Milan, Italy – Train Station.
Paul Hilda sat in the driver's seat of his taxi, his eyes unfocused, looking dazed and disheartened.
A soft ballad played on the car radio, but it did nothing to calm the storm in his heart.
The Champions League final had ended a full week ago.
But the topic of "Istanbul" was far from over.
The entire world had nailed AC Milan to the pillar of sha, mocking them endlessly with the "champagne at halfti" . At this point, Milan was like a city battered by storm.
Paul Hilda was a die-hard AC Milan fan.
In his mind, the whole city of Milan should only support AC Milan—everyone else should just disappear.
But now AC Milan couldn't even lift its head under the weight of the public's scorn.
The aftermath of Istanbul was catastrophic.
The dia's attacks, public criticism, and sneering from their city rivals kept fans like Paul on edge.
Worse still, chaos was brewing inside the club.
Following the "Istanbul Disaster," the entire first team had gone silent and disappeared from the public eye.
Coach Carlo Ancelotti had tried to handle the PR, but with little effect.
Fans weren't buying it.
And with Shevchenko reportedly in talks with other clubs, possibly preparing to leave, Milan supporters were even more on edge.
That was SHEVCHENKO!
AC Milan's key striker—the face of the club.
His departure wouldn't just be a sha for Milan—it would be a disgrace for all of Serie A.
Other leagues would laugh at them, saying: "Look! A club that can't even keep its star player—what kind of top-tier team is that?"
BANG!!!Paul Hilda slamd the steering wheel in frustration.
"Dammit! This sucks!"
Click!
The door opened.
A plump woman stepped into the back seat, speaking fluent English: "Ro Street, No. 223!"
Paul Hilda glanced at her through the rearview mirror and replied, "I'm not going to Ro Street."
The woman was clearly taken aback. "Are you refusing a ride? I'll report you!"
That lit Paul's fuse.
"Go ahead and report , you fat cow! You English people are all the sa! The n are all bald, and the won are all whales! You should be eating slop at ho, not showing your face in Milan!"
The woman stared at Paul's twisted expression, clearly frightened.
She got out angrily, grumbling as she slamd the door.
Paul wasn't finished. He stuck his head out the window and shouted after her:
"COW! No one's gonna give you a ride! Go find those filthy Inter fans—they'd love a pig like you! Damn Brits!"
Ptooey!He spat furiously onto the street, finally feeling a bit of relief.
"Dammit! Can't anything go right?!"
Paul cursed under his breath.
About five minutes later, the door opened again.
This ti, the voice was younger, speaking slightly broken Italian:
"I want to go to Milanello."
Paul's expression lightened a little.
Milanello—the AC Milan training center. It also hosted fans and tourists during the off-season.
Paul shifted gears and glanced into the mirror. "Please fasten your seatbe—"
He froze mid-sentence.
Screech!Just as the car started moving, Paul slamd the brakes and yanked the handbrake. He twisted around, eyes wide.
His voice cracked from the shock.
"SUKER!!!——"
The man in the back looked puzzled.
"I'm… Suker."
Paul nodded hard, stunned. "Yes, you ARE Suker! What are you doing here?! You're going to Milanello?"
He slowly opened his mouth and whispered, "My God… is this real?"
Suker sniffled, then gestured with one hand: "Slow down. My Italian is not good!"
Paul, barely able to contain his excitent, spoke word by word:
"You… are… go-ing… to… Mi-lan?"
"Too slow," Suker rolled his eyes. "I'm not that bad."
Paul chuckled awkwardly.
"So, you're going to Milanello… you've joined AC Milan, right?"
Paul looked at him with hopeful eyes.
This was SUKER!
The attacking core of Dinamo Zagreb!
A symbol of youthful energy!
13 goals in the Champions League, the golden boot, the record holder for most goals in a single campaign.
With all those honors, Suker was the hottest player on the market this sumr.
The dia was still speculating about his transfer—one day it was Chelsea, the next it was Bayern, then back to rumors about Milan. It was chaos.
Paul had followed it all.
He had dread of Suker wearing AC Milan red and black.
After all, back at San Siro, Suker had won over the entire crowd with his performance.
Under Paul's eager gaze, Suker gave a little nod.
Then Suker pointed at himself, then at Paul: "We. Are. A team!"
WOOOAAAAAHHH!!!!!!!——
Paul erupted in joy.
Beautiful!
Brilliant!
They'd finally done sothing right!
Overco with excitent, Paul jumped out of the car and threw his hands in the air, cheering like crazy.
His bizarre behavior even drew curious looks from people nearby.
It wasn't until a traffic cop ca over and warned him that he cald down and returned to the driver's seat.
Now Paul looked cheerful and full of energy.
He called out joyfully, "Please fasten your seatbelt—destination: Milanello Training Ground!"
Along the way, Paul enthusiastically introduced the famous sights of Milan to Suker.
Suker watched the bustling streets and towering buildings through the car window, feeling like a villager stepping into a big city.
"Am I the first Milanese person to welco you?" Paul asked.
Suke nodded. "You're. The first!"
Paul turned around and gave a thumbs-up. "Your Italian is amazing!"
Suke pointed forward: "Watch the road—danger!"
"Relax!" Paul laughed. "As a true Rossoneri, we all know where Milanello is. We could find it with our eyes closed!"
Paul smiled warmly: "That's the way ho."
But Suker blinked, not quite understanding.
"Was that too complicated?" Paul asked.
Suker shook his head and gave a thumbs-up.
Paul grinned happily.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at Milanello.
Paul rolled down the window and banged on the car door, calling out to the security guard: "Marcello! Open up—I've got soone to drop off!"
The security guard, Marcello, walked over with a serious expression. "Paul, don't try to sneak in. The club's under a lot of pressure lately. No fans or dia are allowed inside. What are you doing?"
Paul smirked. "This isn't just anyone. Take a look!"
The rear window rolled down, revealing Suker's beaming smile.
"Hello!"
Marcello's eyes widened.
He stared blankly at Suker.
"Wait… is that Suker? Seriously?! You're bringing him in? No—sorry—not 'bringing him in'—I'm sorry, Suker, I'm so flustered…"
He turned to Suker: "You've joined Milan?"
When Suker nodded, Marcello jumped up like a kid.
He yanked away the barrier and pointed ahead:
"Go on, Paul—turn left at the end, straight to the office building. Ancelotti is there! Oh my God, I can't believe this!"
The car drove in. Suker saw Marcello already dialing his phone, obviously eager to share the news.
Soon, Suker stood in front of Coach Ancelotti.
Ancelotti eyed him and rubbed his chin.
"I told you to report before July 1st."
Suker nodded.
Ancelotti checked the date.
"If I'm not mistaken, today is June 8th."
Suker nodded again. "That's right. Before July 1st!"
Ancelotti chuckled. "So you showed up after just one week? We haven't even made your signing official yet."
He had planned to announce the transfer soon, partly to shift focus away from the Istanbul disaster.
But Suker had arrived early.
Bang!The office door slamd open and Milan's sporting director, Araujo, burst in.
"Suke's here? For real?"
He saw Suker on the couch.
Suker stood and offered a hand. "Hello, Mr. Araujo."
Di Pu shook it instinctively. "Hello. What are you doing here so early?"
Suker: "I had… nothing to do over there. So I ca."
Ancelotti turned to Arauo. "How did you find out?"
Araujo sighed. "The editor-in-chief of Milan Evening News called. Suker's appearance in Milan is already all over the internet."
Ancelotti laughed. "Well, since you're here, let's make it official. dical test tomorrow, press conference right after!"
Suker pointed at himself: "Where do I live?"
"You didn't book a place yet?"
Suker blinked. "I was supposed to co in a week. Zorancic is coming tomorrow to find a place. I ca early."
Araujo: "Hotel for now, then."
Suker nodded. "Okay."
He pulled out his phone and turned it off.
"What are you doing?" Ancelotti asked.
"Turning off my phone." Suker grinned. "Zorancic will yell at ."
Araujo couldn't help but laugh.
His client had gone rogue—showing up early and throwing the entire plan off track.
Of course his agent would lose it.
Germany – where Zorancic was negotiating an endorsent deal, his phone buzzed.
A vein bulged on his forehead as he read the ssage.
"Excuse a mont," he said.
He walked to the end of the hallway and ducked into the restroom.
Furious, he whipped out his phone.
"You bastard, Suker! You went rogue again!!"
"Pick up the damn phone!!!!——"
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