The process of joining Mostar Zrinjski Iski went smoothly.
On the first day, Suk and Modrić went to the cafeteria for a meal, which offered fresh milk and reasonably good and delicious food.
Suk had a hearty meal, and after returning to the dormitory in the evening, he began studying the players' profiles.
"Kiš, main goalkeeper, Bosnian national team, 191 cm tall..." Suk grinned. "That's tall!"
"Haskić, left back, good at overlapping runs, excellent passer."
"Mašović, center back, aerial threat! Another one over 190 cm."
"Hačići, 181 cm, great anticipation, good at high pressing."
"Boban, defensive midfielder."
"Kosorpić, 192 cm, tall center forward, team's top scorer, and the third captain."
"Oliveira, right winger, the second captain."
Suk looked left and right but didn't see the captain listed.
"Where's our captain?" Suk asked Modrić.
Modrić, lying on the bed reading, didn't even look up. "I don't know. Never seen him."
Suk: "..."
This guy's been here half a year and hasn't seen the captain?
How's that possible?
After memorizing the player info, Suk put the papers aside, pulled the blanket over himself, and got ready to sleep.
"I'm going to bed. I have to be the first one on the training ground tomorrow," Suk said under the blanket.
Modrić replied, "No need to be that early."
Suk smiled. "You don't understand. I'm the new guy."
Having grown up in an orphanage, Suk understood the rule: new guys get bullied.
Those three words—"the new guy"—came with a natural target on your back. In unfamiliar environments, small cliques often took advantage of newcomers.
Just like when Suk was nine and led a group of younger kids to steal half a slice of bread and a carton of milk from a strong thirteen-year-old. Life in the orphanage was like that—and this team could be even more dangerous.
Modrić didn't need to worry. He had the aura of a genius, the club's management paid special attention to him—he had backing.
But even he was a bit isolated on the team.
If a genius could end up lonely, Suk, a nobody, had to be extra careful.
After all, just three weeks ago, he'd assisted Mlinal in scoring a goal against Mostar Zrinjski Iski.
Even though it was only among substitutes, there were definitely hard feelings.
The next day, Suk got up early, folded his bedding, washed up, and headed to the training ground.
It was right next door. When Suk and Modrić arrived, no one else was there yet.
"Told you it was too early," Modrić yawned.
Suk looked around—the locker room was closed, and the equipment room was locked.
They were definitely early.
"Let's squat, then."
Suk squatted by the locker room door. Modrić reluctantly followed.
About half an hour later, the equipment manager finally showed up.
"Don't you know training starts at eight?" Equipment manager Pakići asked curiously.
Suk replied quickly, "We couldn't wait to start."
Pakići smiled—he liked motivated kids.
He opened the locker room and waved them in. "Go on, no need to squat."
Suk and Modrić entered.
Modrić went straight to his locker, while Suk, realizing he didn't have one yet, found a spot near the edge and started changing.
Soon, the starting center forward, Kosorpić, walked in.
At 192 cm tall, Kosorpić had to duck to enter the room. He was strong and broad, wearing a vest and shorts, which made him look even more imposing.
When Suk saw him, he immediately shouted, "Hello, Vice-Captain!"
Kosorpić paused, looked at Suk, and quickly remembered him.
"Suk?"
Suk nodded quickly.
Kosorpić smiled and extended a hand. "You played well in that match."
Suk shook his head and replied modestly, "I did my best, but Vice-Captain, you turned the game around with that amazing header."
He looked up at Kosorpić with envy. "If only I had your height."
Kosorpić was pleased—everyone liked being praised.
He patted Suk on the shoulder. "You'll grow taller too. Get good nutrition. Don't worry."
Modrić looked on in surprise. He'd never had such a long conversation with Kosorpić since joining.
But what surprised him more was how Suk greeted every starter who walked in by name—and complimented their performances in recent matches.
He picked moments where each player had played well.
Sometimes he sighed, sometimes he got excited, gesturing animatedly.
After about thirty minutes, Suk began cracking jokes.
Modrić was dumbfounded.
Just then, the door opened.
A man about 175 cm tall walked in—buzz cut, thin build, slightly squinted eyes. Two others followed behind him.
Suk recognized him immediately—Oliveira, the other vice-captain. Behind him were Boban and Biljar.
Seeing them, Suk was about to go greet them, but Kosorpić grabbed his arm.
Suk looked up, confused.
Kosorpić shook his head slightly. No explanation.
Soon, the locker room filled with both starters and substitutes.
Suk tried to stay low. The substitutes clearly remembered him—they'd been humiliated by his constant attacks in the previous match, and they were scolded badly by the coach afterward.
Naturally, resentment lingered.
Creak!
The door opened again. Coach Vantastejak entered with the coaching staff.
Head Coach: Vantastejak
Assistant Coach: Vandir
Fitness Coach: Hatbach
Goalkeeping Coach: Sostre
Vantastejak scanned the room, then looked at his notes.
"Today's training: first, a 20-minute warm-up. Morning—basic passing and teamwork. Afternoon—intra-squad scrimmage!"
Modern training focuses on efficiency, usually kept under two hours. Some even limit high-intensity drills to 90 minutes.
But here, it still emphasized endurance.
Hearing the schedule, the players began heading out.
Suk had changed into his training kit, which was too large—there was no size small enough for him. He'd have to get it tailored later.
On the field, the players grouped up.
Just like the locker room, Mostar Zrinjski had its factions.
Suk noticed that Oliveira had the biggest group—over ten people—but few starters.
Kosorpić's group was smaller, mostly Croatians, and mostly starters.
"Where should we go?" Suk asked Modrić, expecting guidance.
"Train on your own," Modrić said flatly.
Suk rolled his eyes. "Useless."
He pulled Modrić up. "Let's go."
"Where to?" Modrić asked, confused.
"To train!"
Suk dragged him toward Kosorpić's group.
"Vice-Captain, need more people? Let's warm up together!"
Kosorpić looked surprised—Suk even pulled Modrić along.
Most of the starters looked at each other, slightly impressed.
The two joined naturally.
Suk knew one thing clearly: in a group like this, being alone meant being different—and different meant being bullied.
Modrić might be an exception. But Suk couldn't afford to be.
And between Oliveira's side and Kosorpić's, it was clear where he belonged—fellow Croatians who spoke the same language.
They began a keep-up drill to train ball control.
During the drill, Kosorpić suddenly said, "You made the right choice."
Suk turned, confused.
Kosorpić nodded toward the other side.
Oliveira's group was also doing the drill—but playfully, even cruelly.
Suk noticed Oliveira kept passing the ball to one substitute, making him mess up. Then they'd surround him and kick his butt.
It seemed like a joke—but it was bullying.
Worse, they were doing it on purpose.
Suk recognized the victim—Boame, a winger who had played very well against them three weeks ago.
"See that?" Kosorpić said. "If you'd gone to greet him, that would've been you."
Suk grinned.
He was so distracted, the ball bounced off his foot and out of the circle.
"Crap!"
Suk froze.
Were they going to punish him?
The others swarmed in with wicked smiles.
Suk braced for a beating—but instead, they rubbed his head and shouted:
"Welcome to HSK!"
"Welcome, Suk!"