Morning training went smoothly, and Šuker strengthened his connection with Koso Pejic's small group.
Despite having only spent a few hours together, Šuker used his charm to win them over.
Knowing how to be likable was an essential survival skill for every child in an orphanage.
At lunch in the cafeteria, Šuker held a large bowl of rice and devoured it enthusiastically.
The variety of dishes at the club had increased, but Šuker had clearly fallen in love with rice—simple, tasty, and filling.
His small frame hugged the oversized bowl, constantly shoveling in mouthfuls of rice.
His enormous appetite drew surprise from everyone around.
"How long's it been since you last ate?" Hachichi couldn't help asking.
Still chewing, Šuker swallowed and answered, "I often had nothing to eat before. Once, I went four days without food."
Koso Pejic silently pushed the beef from his plate toward Šuker.
"Eat more."
At thirty, married with a son, Koso Pejic's fatherly instincts kicked in. He couldn't bear hearing such things.
Šuker accepted the beef without hesitation and stuffed it into his mouth.
Watching him devour the food, Hachichi shook his head. "Don't eat too much. We've got a scrimmage this afternoon—you might throw up."
Šuker kept eating and mumbled, "I digest fast!"
Beside him, Modrić was also eating, but with a far more modest appetite. Still, he admired Šuker. In just one morning, Šuker had made so many connections.
Even Modrić was starting to feel like part of the group.
"In the scrimmage, let's pass more to Šuker. He needs to get used to the first team's rhythm," said Koso Pejic, the group's leader.
Šuker instantly gave him a thumbs-up. "Captain, you're the best!"
Koso Pejic laughed, "Vice-captain!"
Mentioning the captain, Mašović suddenly asked, "Isn't the captain's injury healed by now?"
"Even if it is, it's no good. The injury was too serious. Looks like he's going to retire."
The table fell silent.
For every player, injuries are demons that haunt them.
"Pros can't avoid injuries," someone muttered. "We just do our best to stay safe."
After lunch came a short half-hour break.
Sure enough, Šuker had eaten too much. He'd been too relaxed and didn't stop in time.
To speed up digestion, he stood the whole break.
By the end of the half hour, he was feeling better.
Despite the blazing afternoon sun, training resumed as usual.
When the players returned to the pitch, Head Coach Van Stejak and his staff were already waiting.
"This afternoon we'll have a group scrimmage: starters vs. substitutes."
He turned to Koso Pejic. "You're with the subs."
Koso Pejic shrugged. No problem.
He knew Šuker wasn't here to replace him.
Šuker was part of a tactical expansion—he was a withdrawn, roaming forward, while Koso was a classic poacher.
Then Van Stejak called Šuker over.
"It might be hard at first, but just play like you did when we played against you. Got it?"
"Got it!" Šuker nodded confidently.
He wasn't alone, anyway. Modrić was also on the first team. The two had already built chemistry and would handle the midfield link-up together.
"The subs shouldn't go easy," Van Stejak added. "No dirty fouls, but normal contact is allowed."
Players put on their vests and walked onto the field.
Šuker stood at the front of the main team. At 155 cm, he looked almost comically small—but the subs knew how dangerous this little bean could be.
On the sideline, Van Stejak rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Assistant coach Van Dil smiled. "The tactics are set. Now let's see if they can pull them off."
Van Stejak nodded. "Two tactical systems. This is key to winning the Bosnian championship."
He raised his voice: "Let's begin!"
The match started.
The subs had possession, passing the ball backwards to build up.
Šuker sprinted forward immediately, chasing the ball.
"There he goes again!"
Bokaj's eyes twitched. Seeing Šuker charging at him, he panicked and passed to the right-back, Rovis Teč.
But Rovis Teč found Oliveira blocking his passing lane.
Panicking, and with Modrić pressing from the middle, Rovis Teč booted the ball long.
Bang!
The ball flew into the first team's half.
On the sideline, Van Stejak punched the air. "Yes! That's it!"
This was high pressing—shutting down passing options, forcing bad decisions.
As expected, the first team's defensive midfielder Boban won the header and passed to Oliveira, who laid it off to Modrić.
As Modrić got the ball, Šuker began retreating.
All eyes turned to him.
As he moved, he glanced left and right, checking teammates and spaces.
Pressed tightly, Modrić passed forward. Šuker, reading it, returned the ball with one touch and moved again, always staying open and connected.
Wherever the ball went, Šuker drifted toward it, offering a passing option.
The result: fluid, dynamic passing in the final third.
"Wow!" Assistant coach Van Dil gasped.
Šuker's performance was beyond expectations—calm, precise, smooth.
He avoided unnecessary duels, used quick short passes, and kept the ball moving.
On the sideline, the coaches watched in awe.
The substitutes were under intense pressure.
Most importantly, Šuker's presence had totally changed.
Just three weeks ago, they could contain him.
Now, with better support, he was thriving—and about to break their lines.
In one move, Šuker received with his back to goal. Modrić glanced at him.
They locked eyes. The play was on.
Modrić passed diagonally behind Šuker.
Šuker pretended to receive, then spun right, letting the ball go and fooling Bokaj.
"Beautiful!" Van Stejak clapped.
But the ball rolled out of bounds.
Šuker: "…"
Modrić: "…"
They turned to look at Oliveira.
He shrugged, spat, and walked away.
"He didn't even run!" Modrić complained.
Šuker shrugged. "Maybe he's not used to it?"
"No," Modrić grumbled. "That's just how he is."
Despite the wasted chance, the play had potential.
The chemistry between Šuker and Modrić was electric.
If Oliveira had moved, it might've been a one-on-one.
Šuker grew more confident.
But the subs began playing rough, even knocking him down.
So Šuker adjusted—faster starts, more distance, less contact.
The training became a true integration session. After several miscommunications, Šuker assisted left winger Biljar with a lobbed pass.
The goal wasn't the point—team chemistry was.
Though tactics were still rough, they were starting to work.
Van Stejak was satisfied.
Šuker's first day of training was a success.
The best news? He was already fitting in.
The first team players had helped, feeding him passes, guiding him in.
After training, Šuker thanked them all sincerely.
He was young, polite, and charming—easy to like.
As they returned to the locker room, they passed a sink with shoes hanging above it.
Boa Morte stood there, head down, scrubbing boots.
Others threw their shoes in without a word—including Modrić.
Koso Pejic dropped his pair and nudged Šuker. "Put yours in too."
"I can clean them myself."
"It's the rule," Koso whispered. "If you don't, he'll have it worse tomorrow."
Silently, Šuker tossed his battered, hole-riddled shoes into the sink.
"Can these holes even be fixed?"
Koso Pejic: "…"
Boa Morte looked up and glared.
Koso Pejic instantly grabbed Šuker by the collar and ran!