December 21st marked the end of the first half of the season, and with it, the start of the winter break.
Real Madrid, right after finishing their final match, immediately shifted into holiday mode.
The players, who had been itching for a break, bolted from the training grounds like office workers clocking out on a Friday evening.
"Hey! How about we go to Eastern Europe? I want to see snow!"
In the locker room, Marcelo said excitedly to Benzema.
Benzema shook his head. "It's too cold over there. You probably won't be able to handle it."
Then he pointed at his lower leg. "The snow there goes up to your knees."
"No way?"
Marcelo looked even more hyped.
Pristine snow, a white world, snow-covered cottages — all these romantic images were dancing in his mind.
Suker looked at the excited Marcelo and couldn't help but say:
"You're probably imagining something really beautiful, but as a Croatian, let me tell you — it's not like that. Unless you go to a tourist spot."
"Most of the time, when it snows, snowplows clear it to the side of the road. So there aren't lovely white snow piles — what you get is dirty, muddy snow. I promise, you won't want to jump into that."
"And if the weather warms up? Don't get excited. Melting snow mixes with street grime and becomes disgusting puddles. If you're wearing white shoes, you'll be tiptoeing — but they'll still end up filthy. And when temperatures drop again in the evening, it all freezes, and you'll risk slipping and falling."
"Long story short: it's just cold — and that's it."
Marcelo stared blankly at Suker.
"Is that for real?"
Suker shrugged. "You're welcome to find out."
Marcelo turned to Benzema. Benzema shrugged and pointed to Suker.
"He knows better than I do."
"Alright then…" Marcelo sighed in disappointment. "Let's pick another place."
Not long after, Ramos walked in, holding a newspaper under his arm.
He glanced at Suker and shook his head.
"You really landed a monster deal. If I'd known earlier, I would've eaten more."
"What monster deal?"
Marcelo asked curiously.
Ramos handed him the newspaper.
Marcelo opened it up and saw the headline on the front page of Marca:
"Suker signs new endorsement deal with Nike — 10 years, €300 million!"
"Th-three hundred million?!"
Marcelo's jaw dropped.
His main source of income was his club salary — he had a few endorsement deals, but nothing major.
This deal alone meant Suker would earn €30 million per year from endorsements — not even counting his wages.
Marcelo currently earned a salary of €1.9 million per year. His entire career might not earn what Suker pulls in from one year of just endorsements.
"So... what's Suker's salary?" Marcelo asked dumbfoundedly.
Benzema sighed.
Just as Suker opened his mouth, Marcelo covered his ears.
"I don't wanna know!"
Suker shrugged.
Benzema sighed again.
"Don't compare yourself to him. Let's just go on vacation."
"Go to hell," Marcelo replied bitterly. "I don't deserve a vacation!"
Suker gave him a thumbs-up.
Good attitude!
Suker left and dove into his hectic schedule.
His break was packed with business obligations and ad shoots — barely any time off, maybe just a few short days.
Ramos saw this and thought:
This is the curse of being a top player — you don't even get to relax.
Unlike Suker, Ramos could plan his off-time however he liked.
His goal for the break was to bulk up.
As a fullback, flexibility was important. But since transitioning to center-back, his role changed.
Now, he needed to be tougher.
So from day one of the break, Ramos jumped into his personal training program.
With only two weeks off, he needed to be efficient.
Through smart diet and training, he aimed to gain weight and increase muscle mass.
Flexibility out, raw strength in — Ramos was turning himself into a brick wall.
He drew up a detailed daily workout plan.
On the first day of break, he woke early and had a big breakfast.
Usually, he'd eat light to avoid bloating, but now he needed calories.
After eating, he walked around the house to help digestion, then headed to the storage shed.
He pulled out a massive tire — likely from a bulldozer, nearly his height.
He tied a thick rope around it, secured the other end to his waist, and dragged it out to the dirt road of his farm estate.
Standing at the entrance, tire in tow, Ramos rolled up his sleeves and took a deep breath.
Boom!
He sprinted down the path, kicking up clouds of dust behind him.
After 30 minutes, dripping in sweat and with his training clothes soaked, Ramos returned to the house.
"Not heavy enough," he muttered.
Back to the shed — he strapped ankle weights and a waist sandbag on.
The sandbag also protected his waist from the rope chafing.
Ready again, Ramos resumed his sprint training.
Elsewhere in Madrid, in a rundown but fully equipped training facility…
Marcelo was doing weighted squats. His legs trembled, but his movements were fast — training for leg explosiveness.
After a few rapid reps, he slowed his pace — working on endurance now.
After several sets, Marcelo collapsed onto a dusty mat.
At the door, a chubby man asked:
"You're a starter now — do you really need to train this hard? Why not take a vacation?"
Marcelo turned his head and said:
"Starter? At Real Madrid, aside from Suker and the captain, who's really safe? Underperform and you'll be benched instantly."
"But still… everyone's on vacation. You should rest too."
Marcelo sneered:
"You think they're really on vacation? Sure, some are. But the ones eyeing a starting spot? They're all training in secret. Real Madrid is a giant — you think competition is easy?"
"The team's rebuilding. There's no fixed starting lineup. This is a chance for everyone. If you play well now, you get into the core."
"No one's throwing that chance away."
The shop owner blinked.
"Didn't you say Benzema went home? He should be in France chilling."
"You think he's relaxing?" Marcelo smirked.
With Suker, Higuaín, and Raúl competing with him, and rumors of more forwards arriving in the winter window — Benzema couldn't afford to slack.
France — Lyon Training CenterA professional facility tailored to pro footballers, offering customized plans and elite coaching.
Benzema had booked a two-week plan here.
In training gear, he stretched and warmed up.
"Where do we start?"
"Two weeks is short," his private coach said. "We'll focus on flexibility and muscle strength. Muscle strength boosts explosiveness and agility. Flexibility makes you trickier to read. And your core — that's key."
"Let's begin," Benzema nodded.
Real Madrid's players all seemed to have a secret pact — training hard in the shadows.
No one wanted to fall behind.
Except one person.
December 27th — just one week into the break…
Someone was wheeled into Madrid's medical center.
Pepe, left leg in a cast, sat in a wheelchair pushed by his agent. Behind him were Casillas and coach Pellegrini.
Pellegrini's face was grim.
Casillas looked helpless.
Apparently, Pepe injured himself diving into water while vacationing. He hit an underwater rock. Thanks to water's buoyancy, it wasn't too bad — but he still ended up with a hairline fracture.
He needed time to heal.
Pepe bowed his head — utterly embarrassed.
Not only injured, but from goofing off on holiday.
Pellegrini's face was thunderous. Pepe sat in shame.
Casillas sighed.
He'd been peacefully enjoying his own vacation when called over to witness this — just great.
"He'll need extended recovery. Might even miss the whole season," said the doctor.
Pepe panicked.
Pellegrini's face turned purple.
Casillas tried to mediate, walking the doctor out.
"I hate undisciplined players," Pellegrini growled. "And those who don't care for themselves. If anything goes wrong this season — you'll shoulder the blame. You'd better think about that."
Then he turned and stormed off.
Pepe stayed silent, full of regret.
Was this the end of his Real Madrid career?
Pissing off the head coach wasn't smart.
Casillas sighed and offered some comfort before leaving.
That night, Pepe couldn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling, panicked about the future.
The next day at noon — footsteps outside his room.
Creak.
The door opened.
"Unbelievable — you managed to fracture your leg diving. All of Spain's laughing at your blunder!"
Suker leaned on the door, dressed in a brown overcoat, black turtleneck, and slacks.
Tap tap tap. His leather shoes echoed as he walked over and sat down.
He saw the red veins in Pepe's eyes. The guy was clearly wrecked by stress.
Injuries happen — but during holiday goofing off? Unforgivable to a coach.
"What did Pellegrini say to you?" Suker asked, taking a bite of an apple.
"He told me to behave," Pepe said, looking for hope.
Suker nodded.
"Thought so."
"You probably don't know, but the board isn't happy with Pellegrini. If he doesn't deliver this season, he's gone."
"You messing up now just gives them another reason."
Pepe's eyes widened — he hadn't realized it was this serious.
As a regular player, he had no contact with the board. Suker and Casillas had insider info via Florentino Pérez.
If Pellegrini was on the chopping block, he might take Pepe down with him out of spite.
"You have a way, right?" Pepe turned to Suker.
Suker's pull with Pérez was strong. If he really wanted to protect him, even the club president might step in.
Suker kept eating silently — waiting for Pepe to speak up.
Why should I help if you don't say anything?
Pepe, rash but not stupid, caught on immediately.
"From now on, I'm with you," he declared.
Suker put down the apple, clapped his hands, and smiled.
"Smart move. You're not joining the Spanish clique, so might as well roll with me."
"Get ready. A special guest is coming this afternoon," he added before leaving.
Pepe, despite being exhausted, forced himself to stay awake.
Soon, Suker drove to Florentino Pérez's estate.
Pérez, in a sunhat and holding scissors and a bag, was picking grapes.
"Why is it that every time I try to pick grapes, you show up?"
"Pure coincidence!" Suker grinned.
"Sit — let's talk," Pérez said.
Suker didn't beat around the bush — he wanted Pérez to help protect Pepe.
"You want to save Pepe?"
"Yes. He's got great potential. You know that."
"I said I wouldn't interfere with the first team. I'm not Calderón," Pérez replied.
Suker smiled.
He hadn't said no.
"You don't need to interfere. Just visit him in the hospital. Show your face."
Pérez thought for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"You want to pressure Pellegrini."
"First you visit, then me — what a 'coincidence,' right?"
"Exactly," Suker smirked.
"Fine," Pérez said. "Pepe's a Madrid player. He's injured — it's my duty to visit. When?"
"Now. I've got to get back to shooting ads."
"Still not done? How many deals did you sign?!"
"Just a few…" Suker scratched his head sheepishly.
That afternoon, Pérez visited Pepe in the hospital — concerned and cordial.
Pepe was stunned.
He knew Suker had pull — but not this much.
They shook hands, posed for pictures.
The next day, Marca ran the story:
"Florentino Pérez visits injured Pepe, showing deep concern for player's recovery."
Pellegrini saw the headline — and frowned.
Then he sighed.
First Suker, now Pérez?
So "coincidental"?
Clearly Suker's way of saying:
Pepe is with me — don't touch him.
Pellegrini felt frustrated, but powerless.
This was what happened when a coach had weak control of the dressing room.
And when a top player had massive influence.
In that sense, Pellegrini couldn't beat Suker — not head-on.
If he still punished Pepe, Suker would turn against him.