"Now arriving in London, Heathrow Airport."
In the first-class cabin of the plane, Davor Šuker slowly awoke from sleep at the sound of the announcent.
Once the plane had landed and stopped taxiing, he stood up and took down his luggage.
He walked through the corridor, down the long airport passage, and after completing the customs check, Davor Šuker exited the airport smoothly.
As he stepped outside, a young Black man with dreadlocks was holding a sign with "Šuker" written on it, waiting at the terminal exit.
"Hey! Kanu!"
Davor Šuker waved with a smile.
Nwankwo Kanu, a striker from Nigeria, forrly of Arsenal.
When Šuker joined Arsenal, he mainly ntored Kanu and Thierry Henry.
But while the forr didn't rise to expectations, Henry progressed rapidly and had now beco the Gunners' top striker.
Even so, compared to Henry, Šuker preferred Kanu.
Just like now—Henry wouldn't show up to pick him up, but Kanu would!
"So good to see you again!"
Kanu smiled and embraced Davor Šuker.
"I watched your recent matches. You're in great form, but the boss has been holding you back."
Kanu gave a bitter smile.
He knew Šuker was just being polite.
Kanu couldn't secure a starting spot in this Arsenal team.
"I'm leaving at the end of the season."
"Arsène's not renewing your contract?"
"He hasn't said anything, so I figure it's ti to go."
Šuker nodded. "Leaving might not be a bad thing. You've still got so good years left."
Kanu nodded and then asked with a smile, "How does it feel to be playing in Croatia again?"
At that, Šuker grinned.
"It's been a great experience!"
Kanu said, "I heard you're here to recomnd soone?"
Šuker looked surprised. "How did you know?"
"It's all over the club." Kanu shook his head. "They're joking that you're trying to squeeze soone in, but the boss isn't interested."
Šuker frowned slightly.
That comnt irritated him.
"Who said that?"
"Henry, Vieira, Pires — they all said so."
Šuker's heart filled with resentnt.
These were guys he didn't get along with.
Although he had once guided Henry in football, it was more about on-pitch imitation.
In reality, their relationship was far from good.
To Šuker, Henry always gave off the vibe of wanting to push others down and stand over them.
He never felt any respect from Henry.
Because of that, Šuker disliked him.
And he naturally didn't like Henry's close allies, Vieira and Pires, either.
"Let's go to the club," Šuker said.
The two of them made their way to the underground parking garage, where Kanu drove them to Arsenal's famous training base.
December 21st, Arsenal's training ground was still buzzing with activity.
The 2003/2004 season had been a phenonal one for Arsenal so far.
Up to this point, Arsenal had gone 28 league gas unbeaten, stretching across two seasons.
Ho or away, they'd been nothing short of brilliant, and the Gunners were enjoying unprecedented dominance.
In the league, they were ahead of Manchester United and looked like they were taking control of the Premier League.
This had made Arsenal and Arsène Wenger the toast of English football.
In the manager's office, Wenger was reviewing so docunts.
At this stage, Wenger was still far from old or weary—perhaps due to the unbeaten run, he exuded confidence and energy.
Wenger remained that refined gentleman, tall and lean in his ever-present suit, those wise eyes occasionally flashing with brilliance.
He placed the file aside and looked up at Šuker, who was sitting on the guest sofa.
"I was surprised when you contacted , but I'm glad," Wenger said with a smile.
Šuker shrugged. "What's in the past is in the past. No need to hold onto grudges."
"I personally apologize to you," Wenger said, "but I don't regret my decisions. At the club, I am first and foremost Arsenal's head coach—Arsène Wenger cos second."
Wenger got up to pour a cup of coffee.
"I looked at the resu you sent . The height's a bit short."
Hearing they were getting to the point, Šuker quickly said, "But his ability is outstanding!"
"There are many talented kids, but my energy is limited. I can't develop them all," Wenger replied. "I need only the very best!"
Šuker frowned. "Didn't you watch the match tape I sent?"
"When do I have ti for that?" Wenger rubbed his forehead. "This season's been a headache. I'm not just managing the team — I'm also figuring out how to ss with Manchester United."
"I made the offer because you recomnded him — I trust your judgnt. But honestly, I just don't have the ti to care about this."
Wenger smiled. "Co, I'll show you sothing."
Šuker, needing a favor, held his tongue.
Wenger led him to the youth academy.
On the pitch, a youth match was underway.
The players looked to be around 15 or 16 years old.
Wenger pointed at a kid and said proudly, "Look! That's what I'm looking for!"
Šuker turned to look. The kid was a central midfielder who stood out among his peers.
But… this?
Šuker's standards had been raised by his Suker.
Compared to that kid's jaw-dropping performances, this one was diocre at best.
Wenger bead. "I went to La Masia, and this kid impressed completely. Look at how he controls the midfield, his decision-making, and those breakthrough moves — beautiful!"
"I even went to Spain personally to convince his family to let him join Arsenal!"
"Yes, I did it! I brought a genius to Arsenal!"
"His na is Cesc Fàbregas. I'm planning to promote him to the first team during the winter break. You'll see—"
Wenger's words paused.
He noticed the strange look on Šuker's face.
It was a strange expression — like he was suppressing deep disdain.
Cheers erupted from the pitch.
They turned back to see Fàbregas threading a perfect diagonal pass that split the defense and led to a goal.
The kids cheered excitedly.
Fàbregas looked their way, running to the sideline to celebrate in front of Wenger.
Wenger smiled.
Šuker, by contrast, remained stoic.
After Fàbregas left, Šuker suddenly asked,
"Professor, have you ever seen a pass that curves?"
Wenger looked confused.
Šuker continued earnestly, "Forgive , but you've always been an outstanding coach, especially at nurturing young talent. If your eye for talent is still sharp, then I sincerely recomnd that you watch that match tape I sent you!"
With that, Šuker turned and left, leaving Wenger puzzled.
At a hotel in London, Šuker called Boban.
"The old man's being foolish! Forget Arsenal, we're going to Spain."
Šuker was fuming.
He didn't understand why offering help had turned into such a miserable experience.
Cesc Fàbregas? What a joke!
"You need to be sure — this concerns their future. Don't act on emotion," Boban warned.
Šuker sighed. "Part of it is frustration, but the other part is my fault."
"Your fault?"
"I don't get along with Henry and the others. If my Suker goes to Arsenal, I fear he'll be isolated or even ostracized. That's not what I want."
Currently, Arsenal's dressing room power lay with the likes of Henry, Vieira, and Pires — the young veterans.
And Šuker didn't have good relations with them. In fact, it was bad.
That ant a high chance of his player being excluded.
"You're not doing so hot yourself."
"Piss off!"
He had hoped for so sympathy but got roasted instead.
"So what now?" Boban asked.
Šuker thought for a mont and sighed. "Contact Spain. Let's try to place him with a team in Spain. Even if it's not a giant, at least one that plays in European competition."
"I'll also reach out to so clubs in Portugal and France."
"Alright, sounds good."
Šuker exhaled.
If it weren't for Suker's future, with his temper, he'd have gone off at the club already.
He used to work for them—now who's afraid of who?
Let's see who loses face in the end!
Šuker was still simring inside.
"Damn it — didn't even get a cup of coffee!"
Back at Arsenal's training ground, the academy director handed over a file.
"This is Fàbregas' season report. He's t the requirents for first-team promotion. We all believe he'll perform well with the senior squad."
Wenger nodded and took the file. "Alright, in January, let's—"
He suddenly paused mid-sentence.
Šuker's scornful expression resurfaced in his mind.
He tapped his fingers on the desk, deep in thought.
"Professor? Professor?!"
The academy director's voice snapped him out of it.
Wenger cleared his throat. "Yes, have him report to the first team in January. That's final."
The director bead. "Great! I'll go tell him the good news."
Wenger waved him off.
Once he was alone, his eyes drifted to a file on the corner of his desk — a videotape in a folder.
"Professor, have you ever seen a pass that curves?"
Wenger murmured softly, "A pass that curves… That's impossible!"
He stood, drew the curtains, locked the office door, and took out the tape.
He inserted it into the VCR in the corner.
As the match footage began playing on the screen, Wenger sank into the couch.
"Let's have a look, then."
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