At the Stadium, Sarajevo's home fans had already begun to leave.In contrast, over 300 traveling supporters of Zrinjski Mostar were still celebrating.
The chants of these two names echoed from the visiting supporters.In this match, Modrić and Šuke were undoubtedly the biggest contributors to the victory.They ran tirelessly throughout the game, maintaining the team's pressing and organization.
Modrić scored twice, and Šuke delivered two assists and a goal of his own.The pair's stellar performance essentially dragged the victory to their side by force.
The players lifted Šuke into the stands, where he was quickly swallowed up by the ecstatic fans, who hoisted him up and tossed him into the air repeatedly.Only his terrified screams could be heard over the celebrations.
While the Mostar side celebrated, the Sarajevo players wore dejected expressions."We lost..." thought Šuker Mažcić bitterly.It wasn't just about losing a match—this was more than a typical defeat.Zrinjski and Sarajevo were direct competitors for the league's top spot, and with this win, Zrinjski had overtaken them.
Sarajevo could accept any team temporarily leading the standings because they were confident in clawing their way back.But this Zrinjski side? They were tough to deal with.
"Don't be discouraged. Next time, it'll be our turn to take revenge," said Tolišt, patting Šuker Mažcić on the shoulder.
Šuker Mažcić nodded slowly, his gaze drifting past the crowd to rest on the other Šuke—the player who shared similar name and position, though not his style.
He had looked down on that 160cm guy before.How could someone so small make an impact?
But reality had slapped him hard in the face.That Šuke hadn't just played well—he was one of the main reasons for Zrinjski's win.
In terms of performance, He had clearly come out on top in this head-to-head.
Šuker Mažcić exhaled and narrowed his eyes with determination as he headed toward the locker room.Tolišt was right—next time, it would be their chance to strike back.
Zrinjski's victory wasn't just thrilling—it was symbolic.For too long, they had been crushed by Sarajevo in both league and cup matches.They'd played well against other teams, but facing Sarajevo always meant more losses than wins.
That's what made this win so valuable.Though Sarajevo had strong individual talent, they didn't understand Zrinjski's tactics yet, and couldn't adapt in time.That led to their struggles from the opening whistle to the final whistle.
Still, as their goal at the end of the first half showed, if Zrinjski ever slacked on their pressing and control in midfield, Sarajevo could become dangerous again.Players like Tolišt, Meškarpeć, and Šuker Mažcić were all formidable talents.
But in the end, the victors were Zrinjski.
Back at the hotel, Coach Van stoyak was in high spirits. He decided they would return home the next day, allowing them to stay in Sarajevo overnight.
The boys from the small town of Mostar were excited at the prospect.
"How about hitting the old town tonight?" suggested Mašović with enthusiasm.
Sarajevo's Old Town was known for its nightlife—especially its many bars and its local female crowd.
Everyone quickly agreed.
After returning to the hotel, they eagerly freshened up.
By around 7 p.m., nine of them gathered in the hotel lobby:
Kosović, Mašović, Hačić, Krpić, Haskivić, Šuke, Modrić, Skolk, and Biliar.
Most wore simple outfits: trousers and shirts or plain T-shirts.Šuke and Modrić were in shorts and T-shirts.
But Biliar—clearly the most experienced in nightlife—wore an eye-catching, flashy tracksuit, a bright orange tight-fitting tee underneath, a green baseball cap worn backward, and a gold chain. His outfit screamed non-mainstream.
"Whoa! You guys are going out looking like that?" Bilialrexclaimed, shocked. "No girl's gonna talk to you like that."
Kosović looked down at his outfit. "Is something wrong with it?"
Biliar gestured dramatically. "You gotta stand out, man! Make girls want something to happen!"
Modrić deadpanned, "Girls don't want anything to do with someone dressed like a radioactive bug."
Pfft—everyone burst out laughing.Modrić's sarcasm was brutal.
Šuke nodded. "Your fashion sense is way ahead of its time."
In other words: no one gets it right now.
Biliar, now a bit sulky, muttered, "You guys have no taste."
He then brightened. "Let's head to Rose Street in the Old Town—plenty of restaurants there. After dinner, that's when the real nightlife begins!"
Food and nightlife—two things that their quiet town of Mostar didn't offer.Only a big city like Sarajevo buzzed .
On a weekend night, they hopped in taxis and headed to the Old Town.The streets teemed with young people, and both sides were lined with street food stalls at shockingly low prices.
Bosnians loved high-calorie foods—meat, meat, meat; sugar, sugar, sugar.
After strolling around a bit, they found a famous local restaurant.Back then, such "famous" spots spread by word of mouth—no influencer hype, no fake reviews.
There was a long line. No one minded. They waited patiently.
After half an hour, it was finally their turn.
"Let's go, go, go!" Šuke urged. He was starving.
The nine of them were seated at the far end of a large communal table.This place didn't have private seating—you often shared long tables with strangers.
As soon as Šuke sat down and looked across, he froze.
Sitting opposite them—five Sarajevo players.
Team captain Ivan Krić, Šuker Mažcić, Tolišt, Meškarpeć, and Jorijak.
They too looked surprised.
Tolišt and Meškarpeć gave amused little chuckles.Jorijak covered his mouth, clearly nauseated.Šuker Mažcić just stared intently at Šuke.
As the rest of the group sat down, a hush fell over the long table amid the noisy restaurant.
"This feels awkward," Biliar whispered.
Kosović and Ivan Krić were engaged in a silent staring contest."Captain vs. captain," someone whispered. "Whoever looks away first loses."
Šuke quipped, "But why even bother? You're just the vice-captain. Picking a fight with their captain is pointless. You're probably just mad about getting shut down in the game and looking to reclaim your pride here."
"Shut up!" Kosović hissed, clearly annoyed. "You're too loud!"
"Was I really?" Šuke blinked.
Biliar sighed. "Everyone heard you."
Tolišt on the opposite side couldn't help laughing.Meškarpeć leaned forward. "Hey, Šuker!"
(This Novel is so Confusing Sometime Suk Suke now Suker He is Suker from now on im too lazy to edits 50 chapter)
"Yeah?" two voices answered simultaneously.
Both Šukers turned to look at him.
"I meant him," Meškarpeć said, pointing at the shorter one.Šuker Mažcić turned back around, visibly annoyed.
"You guys played really well today," Meškarpeć said with a friendly smile, breaking the ice.
No one hits a smiling man, and Šuker quickly replied, "You didn't know our new tactics, otherwise it wouldn't have been so one-sided."
Meškarpeć grinned. "Well, losing's not all bad—Šuker Mažcić decided to stay."
"Huh? What do you mean?" Šuker asked.
Tolišt explained, "CSKA Moscow wanted him, and he was considering it. But after today's loss, he's decided to stay."
Šuker looked at Mažcić with mock disgust. "Don't tell me you're staying because of some edgy revenge plot?"
"Of course not!" Mažcić rolled his eyes. "My agent's exploring options in the big European leagues."
Tolišt added, "We share an agent. He has connections in the top five leagues."
Šuker nodded. "Well, good luck, then." He raised his glass.
Mažcić also lifted his. They clinked glasses.
"I underestimated you at first," Mažcić admitted. "But you guys really earned that win."
Šuker smiled brightly. "No, no—you guys were great too."
As the two Šukers finally started talking, the others loosened up too.The meal became lively.