A group of Croatian internationals gathered, chattering non-stop.
Although it had only been a little over half a month since the World Cup ended, they never ran out of things to talk about.
Moreover, after the 2010 World Cup, most of these Croatian internationals had transferred to new clubs.
Rakitić had transferred from Schalke 04 to Sevilla, moving from the Bundesliga to La Liga, a league more suited to his style.
Mandžukić had accepted an offer from Bayern Munich and joined the German giants.
Vukojević also joined Bayern Munich, becoming teammates with Mandžukić and Olić.
Lovren began his journey in Europe's top five leagues, transferring from Dinamo Zagreb to Olympique Lyonnais in Ligue 1.
Dujmović finally escaped the Russian league and joined Torino in Serie A.
Perišić moved from Club Brugge to the Bundesliga, signing with Borussia Dortmund.
"I told you I'd be back, didn't I?" Dujmović said proudly. "Look, I've fought my way out of the Russian league back into one of the top five!"
Suker replied, "You guys sure had a lot going on this summer. I didn't expect so many transfers!"
Then again, it was understandable — the World Cup is a natural grand stage.
Thanks to Croatia's outstanding performance at the World Cup, clubs from top leagues had been eager to sign Croatian players.
"How come no one joined the Premier League? It's just me and Pranjić!" Modrić said, feeling a bit lonely.
Everyone else ran off to the Bundesliga. Hardly anyone came to the Premier League.
At least in La Liga, they had Suker, Srna, and Rakitić.
Rakitić raised his hand. "I originally wanted to go to the Premier League. Arsenal were interested in me, but considering the physicality of the league, I didn't think I'd adapt well. Plus, Arsenal were stingy and slashed my salary in half. So I joined Sevilla instead!"
Dujmović widened his eyes. "No one's talking about Serie A? The mini-World Cup?"
Suker replied, "Your choice was fine too. Going to the Premier League wouldn't necessarily suit you."
Dujmović: "Hey! Is anyone listening to me?"
Rakitić: "Exactly. I feel La Liga's intensity is lower, easier to manage."
Dujmović: "Hello? Hello?"
Suker: "Easier to manage? La Liga? Wait till you face us!"
Srna: "We'll crush you!"
"Hey!!!" Dujmović shouted angrily. "Is no one going to listen to me?"
Bang!
Suker smacked him with a slap.
"What the hell are you yelling for? My ears are ringing!"
Dujmović looked aggrieved and turned to Mandžukić.
He noticed the guy was unusually quiet.
"Hey, you finally joined a top club. Why aren't you showing off?" Dujmović nudged him playfully.
Mandžukić smiled awkwardly and waved his hand. "Nothing to say!"
The others coughed awkwardly and stayed silent.
Dujmović blinked. "That's not like you! Come on, you're Bayern's starting striker!"
Mandžukić was about to explode. He clamped a hand over Dujmović's mouth, fake-laughing. "Haha~ Hahaha~ Let's talk about something else!"
Dujmović struggled free.
"You don't let me talk, can't talk about Serie A, now not even Bundesliga — are you guys isolating me or something?"
Everyone stayed quiet.
Their gazes toward Dujmović carried a hint of concern.
Then, a solemn voice said:
"I'm heading out."
Olić slowly stood up and left.
Everyone sighed and shook their heads.
After Olić left, Mandžukić tackled Dujmović to the ground.
"Tommy! You dumbass! I tried to shut you up and your damn mouth still couldn't stay shut!"
Everyone nodded in agreement.
"What did I even do?" Dujmović cried out.
Modrić sighed. "Tommy, we're all happy Mario joined Bayern Munich. But don't forget who their previous striker was!"
"Who? Bayern's striker? Wasn't it—" Dujmović froze. His face went blank. "Oh... I forgot."
Bayern's previous striker was Olić.
Also a teammate in the Croatian national team.
Mandžukić's transfer had taken Olić's spot. That's why he hadn't said anything — otherwise, he'd have grabbed a megaphone to tell the world.
Suker stood up and smacked Dujmović on the head.
"Big mouth!"
Mandžukić added coldly, "Loose tongue!"
Srna shook his head. "You'd better go apologize to Olić."
Dujmović looked miserable. "It's so awkward!"
Rakitić: "Your biggest problem is that mouth of yours!"
Thud!
Dujmović kicked Rakitić in the butt.
"What's it to you, you damn kid!"
Rakitić rubbed his butt and walked off.
At the entrance of the national team training base
A young man in a Croatian training uniform, carrying a backpack, walked in.
His face was full of excitement.
His name was Marcelo Brozović.
Never in his wildest dreams did he think that on his 18th birthday, he would receive a call-up from the national team.
God!
This was the Croatian national team!
Just half a month ago, he was watching these heroes fight for glory on TV.
Match after exhilarating match had left him deeply inspired.
He wanted to be one of them — and now that dream was coming true far sooner than expected.
Brozović took out his phone and dialed a number.
Click!
The call connected. Brozović grinned."Mateo! I'm at the national team training center entrance, calling you now. I'm about to walk into the training center!"
"AHHHH!!! YOU BASTARD!!! MARCELO, YOU LUCKY BASTARD!!! I'M SO JEALOUS!!"
Click!
Brozović hung up, walking into the center with sunlight on his face.
From now on, he was a Croatian international.
"Sir! Reporting in!"
He looked at Bešić and shouted.
His entire face was tensed with effort, trying to look more spirited and determined.
His posture was perfectly straight.
Bešić looked up. "Have a seat first."
"Yes, sir!"
Brozović shouted.
He walked stiffly toward the sofa, moving his arms and legs in sync like a robot.
Bešić smirked. "Wrong step pattern."
Brozović turned like a lamppost, voice trembling. "I-I'm not nervous. I'm super relaxed. I-I thank my fa—"
Bešić shook his head. "Sit down. We're waiting for someone else."
Bešić had coached Brozović for a season already, and another promising kid — Kovačić, two years younger.
Both were promising talents.
But Kovačić was still too young and physically underdeveloped. He needed more time.
Brozović, on the other hand, could be brought in early to experience the national team environment.
The main reason for calling up these kids early was to help them adapt mentally.
They were too nervous and inexperienced with international tournaments.
Brozović sat on the edge of the sofa, back straight, not touching the backrest — he looked like a stiff lamppost.
Then came a knock.
A young man, taller and more muscular than Brozović, entered the office.
But just as nervous.
They both sat rigid like lampposts on the sofa.
Bešić looked at them: "You two are the new recruits. Let me make one thing clear — you're both under observation. If you slack off in training or don't perform, I'll immediately remove you from the national team!"
Brozović and Strinić both stiffened.
They nodded quickly.
"Don't worry, sir!"
"That won't happen, sir!"
Knock knock!
Srna entered.
At that moment, Brozović and Strinić's eyes lit up.
Darijo Srna!Captain of Croatia, the spiritual core of the team.Croatia's iron-blooded warrior!
"Coach!" Srna greeted.
Bešić nodded and pointed to the two. "Take them to the locker room. Show them around the facility."
"Got it!"
Srna smiled, reaching out. "Hi, you can call me Captain, or Darijo."
"Hello Captain! I'm Marcelo Brozović!"
"Captain, I'm Ivan Strinić!"
"Relax!" Srna smiled at their nervous faces. "Come on, I'll show you the locker room."
The two got even more excited.
As they walked, Brozović's heart pounded.
Just thinking about seeing Suker, Modrić, Mandžukić — his Croatian heroes — made him thrilled.
"Captain!" Brozović asked excitedly. "Can I meet Suker?"
Srna nodded. "Of course. He's in the locker room."
Brozović clenched his fists in joy, almost jumping with excitement.
Srna understood instantly — this was one of Suker's fanboys.
He grinned and said sincerely, "I'll call you Marcelo, okay?"
"No problem, Captain!" Brozović replied loudly.
Srna patted his shoulder. "Marcelo, dreams are beautiful — they're the pictures you paint for yourself. But reality is harsh, and you need courage to face it."
Brozović nodded seriously. "I understand. I'll work hard."
"That's not what I meant!" Srna smiled bitterly.
"I understand, I totally understand, Captain!" Brozović cut in.
Srna had a headache.
Understand your ass!Whatever.
Let him face reality himself.Just hope the shock isn't too much.
In Brozović's career, there was always a shining light.
A figure he idolized and aspired to.
That figure was Suker — Croatia's hero, the poster boy of hope, the one who emerged from war and led the charge with incredible goals.
Davor Suker — a legend almost out of reach.
But there was a new "Suker."
The one who would impact Brozović the most.
A tough, fearless man he'd follow for life.
A man he'd give everything to — a hero.
Brozović stood in the locker room, jaw dropped, eyes empty, mind blank.
He looked like he'd lost his soul.
In front of him was a ridiculous scene:
Dujmović lay on the floor, while Suker held both his legs and, barefoot, furiously rubbed his feet in Dujmović's stomach.
Mandžukić was holding Dujmović still so he couldn't move.
Dujmović laughed, cried, twitched in pain and laughter, completely powerless.
"Hahahahaha~~ Ugh ugh ugh~~ Let me go~~~ Hahahaha~~~"
Suker vibrated Dujmović's legs wildly while turning to Olić.
"Have you forgiven him yet?"
Olić panicked. "I-I didn't blame him! Let him go, stop doing this—"
Suker turned to Mandžukić."Olić is still mad!"
Mandžukić nodded. "Second gear!"
"Alrighty!"
Suker increased the intensity, shaking Dujmović like crazy.
"AHHHHHHH~~~~~~~~~!!!!!!!"
The whole locker room echoed with Dujmović's screams.
Srna held his head and looked at Brozović's soulless face, then at Modrić.
"You hear that?"
"Hear what?" Modrić asked.
Srna pointed at Brozović. "The sound of a shattered dream!"
"Can't you at least fake it?" Srna asked, pained.
"Look at him!"
"What's it got to do with me?" Suker shrugged. "He was gonna find out sooner or later. I could fake it for a few days, but not forever."
"Besides, if I acted all serious, could you guys take it?"
Everyone shook their heads.
No way!That would be worse!
Sigh~~!
Srna sighed deeply.
Across Croatia, there were thousands of Suker fanboys. He really doubted if any could handle the real Suker.
Suker shrugged. "Blame Zorančić. He made my image too righteous. Now I can't even act freely on camera."
"Whatever," Srna waved it off, groaning as he stood.
"Guys, get your training kits on. Meet at the field. Camp is starting!"
The Croatian players began filing out.
Once they lined up on the training field, Bešić and the coaching staff approached.
"He's going to scan the lineup with his eyes to intimidate us, then say, 'There are no starters in my lineup—'"
Suker whispered.
Players like Modrić, Rakitić, Mandžukić, who came from Dinamo Zagreb, tried not to laugh.
Sure enough, Bešić arrived, scanning them with a sharp gaze.
"I believe most of you know me—"
"Eh?" Suker was shocked. "Changed the script?"
Everyone turned to him and burst out laughing.
Bešić narrowed his eyes.
"Mario, Luka, Tomi — step out!"
Mandžukić, Modrić, and Dujmović stepped out with strained smiles, glaring at Suker.
"Funny, is it?" Bešić said coldly.
"No, sir!" Modrić quickly replied.
"Here, you address me as 'Sir'!" Bešić snapped.
The three immediately shut up.
"Ten laps! Any objections?"
They shook their heads hard.
"Answer me!"
All three shouted: "No objections, Sir!"
"Good! Go!"
They started jogging laps.
The newer Croatian players felt heavy in their hearts.
Bešić wasn't to be taken lightly!
He started by disciplining the stars like Modrić and Mandžukić.
Treated them like kids!
Then Bešić turned his sharp eyes on Suker.
Suker straightened up instantly.
"Good. Let me make one thing clear — rules are rules. Discipline is discipline. In my lineup, there's no such thing as starters or substitutes—"
The Croatian players looked down, barely holding in their laughter.
Bešić began naming more players for laps.
As they left, they muttered under their breath:
"Suker! Damn you!"
Van Stoyak shook his head at the sight.
This team... was a nightmare to manage.
Suker, in particular, was the type no coach liked — immensely talented but unruly.
Fortunately, Bešić had "bloodline suppression" over them.
Any other coach would've clashed with him already.
On the pitch, basic training was underway.
Bešić and Van Stoyak observed from the sidelines.
Bešić was learning on the go.
He lacked experience managing strong teams — his past success came from underdog wins in Champions League qualifiers.
Now, handed a powerful team, it felt overwhelming.
Even the passing tempo was on another level compared to Croatia's domestic league.
Most notably, Brozović was being run ragged.
Hailed as a midfield prodigy at home, he couldn't even get a touch on the ball in his first national team session.
When he finally got a touch, he couldn't match the rhythm and got dragged right back into the piggy-in-the-middle drill.
Suker was having a blast — not only toying with Brozović, but nutmegging him repeatedly.
Brozović got nutmegged six times.
He couldn't get out.
After a while, Modrić couldn't take it anymore.
"Look up! Why are you staring at the ball? Watch the player!"
Rakitić: "Scan the field before the ball comes. You won't have time once it does!"
Seeing others giving advice, Suker stopped playing.
"Watch the eyes — a player's gaze will reveal where he'll pass next. Or look at the planted foot's direction..."
Brozović collapsed on the ground, panting hard.
Suker shrugged. "Let him rest a bit."
Brozović watched their backs, filled with shock.
At 18, he was called a Croatian midfield genius.
But here — he couldn't even touch the ball.
The gap was too big.