The Bosnia and Herzegovina police took reports about their only seaport seriously. Once they had solid evidence, they moved fast against Harun.
Suker had no idea what punishment the guy would face. Right now, though, he was being hauled out of the police station by his head coach.
Oripe was a massive man, well over 100 kilograms, his 175-centimeter frame bloated and imposing. He wore a blue tracksuit that looked loose on anyone else but strained against his bulk. A whistle dangled around his neck year-round, like a badge of office.
Oripe was head coach of Mostar Wanderers—Suker's team in the Bosnia and Herzegovina Second League.
He dragged Suker to a quiet street corner like he was carrying a wayward puppy, then exploded. "You promised me!"
Suker hung his head, silent as a guilty kid.
That only made Oripe madder. "Say something! You think I'll believe you anymore?" He jabbed a thick finger. "The police issued a warning. One more stunt like this, and they'll deport you back to Croatia. If you want to keep playing here, straighten up."
Suker snapped his head up, nodding frantically like a bobblehead.
Oripe's anger faded at the sight of that childish, earnest face. Truth was, he felt sorry for the kid—adrift in a foreign country, chasing a football dream against all odds.
With a sigh, Oripe bundled Suker into the single-cab van, circled to the driver's side, and fired up the engine.
"Today's match day," he said flatly as they pulled out.
Suker blinked in surprise. "No game scheduled today!"
"Schedule changed."
Suker just nodded. In the Second League, schedule shifts were routine. Teams were broke—player salaries tiny—so most guys worked side jobs to eat. Suker was no different; surviving on football alone was impossible.
For those still grinding, the dream was simple: escape the Second League, get promoted to the Premier League, or land a transfer to a top-flight club. That was the only real path out.
Of course, some—like Kovačević—gave up, convinced football couldn't pay the bills.
While Europe's elite stars raked in millions and dated models, down here players worried about rent. Football in Bosnia showed the sport's stark extremes: glory for the few who crossed over, struggle for the rest.
The van rumbled down the asphalt. Oripe fished a crumpled paper from his pocket and tossed it over. "Guardianship application approved. Sokovic won't hassle you anymore."
Suker's face lit up. "Really? Approved?"
Oripe grinned at the kid's joy. "Yeah. So score a bunch more goals for me, then you can move up to the Premier League."
Suker unfolded the paper, read it, and beamed. "We'll get promoted together!"
Oripe chuckled but said nothing.
"But... you really don't want to go back to Croatia?"
Suker shrugged. "Not to become a priest."
Oripe nodded—he got it.
It all tied back to Suker's past.
He'd grown up in a Croatian church orphanage. During a youth football showcase there, a visiting believer named Sokovic spotted his talent. Sokovic, a youth coach in Bosnia, convinced the church to let him become Suker's guardian and bring the boy over for training.
Things went smoothly at first—Suker shone. But then his growth stalled.
At 14, he stopped getting taller. By 15, while teammates shot past 170 cm—some hitting 180—Suker was stuck at 150 cm.
For a center forward, that was brutal. Physical battles were lopsided; his agility helped, but in youth academies, height was non-negotiable. Sokovic didn't think Suker's talent outweighed the flaw.
He cut Suker from the program and planned to ship him back.
Stubborn as ever, Suker ran away and joined Mostar Wanderers. After some settling in, he proved himself—scoring 9 goals last season, leading the top-scorer charts this year with 8 in 11 rounds.
Hard to believe a 150-cm kid could dominate in the rough Bosnian leagues.
The van left the pavement for mountain roads—bumpy dirt tracks winding through hills. Grass gave way to a simple archway: two bamboo poles holding a banner in Croatian: "Welcome to Mostar Wanderers."
The club had Croatian roots.
Beyond the arch sat the "pitch"—more like a pasture. Turf was patchy brown dirt in spots; goal nets were patched with knots and holes. Nearby, cows grazed, their breath mixing grass and manure scents.
Opponents hated the place. For Mostar Wanderers, it was home-field advantage: they knew every divot, every slow patch, every tricky bounce.
When Oripe and Suker arrived, a crowd had already gathered. Bosnia's pro leagues drew tiny crowds—sometimes Premier matches barely hit 1,000 fans—but nearly 150 showed for Mostar Wanderers, plus curious locals pushing it over 200.
Cheap tickets (30 marks) helped; some even snuck in. But fans here paid willingly, handing cash straight to Oripe.
While he collected, the players suited up. Suker sat on the ground, pulling on the red-and-black horizontally striped jersey. He hated it—looked like prison stripes—but it was home kit.
He grabbed his boots from the van: beat-up leather, toes peeling, holes here and there. Still usable. Slid shin guards into socks, tapped them secure.
In Bosnia, shin guards were non-negotiable—even a star like Grealish would've worn them or risked wrecked legs.
Dressed, Suker started greetings.
"Boss, feed me more balls today!"
He called to the No. 10: Ivan Mlinar, team captain, 35 years old. Mostar's best carpenter, precise in woodwork and passing. He was the creative hub, the guy who set up Suker.
Mlinar twisted in a warm-up stretch, smiling. He loved the kid who always finished chances. Nobody liked losing.
Next, Suker yelled across: "Bakic! Concede two fewer today—don't make my job harder!"
Bakic, the goalkeeper, was a sieve. Balls slipped past him constantly.
Oripe's line: "They shoot, he scores—for the other team."
A bald young man jumped up, charged playfully. Suker dodged nimbly, faking him out in a few spins. Laughter erupted from the squad.
Across the field, opponents Sarajevo FC watched. Despite the big-city name, they were weak like most Second League sides—similar struggles to Mostar, though capital perks helped a bit.
With prep done, amid fan cheers, both teams huddled to run through tactics.