Zakavic's fury was beginning to fill his entire head.
His begin to see red.
Suke's constant provocations, the insults from the surrounding fans, and the fact that they had conceded a goal—all of it was getting to him.
A dangerous glint began to appear in his eyes.
Meanwhile, Suke and his teammates happily returned to their own half. Scoring a goal in the first half made them extremely pleased.
Most importantly, Suke had an assist to his name.
Two consecutive matches with assists—although he hadn't scored, his performance was still impressive.
Besides, Suke's main job was exactly this—distributing passes.
Although he played as a central striker, he wasn't a pure goal scorer. He played more as a supporting forward, pulling wide and creating chances for others.
That made the overall play and assists even more important.
Suke's performance could be judged simply by the expression on head coach Van Stoyack's face.
He kept rubbing his hands together, unable to hide his grin.
Though the coach could be a bit stubborn and rigid at times, once he calmed down, he recognized that Suke's ability added great value to the team.
Just like in this goal—Dropping deep, passing, organizing the play, dribbling past defenders, and then delivering a deadly ball across the goal.
Suke had fully embraced the role of a withdrawn striker.
The whole attack was orchestrated by him. Modrić merely brought the ball up from the back and passed it to Suke.
And the goal was finished off by the front three.
That's right!
Suke, Biliar, and Boame—these three really felt like a trident now.
"Hey, Suke, let's keep doing this!"
After benefiting from a few plays, Biliar had completely forgotten about his status as a former benchwarmer.
He gestured toward Suke, "We can cross-run—I can also set you up. And if needed, you can pass it through to me. I'm not as fast as you, but definitely faster than their fullback."
"No problem!" Suk patted his chest. "I'll get you one in a bit!"
Biliar grinned with excitement.
As a professional player, there was nothing better than a perfectly timed pass from a teammate.
Watching all of this from the bench was the vice-captain Oliveira, his eyes narrowed and exuding a "don't mess with me" aura.
He felt as if the team had begun to isolate him.
Yes!
He used to be the one isolating others, but ever since Van Stoyack took over the team, Oliveira had been increasingly sidelined.
Now, with Suke and Modrić aligning with Kosović, the locker room power dynamics were shifting in Kosović's favor.
He regretted underestimating Suke.
But more than regret, he felt rage.
Why the hell weren't those two passing to him?
Back on the pitch, the match resumed.
After scoring, Zrinjski Mostar's attack became even more fluid.
Especially with Suke's movement—dropping back, surging forward—constantly pulling apart the opposing backline.
If it were just Suke, it might have been manageable. But now both wingers were joining in with coordinated movement.
Sometimes they used quick one-twos and positional rotations to break through.
Sometimes they spread out—one dropping back, the other pushing forward.
Suke would drop deep, and the two wingers would surge ahead.
As soon as Suke received the ball, he would immediately slot it into open space.
And because he was dropping deep from the center, he only had to bypass the defensive line, which was often spread thin.
Combined with the speed of Zrinjski's wingers, Banja Luka's defense looked like a candle in the wind, flickering and ready to be snuffed out.
In the 34th minute, Suke once again dropped deep to collect the ball.
"Follow him, you idiot!"
The fans shouted angrily.
Veins bulged on Zakavic's forehead, but he forced himself to keep up.
As Suke received the ball, he could feel pressure mounting from behind.
He steadied himself and began a series of body feints, shifting left and right.
Compared to Zakavic, Suke was far more agile, and Zakavic was struggling to keep up with the constant shifts.
What made it worse was the smug look on Suke's face—dancing with the ball right in front of him. Zakavic's anger boiled over.
"Get lost!"
Zakavic lunged forward, leg thrust between Suk's, body weight pressing down, and his knee digging into Suke's waist.
Just as Suek was pivoting, the impact sent him rolling to the ground.
He let out a painful cry, clutching his back.
WHISTLE!!!The referee blew sharply.
A yellow card was shown to Zakavic.
He paid the price for losing his temper.
Suke, still holding his back, turned to look at him.
Zakavic stared back, eyes blazing, completely unhinged.
"Idiot! You foul and get carded? Hopeless moron!"
Zakavic exploded, turning to the stands and yelling, "Bitch! Come down here and play! You hear me? Bitch!"
He stormed toward the stand, looking like he was going to drag a fan down by force.
The fan, who had been trash-talking nonstop, immediately went silent.
Once the referee and staff restrained Zakavic and led him away, the fan started yelling again, "Idiot Zakavic, you're just a big—AHHH!!!!"
THUD!
A ball slammed into the fan's right cheek, knocking him backward.
When the dazed fan sat up again, his cheek was swollen, and blood was pouring from his nose.
Everyone nearby was stunned.
Even Zakavic looked shocked.
Then Modrić slowly raised his hand."Oops. Missed the shot."
The referee gave him a long, hard look, then waved his hand. "Play on!"
Biliar stared at Modrić, dumbfounded. This guy actually dared to do that?
The fan was losing it, trying to vault over the barrier, but security held him down.
"You're not afraid of a fan riot?" Biliar asked, still rattled.
Modrić didn't answer.
Suke walked over, still rubbing his back, and held out a hand.
"Nice aim!"
Modrić smiled faintly and gave him a slap-five.
Biliar: "…"
After this little incident, both teams calmed down a bit.
Especially Zakavic. He had totally lost his cool earlier, but now he was calm again.
The first half ended soon after.
As the whistle blew, Zakavic walked over to Suke and said, "Sorry. Your back okay?"
Suke waved it off with a smile. "I'm young. I bounce back fast."
Zakavic chuckled.
Suke glanced toward the stands. "Maybe you should transfer. Those fans don't respect you at all."
Zakavic shrugged. "If I get the chance."
Clearly, this game had been disheartening for him.
During halftime, coach Van Stoyack praised the team's performance.
The players' confidence soared.
The defense was especially solid today. Mašović dominated the air, leaving the opposing striker without a single successful header.
There were no tactical changes for the second half, but Van Stoyack again emphasized the importance of running.
"How's your back?" he asked Suka.
Suka twisted his waist and smiled. "I'm fine. I recover fast."
Van Stuyck smiled. Suka's stamina was always incredible—maybe even better than Modrić's.
These two were the hardest-working and most dangerous players on the team.
After the brief talk, Suke and the others rested and waited for the second half to begin.
"Banja Luka's offense has been disappointing," said commentator Basodachi. "They're struggling against Zrinjski's intense pressing and movement—even giving the ball away in their own half. They nearly conceded a second goal."
"We're now in the 80th minute…"
He watched Suke and Modrić still sprinting like madmen and sighed, "Ah, to be young!"
No one could say exactly how far the two had run, but they had clearly covered the most ground.
Especially Suke, who had made several repeated sprints and still looked lively.
Zakavic could no longer keep up. He was being burned by Suke repeatedly.
He even began to wonder—how was Suke still running?
Was he really getting old already?
But he was only 25!
As he wallowed in frustration, Suke and Modrić teamed up again on the wing, snatching the ball.
Modrić bolted forward with it, Suke made a diagonal sprint.
Seeing the two charging at him, Zakavic panicked.
Who should he mark?
After a quick exchange of glances with his center-back partner, he rushed toward Suke.
Suke sprinted even harder when he noticed Zakavic closing in.
"He's so fast!"
Zakavic reached out, but couldn't grab him.
At that moment, the ball flew in from the opposite flank, landing right in Suke's path.
"Offside!" Zakavic raised his hand.
But the ref pointed forward. No offside.
Suke reached the ball first and, as he neared the goal, adjusted slightly and fired a powerful shot with his right foot.
It was a rare high-quality strike from Suke.
But—damn that keeper!
He guessed correctly and leapt to his right, blocking it with his arm.
The ball bounced right back to Suke.
"No shot for you!"
Zakavic arrived and lunged in.
Suke had no shooting angle.
In a flash, Suke stopped the ball and nudged it sideways behind his plant foot.
It wasn't fast, but it was deadly.
At the same moment, Modrić had reached the gap. With a light toe-poke, he lifted the ball over the defenders and keeper—and into the net.
Zrinjski Mostar 2:0 FK Borac Banja Luka.
As soon as the goal went in, Suk and Modrić threw their arms around each other.
Meanwhile, Banja Luka's players looked utterly defeated.
There was no coming back from this.