Suker sat in front of the television, watching an American talk show.
Anne Hathaway, dressed in a proper dress, sat in the guest seat.
Her smile was somewhat stiff, clearly holding back anger, maintaining a graceful posture, smiling as she conversed with the host.
Meanwhile, in the audience, an overweight white woman kept verbally abusing Anne Hathaway, spewing vulgarities.
The camera was outrageous too, constantly cutting back to the white woman.
"You're just a bitch. No matter how much you pretend, you can't hide that bitchy stink on you."
The white woman was relentless and ferocious.
Even Suker frowned as he watched.
Was this really necessary?
Jealousy truly drives people mad.
The camera cut back to Anne Hathaway, who took a slow breath and smiled at the host, saying, "Sorry, let me handle this."
With that, her expression changed, her beautiful face turning cold as she strode toward the front of the stage.
The abusive woman froze.
Anne crossed her arms, lowered her gaze, and looked down at the overweight white woman.
"You think I'm a bitch? Then what are you? I don't know why you hate me so much—did your man jerk off to my poster or something?"
WHOA!!!!——
The audience gasped.
They stared at Anne Hathaway in shock. The usually graceful and dignified actress had finally snapped.
The host's mouth dropped slightly, eyes darting around.
Partly shocked.
Partly entertained.
But Anne Hathaway wasn't done.
She stared at the overweight woman in disgust:"If you feel insecure, go lose weight and shape up instead of attacking me. Of course, it doesn't matter to me—it just exposes your own pathetic insecurity."
"So what if I'm pretty? I can just crook my finger and men will line up for me. You? They'd probably run the other way."
The woman's face turned crimson.
She lifted her head high, showing off her slender neck, and declared proudly:"Let's be real—how many women in the entire USA are prettier than me?"
At that moment, her presence exploded—pure queen energy, radiating, "I'm the most beautiful woman in the world!" (huhhhhhhh)
The audience was stunned.
The white woman looked dazed and defeated.
Clack, clack, clack!Anne Hathaway returned to her seat in high heels, sitting properly again—but still visibly fuming. Then she turned and flipped both middle fingers at the white woman.
"Fxxk! You!"
After that, she exhaled slowly and smiled at the host.
"Let's continue."
Spain, inside Suker's villa.
"Whoa!"
"Whoa!"
Suker and Zorančić both gasped in surprise.
"She's changed a lot," Zorančić said in shock.
Suker shrugged. "That's how it should be. Americans are nasty—the harsher the insults, the more they love you."
Zorančić laughed. "That's quite a strange assessment."
"Oh, right," Zorančić added, "I'm heading to London for a bit. I need to keep an eye on Luka, can't stay here forever. Also, I've spoken with Mr. Pérez—we're planning to bring Ángel to Real Madrid in the winter window."
"Di María?" Suker asked. "That's great!"
Zorančić smiled. "Ángel said he looks forward to playing with you."
Even if it was just flattery, it felt nice.
Di María joining Real Madrid would put him in Suker's camp by default.
Currently, Real Madrid had two major factions—Casillas's group and Suker's group.
Locals vs. outsiders.
Di María shared the same agent as Suker, so naturally he was closer to his side.
"Oh, Mendes is also in talks with Bayern Munich. He wants to break into the Bundesliga market, planning to send Vukojević there too."
Suker turned. "How do you know this?"
Zorančić replied, "Agents have their special channels. What do you think—good move?"
Suker nodded immediately.
The future belonged to Real, Barça, and Bayern!
Mendes had failed to fully exploit the La Liga market through Ronaldo, so now he was turning to the Bundesliga.
Ferguson was still around.
Ronaldo and Modrić were still at Manchester United.
But judging from the original timeline, once Ferguson retired, those two wouldn't stay.
When the time came, Mendes' Bundesliga plan would pay off.
Assuming Bayern were willing to spend the money—those two wouldn't come cheap.
"Morning, guys!"
Suker's cheerful voice rang out.
He greeted his teammates one by one in the dressing room.
When he got to Pepe, the guy just scowled, sitting on the bench, waving a hand with a sour face.
Suker was confused. He walked over to Ramos and pointed at Pepe. "What's up with him?"
Ramos grinned. "He's upset. They drew in the qualifiers. They had a shot at topping the group, but now it depends on Denmark. And Denmark's last match is against Malta!"
"Malta? The bottom team? So no chance then," Suker said.
Ramos shrugged. "Yep. So he's in a bad mood."
After the international break, some players returned to their clubs happy, others disappointed.
Spain had already qualified, so no pressure there.
Croatia was still top, but England was close behind, so there was still a bit of suspense.
Not much though—nobody expected Andorra to beat Croatia. That was just fantasy.
France had a key game coming up against Serbia to decide the group leader.
Benzema had asked Pellegrini for more playing time to maintain his form.
Players' lives were hectic, yet orderly.
October 18th – La Liga resumed.
Matchday 7: Real Madrid vs. Valladolid at home.
Early in the game, Real suffered a shock.
Valladolid striker Diego Costa used his strong frame to hold off Ramos, spun around, and scored.
GASP!!!!!!!
The entire stadium was stunned.
How did this bearded old guy score so easily?
"Ramos lost the duel!"
"His shooting's no joke!"
"Who is this guy? Never heard of him!"
Fans quickly checked the match guide.
"21 years old? Looks 31!"
Spanish commentator González exclaimed:"Oh my! Diego Costa! This young man, previously in Segunda, has now scored at the Bernabéu, breaking through Casillas's goal!"
"This 21-year-old has been impressive in La Liga!"
Costa celebrated wildly—scoring against star-studded Real Madrid was a huge moment.
But—whoosh!
Suker sprang up from the ground, glanced at the goal, then pointed toward the stands.
Suddenly, the stadium erupted with deafening cheers.
"Suker! Just three minutes after Valladolid's goal, he equalizes!"
"What elegant movement—even under heavy pressure, he still managed to score."
"This is Real Madrid's number 9! Unmatched explosiveness!"
Diego Costa stood, hands on hips, staring at Suker with a frown.
He'd fought so hard for that goal—only for Suker to respond so casually.
He needed to push harder.
But before Costa could act, Real began to click.
Xabi Alonso received the ball, spun, and launched a long pass.
Suker sprinted to the drop point, watching his teammates' movements.
Raúl and Higuaín made straight runs.
Suker slowed slightly, stopped the ball delicately—like glue to his toes—then used his left foot to softly flick it.
The ball curved along the ground past the fullback—rolling right into Raúl's path.
Raúl accelerated, gently chipped the ball past the keeper—goal!
He kissed his finger, performing his iconic "Lord of the Rings" celebration.
But everyone's eyes were on Suker's pass.
González jumped up.
"It's here! It's here! After seven rounds, the Rainbow Pass has finally returned!"
"Suker's signature move—absolutely gorgeous!"
Madrid fans erupted.
They loved winning—but loved beautiful football even more.
Especially Suker's rainbow pass.
If only he could do it every time!
Of course, if Suker only passed, who'd finish?
34th minute: Real Madrid 2–1 Valladolid.
After conceding first, Real fired back with two goals.
They were fully in form now.
Valladolid wasn't a strong team, and Diego Costa hadn't yet peaked.
In the second half, at the 53rd minute, Suker made another clever chip pass.
Higuaín ran on, controlled with his chest, twisted, and struck with his left—goal!
Real Madrid, now leading 3–1, had sealed the win. Pellegrini made changes.
Suker was subbed off for Benzema.
This was to prepare for the upcoming Champions League match and give Benzema the minutes he'd asked for.
Without Suker, the attack lost some bite, but Valladolid couldn't mount a comeback.
Final score: Real Madrid 3–1 Valladolid.
Suker had two assists and one goal—Man of the Match.
Serie A, 2009/10 Season – Round 8.
AC Milan hosted Roma.
87th minute: Milan led 2–1.
"Kaká! Once again Kaká! After Ambrosini was red-carded and Milan went down 0–1 in the first half, Kaká got an assist and a goal to turn the match around!"
San Siro roared his name.
But Kaká lay on the pitch, gasping.
Exhausted!
It had taken everything just to equalize.
Then Ambrosini was sent off.
Under heavy pressure, Kaká kept running, and finally broke through with an assist.
Roma wasn't that strong this season.
Especially without Totti.
But Ronaldinho was hungover and off-form.
Inzaghi was hit or miss.
Pirlo seemed mentally checked out.
Only Pato and Kaká ran themselves ragged to win.
Kaká missed the old days.
If Suker were still here, things wouldn't be this hard.
In the final minutes, Milan focused on defending.
They didn't attack well, but defended okay.
Final score: AC Milan 2–1 Roma.
"Good work," Allegri patted Kaká's shoulder.
Kaká didn't respond—he glanced at the bloated Ronaldinho chatting on the bench and felt annoyed.
In the locker room, the mood was even heavier.
Allegri's post-game speech was full of criticism—for everyone but Kaká.
Nesta, Pirlo, and others seemed distracted.
Ronaldinho was laughing with Dida.
The Eastern European clique (Šimunić, Šimić, etc.) sat quietly in a corner, sidelined by Allegri.
New coach, new rules.
First, he benched Šimunić, then started removing Šimić from matchday squads.
Then he cracked down on Ronaldinho.
He wanted to revive the Brazilian genius—but booze and women had destroyed him.
Ronaldinho just didn't care anymore.
"You talk, I party!"
Allegri hadn't given up—yet.
But the Eastern European group was already on the chopping block.
Back at Milanello training center.
Everyone quietly changed to go home.
It was tense.
Kaká suddenly spoke up: "Hey guys, want to come to my place for dinner?"
Pirlo: "You cook? Don't joke."
Nesta: "I've got stuff. Maybe next time."
Inzaghi shrugged. "You know me!"
Kaká looked at the Eastern Europeans, but they declined too.
Just when he felt disappointed, someone patted his back.
"Let's go," Gattuso said softly. "I'll cook."
In Gattuso's car, Kaká looked gloomy.
Gattuso sighed: "Kaká, don't force yourself to do something you're not suited for."
Kaká turned to him.
Gattuso grinned. "It's awkward. You're not Suker—you can't stir people up like he did."
Kaká pursed his lips. "I just feel… the locker room is too heavy."
"There's no fix. This isn't just vibes—it's poor performance. Milan isn't what it used to be."
Kaká lowered his head.
"I miss Suker, Paolo, Stam, Costa, Gilardino, Cafu… I wish we could go back."
Gattuso stayed silent.
When they reached Kaká's villa, Gattuso headed toward the door.
Kaká called out: "Not here."
"Huh?" Gattuso turned. "Isn't this your place?"
Kaká sheepishly pointed next door.
"Over there."
Gattuso looked—Suker's villa.
Kaká walked up and opened the door like it was his own.
It had been four months since Suker left, but the house was spotless.
Kaká went straight to the kitchen, tied the apron hanging on the fridge, opened it, and pulled out ingredients.
Gattuso was stunned.
"Didn't Suker's house get broken into?"
Kaká nodded. "Yeah."
Gattuso narrowed his eyes. "Was it you?"
Kaká snapped: "Of course not! I moved in after that."
"You moved in?"
Kaká nodded. "My place was a rental. I made a deal with Suker—I'll stay here and house-sit for free."
He started washing ingredients expertly.
Gattuso was amazed. "You can cook?"
"Learned from Suker," Kaká smiled brightly.
Soon, a steaming hot seafood paella was ready.
He brought out two plates, then took a special sauce from the fridge.
"Haven't tasted this in forever."
"Probably not as good as Suker's," Kaká said shyly.
Gattuso waved. "Doesn't matter."
He shook the sauce violently onto the paella.
Every shake made Kaká flinch.
"What's wrong?" Gattuso asked.
Kaká hesitated, then sighed.
"That's the last bottle. Go easy!"