On the plane to Manchester, the AC Milan players' focus had already begun to drift.
"Where are the best bars in Manchester?"
"You're still thinking about bars? Guys, he wants to hit up bars!"
"You don't get it! My dream is to date different girls—make life more colorful!"
"Your whole life is about women? You perv!"
"Pfft, you're no fun to talk to!"
Inzaghi turned his head away, not wanting to argue with Suker.
Suker was the kind of guy who would never understand the thrill of that push-and-pull tension, the flirtation and subtle attraction that happens before a relationship even begins.
Suker poked Inzaghi in the ribs with his finger."Come on, tell me—where do you want to go have fun? Take me with you."
Inzaghi turned back."You want to party too?"
"I want to watch you make a fool of yourself, chasing after girls like a lovesick puppy!"
"Scram!" Inzaghi waved him off in irritation—Suker drove him crazy.
Inzaghi slipped on his headphones and shut his eyes, pretending to nap, just to avoid Suker.
Suker scratched his head and turned to Gattuso on the other side."Ivan!" he said with a grin.
Gattuso glared:"Get lost! Don't bother me!"
Behind them, Costacurta and Maldini watched Suker go from left to right, bugging people like a restless kid.
Costacurta sighed."He really can't sit still, huh?"
Maldini smiled."Plenty of energy. That's a good thing."
Costacurta grew serious:"Do you think we can hold out in this match?"
Maldini sighed."Even if we can't—we'll have to."
Truthfully, after such a long season, Maldini's body was beginning to feel the strain.
His form wasn't great anymore—he was mostly playing through sheer willpower.
It wasn't just him—Nesta was also dealing with constant minor injuries. But for the sake of results, none of them could rest.
Milan's veterans were all gritting their teeth and holding on.
This was part of why people said Suker was carrying Milan—because it was true.
Without Suker's god-tier performances, Milan's defense might've completely collapsed under pressure.
"What about next season?" Costacurta sighed.
Their biggest concern was Milan's aging back line.
These veterans were declining fast, with their performance almost falling off a cliff.
There was no guarantee how much strength they'd retain next season—they might even become a liability.
If new blood couldn't be brought in, Milan's defense would be in serious trouble.
"We still have Šimunić, Šimić, Jankulovski... and Nesta can still hang in there. We'll manage," Maldini said more optimistically.
"But they're all from Eastern Europe!" Costacurta frowned.
He was more traditional.
He liked Suker, but that didn't mean he liked all Croatians.
His fondness for Suker was based purely on performance.
In truth, Costacurta never fully accepted Suker—he had even tried to stop Maldini from recruiting him.
Maldini stayed quiet.
His mindset had changed—he was no longer as closed-minded as before.
To him, Milan was Milan.
Tradition was important—but so were results.
And Suker was incredible. Truly incredible.
Costacurta had never faced one of Suker's devastating blows.
Maldini still remembered—when Suker once said, "I'll play in Serie B with you," Maldini had almost cried.
That sentence alone had made Maldini accept Suker fully—he even felt guilty toward him.
This season, Maldini pushed himself to the limit to maintain form—because he wanted to repay that loyalty.
Back then, Suker had bet his future on AC Milan.
Maldini didn't want Milan to owe Suker anything. He didn't want Milan's failure to be the reason Suker lost everything.
And now, thanks to Suker's explosive performances, Milan had achieved so much.
Maldini rubbed his temples, full of emotion.
They owed him more and more.
If one day, Suker chose to leave Milan for a better future…
The whole world might insult him.
But not Milan.
And not Maldini.
Because when Milan was at its lowest, Suker stayed.
When their front line was broken, Suker carried the club.
He had already given Milan enough.
If Suker wanted it, Maldini would help him gain locker room authority, help him become the next team leader, even pass on the captain's armband.
But... Suker didn't seem interested.
And that worried Maldini the most.
It always felt like Suker might leave at any moment.
And if he did—what then?
Sigh...Maldini let out a long sigh.
He forced himself to refocus. This was not the time to think about that.
April 24, afternoon.The Milan squad arrived in Manchester.
Under a flurry of camera flashes, the stylish Milan players stepped off the plane in custom black suits embroidered with the team crest.
AC Milan always valued image.
You could tell just by the way every player had flowing, styled hair—even Šimunić, the "forehead freak," was growing it out.
Suker's hair was medium-length—similar to Kaká's—but thanks to his baby face, he looked too young.
At a glance, he looked like a teenager.
Suker was constantly getting fouled in matches—he suspected it was because he looked too harmless.
If he had Gattuso's face, people would think twice before touching him.
To look more fierce, Suker started shaving every day.
At first, the peach fuzz under his nose and on his chin was soft, but after repeated shaving, it started getting a little coarser.
Still, he wasn't sure if he could grow a proper beard.
In the hotel, Gattuso was grooming his thick beard.
Suker watched intently, then asked:"How come you have so much facial hair?"
"Born this way," Gattuso answered casually.
Suker sighed.
It was true—Gattuso was just naturally hairy.
Suker rubbed his smooth chin. A few bristly spots had appeared, but he still looked like a pretty boy.
He looked even more harmless than Kaká.
"You wanna grow a beard?" Gattuso asked suddenly.
Suker nodded seriously, making a fierce face."I want to look more intimidating."
Gattuso rolled his eyes.
Honestly, Suker's face just wasn't made for a beard.
"Maybe just grow some stubble," Gattuso said. "A full beard would just make you look weird."
He reached into his black toiletry bag and tossed over a spray can.
"This helps promote hair growth."
Suker caught it excitedly, then frowned."But didn't you say it's all genetics?"
Gattuso glared:"You want it or not? If not, piss off!"
"I want it! I want it!"
Suker ran back to his room, happy as a kid.
He stood in front of the sink, sprayed it on.
Cool and refreshing, but not much else.
After a short wait, he rinsed as instructed.
Suker didn't know if it would work—but it was worth a try.
At that moment, Ancelotti called a final pre-match tactical meeting.
In the hotel's conference room, the team gathered and sat in order.
Unlike their usual lively chatter, everyone was quiet.
Especially Suker and Pirlo—when they were quiet, the whole team followed suit.
Ancelotti scanned the room and spoke up:
"Tomorrow, we face Manchester United. I don't need to say how critical this match is."
"United has a strong squad. Playing away, we need to be extra careful. First and foremost, defense!"
He went on to outline the key tactical points.
Everyone listened intently.
Meanwhile, Suker's gaze slowly drifted from Ancelotti to the window.
From here, he could clearly see the entire Old Trafford stadium.
Three years ago, he had played here.
But back then, he was with Dinamo Zagreb.
Now, three years later—he was back.
And this time, his former teammate Modrić was on the opposing team.
From the very beginning, Suker and Modrić had always been teammates.
From Zrinjski Mostar, to Dinamo Zagreb, to the Croatian national team.
But now—for the first time—they were direct rivals.
Modrić knew Suker well.
And Suker knew Modrić just as deeply.
Which made this battle even heavier in their hearts.
Suker narrowed his eyes, gazing at Old Trafford under the night sky, and softly whispered:
"Luka… see you tomorrow."