After the Sporting Gijón match, Real Madrid turned their focus to the Champions League.
The quarterfinals loomed—a clash against Tottenham Hotspur.
When discussing this opponent, the most dangerous threat was undoubtedly their Welsh winger, Gareth Bale.
A star renowned for his blistering speed.
Speed was one of football's most debated attributes, with no consensus on who truly stood atop the hierarchy.
Bale was fast.
Robben was fast.
Walcott wasn't slow either.
Then there were players like Suker and Cristiano Ronaldo, who specialized in explosive bursts.
But Bale's demolition of Maicon earlier in the season had skyrocketed his reputation, and his pace was undeniably a concern.
To neutralize him, Mourinho devised specialized training for Srna.
Real Madrid's speed demons—Suker and Kaká—took turns putting him through his paces.
On the training pitch, Suker stood over the ball, addressing Srna: "I'm not a pure speed merchant. I rarely go full throttle when dribbling. For me, wing play is more about rhythm shifts and ball control, so I usually operate at around 70% of my top speed."
"So you've never dribbled at full speed?" Srna asked.
Suker shrugged. "Pretty much. Unless there's a clear runway down the flank, going all-out means sacrificing options. Why would I do that when I've got more tools than just pace?"
Unlike one-dimensional speedsters, Suker's game was multifaceted. Full-speed dribbling locked him into a linear path, eliminating the ability to change direction.
"But Bale loves just bombing forward at full tilt," Suker continued, then glanced at Mourinho. "So Kaká and I will simulate that. Good?"
Mourinho nodded.
The rest of the squad watched with interest.
Srna was a rock defensively, but Suker and Kaká were nightmare dribblers.
This clash promised fireworks.
"Who's first?" Suker looked at Kaká.
Kaká shook his head. "You go."
Suker pushed the ball forward gently, setting up a worst-case scenario—an 8-9 meter gap between him and Srna, enough space to hit top speed before Srna could close in.
"Here we go!"
Suker exploded forward, his powerful strides kicking up divots as he arrowed down the wing.
Gasps erupted from the sidelines.
"Fucking hell, that's quick!"
"Look at his acceleration!"
"He's already past halfway!"
Suker's close control kept the ball perfectly positioned, each touch measured and precise.
"It's like he's not even dribbling—just sprinting!" Ramos marveled.
The 9-meter gap vanished in seconds.
Srna shuffled sideways, cutting off the inside lane.
Then Suker subtly decelerated—a telltale sign he was about to shift gears.
Sure enough, his right foot feinted a cut inside, shoulders dipping.
Direction change!
Srna reacted instantly.
But Suker's foot hovered over the ball, planted, then pushed it forward again—a double feint that left Srna twisting like a pretzel before Suker slotted it through his legs and breezed past.
"NUTMEG!!"
"SRNA GOT SKINNED!"
The squad howled with laughter as Suker collected the ball and turned to see Srna sitting on the turf, shaking his head.
"See? Once your body commits, I've got you," Suker said.
Srna scowled. "Should I just stand there like a statue?"
"That's your call." Suker grinned. "Next up—Kaká!"
This time, Srna studied Kaká's approach intently.
Unlike Suker's rapid footwork, Kaká moved with languid grace, each touch deliberate.
Now!
Srna lunged.
Kaká prodded the ball ahead and darted around him—a textbook la croqueta.
"GODDAMMIT!" Srna grabbed his head in frustration.
"Again!"
For the next hour, Suker and Kaká took turns tormenting Srna.
Defenders were always at a disadvantage, but at least here, there were no passing options—just pure 1v1s.
Yet even under these conditions, Srna felt the immense pressure, flashing back to his Inter days facing these two.
But with each failure, his determination grew.
"I think I'm getting it. Again!"
Suker charged once more.
This time, Srna held his ground, then shoved Suker slightly off-balance as he neared, before wedging himself between man and ball.
"Hey! No hands!" Suker protested.
"Since when can't defenders use their arms?" Srna shot back, smug.
The defenders in the crowd—Ramos, Marcelo—cheered.
"He's right! Shoulders are fair game!"
"Teach that showboat a lesson!"
Suker gritted his teeth. "Once more."
Srna waited, poised to repeat the move.
But this time, Suker hammered the ball forward and went full throttle, blowing past Srna before he could react.
"You didn't even try a move!" Srna yelled.
Suker retrieved the ball. "Why bother? You were flat-footed. Easier to just burn you."
"Bastard."
"Again."
Soon, Marcelo, Arbeloa, and even Carvajal joined the drill, recognizing its value.
Two grueling hours later, all four fullbacks lay sprawled on the grass, heaving.
"I'm... done..." Srna gasped.
"This... monster... never... stops..."
"Suker's... a damn... machine..."
Suker himself was breathing hard, having burned two stamina-recovery cards to outlast them.
Still, the session yielded results—they'd identified key principles for defending speedsters.
And Bale, for all his gifts, lacked Suker's dribbling versatility. That simplified things.
Meanwhile, at Tottenham's training ground, preparations took a different tone.
While Bale's speed was their trump card, Spurs focused on collective shape. Individual brilliance meant little if the team was overrun.
Their first-leg trip to the Bernabéu weighed heavily.
Attackers fretted over breaking down Real's defense; defenders dreaded facing Suker and Kaká.
A draw would be a triumph, but even that seemed daunting.
"Save your energy for the match," Van der Vaart told Bale. "We'll need you at your best."
Spurs' hopes hinged on Bale, much like Real's reliance on Suker last season.
No Bale, no victory.
Bale remained silent, his usual reticence laced with tension.
"Nervous?" Van der Vaart asked. "Facing Real's intimidating, especially with Suker there."
Bale looked up abruptly. "How big is the gap between me and Suker?"
"In what way?"
"Everything."
Van der Vaart hesitated. "You've got potential. You could challenge him someday."
A diplomatic dodge.
Bale was exceptional, but last season, Suker had dragged a dysfunctional Real to La Liga and Copa del Rey glory single-handedly.
Even Ronaldo and Messi trailed him now.
"Focus on tomorrow," Van der Vaart said, his own expression darkening.
This was his revenge tour—having been discarded by Mourinho after Florentino's Dutch purge, pride demanded he rise to the occasion.
The next day, Real drilled coordinated defensive schemes.
Pure speedsters were football's cheat codes—technical players could be schemed against, but raw pace? A nightmare.
To counter Bale's marauding runs, Srna and Ramos rehearsed tandem coverage: Srna would harass, Ramos would sweep in to dispossess.
Shut down Bale, and Spurs' threat evaporated.
Not that Real were overly concerned—their firepower dwarfed Tottenham's. Long before Bale could wreak havoc, Suker and Kaká would've shredded Spurs' backline.
At lunch, the squad ate while watching Spurs' arrival in Madrid on TV.
Manager Harry Redknapp—named 2009/10 Premier League Manager of the Year for transforming Spurs—led the delegation.
Suker studied the screen.
In another timeline, Redknapp had molded Modrić and Bale into stars.
Here, Modrić had blossomed earlier under Ferguson, while Bale's development lagged slightly, his game still lacking polish.
Though Suker's standards were unfairly high, given he trained alongside Kaká, Alonso, Benzema, and Di María daily.
"Matchday tomorrow," Suker said to Srna. "Your time to shine."
Srna smirked. "I've got tricks now."
Suker believed him—two days of relentless drills had to yield something.
That afternoon, Mourinho skipped training for a tactical deep dive.
Every player listened intently.
La Liga's 30-game win streak was historic, but the Champions League was the crown jewel.
This squad smelled destiny.
That evening, at Suker's villa:
"Ready for tomorrow?" Srna asked Ćorluka and Kranjčar over the phone.
Ćorluka sounded cheerful. "We've got surprises for you, Captain!"
Srna laughed. "We're prepared too. Oh, Suker asks if you're still playing right-back."
"...Why?"
Suker's voice slithered into the call: "I'm gonna wreck you."
Ćorluka's face fell as Kranjčar cackled.
"Substitute laughing at what? You ride the bench for club and country."
"Suker, you little—"
A spirited trash-talk session ensued before Srna wrapped up: "Rest well. After this, it's Euro qualifiers."
After hanging up, Srna mused, "Ćorluka's improved. He could cover for me if needed."
The World Cup injury still haunted him—had he stayed fit, Croatia might've gone further.
"Talk's cheap. Prove it tomorrow," Suker said. "I'm testing him for real."
Srna winced. "You're really gonna humiliate him?"
"Our left flank's our strength. He's their right-back. Of course I am."
Srna sighed. He feared Suker might break Ćorluka's confidence.
Among fullbacks, Suker had a nickname: The Market Crusher.
Those he torched saw their transfer values plummet.
The few who contained him? Nonexistent.
As Srna left, Suker called after him: "Leaving so early?"
"Want me to sleep over?"
"Get out."
Srna laughed, stepping into the night, his ambition burning.
Last season's treble with Inter had been intoxicating.
Now, with Real poised for glory, he craved more.
The world's best right-back.
After Inter's triumph, Maicon had (controversially) claimed that title.
If Srna replicated it here, the honor could be his.
He'd come far—from an unknown in Croatia to Real Madrid's starting XI.
Why stop now?
Maicon's accolades once made him seethe with envy.
Now?
He'd take them for himself.