Tonight's spotlight was destined to shine on Suker.
As the awards ceremony concluded, swarms of reporters surrounded Suker for interviews, while others waited eagerly to engage with him.
Suker was unequivocally the protagonist of the evening.
Other nominees and players gradually departed, but in a quiet corner, a young man stood watching with envy as Suker basked in the lilight.
The 2010 FIFA Ballon d'Or winner.
The player standing atop football's pyramid.
This young man sported a flamboyant mohawk and looked strikingly youthful, but he was no nobody.
He was Brazil's prodigy—Neymar da Silva.
"Son, it's ti to go."
A man resembling Neymar approached.
His father.
At just 19, Neymar had been nominated for the FIFA Ballon d'Or—though purely as a symbolic gesture. Still, even being nominated while playing in Brazil's dostic league spoke volus about his talent.
Neymar had been a sensation since his teens, now courted by nurous clubs.
However, both Neymar and his father/agent believed he needed the right club—one that would nurture his growth.
That was why they'd attended the ceremony despite knowing he stood no chance of winning.
Neymar's father had co to explore transfer opportunities, aiming to connect with Europe's elite.
Not just any clubs—only those competing for the Champions League mattered.
Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich, Manchester United—all were on their radar.
Given Neymar's technical style, La Liga was the preferred destination.
Thus, Real Madrid and Barcelona beca the primary targets.
They'd already spoken with Barcelona's executives but hadn't found the right mont to approach Real Madrid.
"We'll reach out to Real Madrid another ti. Let's head back."
His father spoke, but Neymar remained fixated on Suker.
He wondered—what did it feel like to stand in that spotlight, the center of everyone's attention?
"Neymar!" His father's voice grew firr. "I'm here to help you achieve your dreams. We're leaving."
Reluctantly, Neymar tore his gaze away.
This European trip had exposed him to the continent's elite. The experience had been enlightening.
But it was ti to return.
Still, he was certain he'd be back soon—not as a spectator, but as an equal among these stars.
"Let's go, Dad."
Neymar turned away.
——
With the ceremony over, Suker and his entourage left Switzerland.
He returned to Spain laden with trophies—four awards, the night's biggest winner.
Back at his villa, Kaká and Srna soon arrived.
Suker proudly displayed his three Ballon d'Or trophies.
Visually identical, but the base inscriptions differed—one from France Football, the other from FIFA.
"Why does this one look shinier?" Srna squinted, comparing them.
Suker smirked. "Because it's brand new. Fresh out of the oven."
Srna rolled his eyes.
Here we go again.
"Alright, spill it," Srna grinned, pointing at Suker. "What's going on with you and Anne Hathaway?"
"Like I said—just friends. I invited her as my plus-one."
"Friends?" Srna scoffed. "Between a man and a woman? Please."
Kaká interjected, "Dario, don't be narrow-minded. n and won can be platonic friends. Not everything stems from—"
Srna waved him off. "Save the lecture. I don't need life lessons."
He turned back to Suker. "Being soone's plus-one isn't casual. It implies intimacy. Even if you think it's nothing, Anne clearly sees it differently."
He jabbed a finger at Suker. "She wants you."
Suker groaned. "Go ho and babysit. What do you know?"
Kaká suddenly asked, "Did you see Neymar there?"
"Neymar?" Srna blinked. "Sounds familiar."
Suker shrugged. "Of course it does. He was a Puskás Award nominee."
Srna snapped his fingers. "That Brazilian wonderkid? Was he there?"
"Nope. Didn't spot him."
Kaká sighed. "Sha. I wanted to introduce you."
"You know him?" Suker asked.
Kaká nodded. "t him at events in Brazil. Technically brilliant—already good enough for top-five leagues. With so adaptation, he'd thrive at a elite club."
Suker nodded.
In his mory, Neymar had prioritized money over ambition. Otherwise, he wouldn't have stagnated at PSG.
In his original tiline, PSG's spending spree never translated to Champions League glory.
Neymar beca a scapegoat, even booed by his own fans—a baffling treatnt for soone who'd committed no cris.
Touted as the heir to ssi and Ronaldo, Neymar never quite reached those heights.
Not that he was diocre—his technical flair was undeniable.
During Barcelona's Remontada, ssi took the plaudits, but Neymar had been the true architect.
That performance showed he still had fire in his belly.
But his move to PSG was a career misstep.
The record-breaking transfer made headlines but also marked the beginning of his decline.
Had he joined a Champions League contender, his trajectory might've differed.
Can money buy European glory?
Suker believed so—Chelsea and Manchester City had proved it possible.
But PSG's chaotic managent ensured they'd never replicate that success.
"One month until the Champions League resus. Ti to prepare."
Suker stretched.
The big event was over, but the journey continued.
The 2011 Ballon d'Or was next on his hit list.
With Real Madrid in scintillating form, back-to-back awards were within reach.
His gaze shifted to Kaká and Srna—burning with intensity.
Srna shuddered.
Why do I feel like he's ntally whipping us into shape?
——
February 14th, Premier League Matchday 27
Arsenal vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers
"Van Persie! A stunning volley! Arsenal have turned it around in the 77th minute!"
"Theo Walcott's blistering run down the flank, a pinpoint cross—Van Persie ets it first-ti!"
"This goal secures three precious points, keeping Arsenal fourth ahead of rivals Tottenham!"
On the sidelines, Arsène Wenger exhaled in relief.
Conceding first to Wolves had put them on the back foot.
Thankfully, Van Persie's brace salvaged the win, preserving their top-four position.
Yet Wenger felt utterly drained.
Sohow, every match had beco an uphill battle.
A strong start to the season gave way to inconsistency, and now, post-winter, the struggles had intensified.
The squad was stretched too thin—Champions League, League Cup, FA Cup, and Premier League commitnts overwhelming a threadbare roster.
Wenger had pleaded with the board to prioritize competitions, even suggesting sacrificing the dostic cups to focus on league and European campaigns.
But the Kroenke-led hierarchy refused.
More gas ant more revenue—never mind the toll on players.
One squad, four competitions.
Even Wenger's managerial genius had limits.
This will run us into the ground.
As for transfer funds?
A non-starter.
The Emirates Stadium project had saddled Arsenal with debt. Most inco now serviced loans, leaving little for reinforcents.
Sotis, Wenger questioned whether the stadium move had been the right call.
Yet owning their ground guaranteed matchday and comrcial revenues—a long-term masterstroke.
So he soldiered on, shoulders squared despite the exhaustion.
His weary eyes still burned with determination.
I'm not done yet.
Just a little longer.
Better days will co.
Besides, with talents like Fàbregas, Nasri, and Van Persie, they could weather the storm.
"Brilliant work, lads—especially Robin," Wenger smiled at Van Persie. "Those goals were subli."
Van Persie grinned back.
Amid the post-match cheer, only Fàbregas remained stony-faced.
His mood was foul.
This wasn't the trajectory he'd envisioned.
His Spanish counterparts—Xavi and Iniesta—were Ballon d'Or nominees, challenging Suker's supremacy.
anwhile, he was grinding out wins against Wolves.
"Hey! Hey!"
Fàbregas snapped out of his thoughts—Van Persie was nudging him.
"Boss is calling you."
He looked up to find teammates staring curiously.
Wenger frowned. "Are you unwell? You look pale."
Fàbregas forced a smile. "Just tired, I think."
Wenger's frown deepened.
Even Cesc is feeling the strain?
One squad simply wasn't enough.
But Arsenal couldn't function without Fàbregas.
If only we had a world-class striker...
Wenger's mind drifted to an old mory.
Davor Šuker arriving with a recomndation letter and tapes of a young phenom.
The boy he'd missed out on was now a three-ti Ballon d'Or winner.
If Suker were at Arsenal...
If we'd beaten AC Milan to his signature...
Not just for results—even selling him would've bankrolled the club.
——
Back at the training ground, Wenger dismissed the exhausted squad.
In his office, assistant Pat Rice joined him.
"That was too close for comfort," Rice sighed. "Our form's all over the place."
Wenger nodded. "Thankfully, Robin stepped up."
"But with this form, how do we face Real Madrid in the Champions League?" Rice groaned.
Wenger fell silent.
How indeed?
This Real Madrid side was on a 23-ga winning streak across all competitions.
And Suker?
30 goals in 23 league gas—on pace to smash the 40-goal barrier.
Could Arsenal's defense contain such a force?
It wasn't that he doubted his backline.
But Suker was simply that good.
"Headache," Wenger massaged his temples before chuckling bitterly. "Pat, maybe I'm getting old—I keep reminiscing about past mistakes."
"The players who got away."
"Ronaldo—we were this close."
"Davor Šuker offering us Suker—if only we'd signed him then."
"Or ssi at La Masia—what if we'd pushed harder?"
Wenger sighed. "I keep wondering—what have I done? I identified them, then let them slip."
Rice shook his head. "No, Arsène. You did everything right. The problem was that miserly board refusing to spend."
"By the ti we wanted Suker, he cost €30 million!" Rice exclaid. "We couldn't afford him!"
"Besides, we still have Robin, Cesc, and Samir. They'll carry us forward."
Rice gripped Wenger's shoulder. "After all these years together, don't quit now. Once the debts are cleared, our ti will co."
Wenger managed a weak smile, then frowned.
"Cesc's form worries ."
Rice nodded. "I noticed too. At first, I thought it was fatigue, but it seems deeper."
Wenger looked up. "Barcelona made an offer for him."
Rice scoffed. "With Xavi and Iniesta? He'd rot on their bench."
"Exactly. Going back would ruin him," Wenger agreed. "But he's smart—he'll make the right choice. Besides, I'm rejecting all bids. Cesc isn't for sale."
A pause.
Then Rice asked quietly, "What if... he wants to leave?"
Wenger's expression darkened briefly before settling into resigned acceptance.
After a long silence, he whispered,
"If he asks to go... if he pleads with ..." Wenger swallowed hard. "Then, for the right price, I'll let him. He deserves to chase his dreams."
——
Under cover of darkness, Wenger prepared to leave.
As he turned toward the parking garage elevator, tendrils of smoke caught his eye.
Frowning, he quickened his pace.
Click.
"Not you again."
First-choice goalkeeper Wojciech Szczęsny froze, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Dressed in training gear, he'd clearly stayed late for extra work—only to sneak a smoke break.
"Hand it over."
Wenger extended his palm sternly.
Szczęsny sheepishly surrendered the pack.
"I quit smoking months ago, yet here you are," Wenger scolded. "Nicotine is an athlete's enemy. If you want longevity, stub it out for good."
"Ten laps tomorrow morning. And a week's wages fined."
"Boss—" Szczęsny protested, but Wenger's glare silenced him. "Yes, sir."
"Go ho. Get so rest."
As Szczęsny slunk away, Wenger sighed.
So many problems.
He studied the cigarette pack.
Four months clean, yet the lingering smoke and stress made his fingers twitch.
Almost unconsciously, he lit one and inhaled deeply.
Nicotine flooded his system, dizzying him montarily.
Leaning against the wall, Wenger took slow drags until the cigarette burned out.
Staring at the pack, he muttered, "Might as well keep these."
Tucking it away, he headed for the elevator—mind suddenly clearer.
Maybe now I can figure out how to stop Real Madrid.
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