooded Atlético only respected strength.
You had to hurt them—repeatedly—until it became psychological.
Let them gain a foothold, and they'd grow even more ferocious.
This time, Real had been caught off guard.
Next time, they'd come prepared.
Hit them where it hurts.
Despite the scare, Real Madrid walked away with a 1-0 win—extending their league streak to 29 straight victories.
Next up: Sporting Gijón at home, then the Champions League quarterfinals.
On April 3rd, Real fielded their strongest XI against Sporting, playing with rare focus after their near-disaster against Atlético.
But after 28 straight wins, complacency had crept in.
From August to now, they hadn't lost a single game.
Players weren't saints—the constant praise, adoration, and hype had even gotten to Mourinho (who'd stopped his trademark mind games, as if they were beneath him now).
But the Atlético game proved: Never get cocky.
Their streak had almost died then and there.
Thankfully, Suker's heroics saved them, and the wake-up call stuck.
Against Sporting, Real played like lions hunting rabbits.
Two minutes in, they scored from their first corner.
Three minutes later, Suker unleashed another worldie for a brace.
Then in the 67th, a one-two with Benzema set up Suker's close-range finish—a hat-trick that buried Sporting.
(Truthfully, they'd been dead after the first two goals.)
With the game won, Suker was subbed off to a standing ovation.
"Should be safe now," he sighed on the bench.
That Atlético match had been too close for comfort.
Had his wonder strike not gone in, their streak would've died—and to their own arrogance, no less.
By the 80th minute, it was still 3-0.
Mourinho turned. "Carvajal, warm up."
The bench collectively swiveled to stare at Dani Carvajal, who froze before bolting up in delight.
Of the three youth players promoted in January, only Carvajal had consistently made the squad.
The other two would likely be loaned out in summer—whether they'd ever return depended on their development.
Carvajal, though, was different.
While the others floundered, he'd glued himself to Srna, studying his every move and molding himself into a "mini-Srna."
That initiative was exactly what separated prospects who made it from those who didn't.
The other two still thought like academy kids—waiting for instructions, unsure how to improve.
But at a top club?
You either proved your worth immediately or got discarded.
Carvajal got it. The others didn't.
Simple as that.
In the 83rd minute, Carvajal replaced Srna for his senior debut—nervous but exhilarated.
"Go on," Srna clapped his shoulder. "Just play like always. What's a fullback's job?"
"Consistency!" Carvajal nodded firmly.
Srna smiled, and they high-fived as they passed each other.
The moment Srna sat down, a familiar teasing voice came:
"What's a fullback's job?"
Srna didn't need to look. "Piss off."
Suker grinned. "You're training your own replacement. Kid's got the talent to bench you in two years."
"No one stays first-choice forever," Srna shrugged. "I'd rather mentor my successor than get replaced by some random."
Suker frowned. "That's the dumbest logic I've ever heard. Why handpick your own competition?"
"You did it with Pato."
Suker scoffed. "That mutt? Please."
Srna eyed him. "You should soften up. You're not just 'Suker' anymore—you're an idol now. Kids look up to you. You've got to set an example."
He sighed. "Remember Brozović? You broke that poor kid."
Suker propped his chin on his hand lazily. "This is who I am. Want me to be a role model? Tough. My philosophy's always been survival of the fittest—orphanage, pro football, same rules."
He clenched a fist. "This is the only language that matters. Don't like it? Beat them until they submit."
Srna shook his head. Core personalities rarely changed.
Still, Suker wasn't a bad guy—just brutally pragmatic, with a sharp tongue and extreme methods. War and his childhood had erased any middle ground for him.
Grudges were settled immediately or nursed until payback came.
But for those he cared about? He'd move mountains.
Like how he'd secured land in Zagreb for a new orphanage, ensuring his old caretakers had a proper home.
That uncompromising loyalty was why Srna cherished their friendship.
He'd choose family over fairness every time.
Final score: Real Madrid 3-0 Sporting Gijón.
30 wins. 30 matches.
A perfect season, still alive.