"Push up! Push up!!"

"Lennon! Again!!"

THUD!

Di María tracked back to help Marcelo clear the ball out for a throw-in.

"Damn it! Why are they all targeting me?" Marcelo cursed under his breath.

With their left flank completely shut down, Tottenham had shifted their focus to the right—Marcelo's side.

Aaron Lennon stood at just 165 cm, but his agility and speed were terrifying.

Marcelo was decent defensively, but he wasn't as rock-solid as Srna. That forced Di María to constantly drop back, effectively pinning both of them to the flank.

"Hang in there!" Di María panted. "It's almost the 50th minute!"

Time ticked on. A Tottenham corner was cleared by Ramos.

Without Crouch, Tottenham's aerial threat had diminished.

Xabi Alonso collected the ball, glanced up, and launched a long pass forward.

Suker barely took a step before being clattered by Tottenham's two center-backs.

WHISTLE!

A yellow card for Assou-Ekotto.

Suker picked himself up, dusting off his shorts.

Assou-Ekotto eyed him warily—even if it meant fouling, they couldn't let Suker build up speed.

Suker understood Tottenham's plan.

But these fouls weren't necessarily a bad thing.

If they racked up enough yellows, maybe even a red, it'd weaken Tottenham for the second leg.

That'd make advancing to the semifinals even easier.

But Tottenham weren't stupid.

They rotated the fouls, spreading the bookings around.

Michael Dawson could still take a yellow.

They had one sub left, too.

But Suker's threat was relentless.

Forwards, score already! We can't hold out much longer!

Tottenham's attacks kept coming.

Lennon's raids down the right had eased some pressure off their left.

But Bale still couldn't break past Srna.

Now, Khedira had joined in, forming a double-team that locked Bale to the touchline.

Van der Vaart couldn't free Bale with passes either, so he focused on overloading the right, trying to drag Real's defense out of shape.

WHISTLE!

At the next stoppage, the fourth official raised his board.

52nd minute—Real Madrid substitution:

Benzema, Di María OFF

Arbeloa, Carvalho ON

Redknapp seethed on the sidelines.

This Portuguese bastard is insufferable.

You're Real Madrid! A superclub!

Do you have to play like this?

Never won before?!

But no matter how much he cursed, this was Mourinho. He never let go of an advantage.

With Carvalho and Arbeloa on, Real's formation shifted.

Politely, it was a 4-5-1.

Bluntly? 7-2-1!

Seven defenders.

Two midfielders (Kaká and Alonso) to distribute.

One striker (Suker) to counter.

Mourinho's pragmatism was infuriating.

BANG!

Redknapp slammed a water bottle down.

He glared at Mourinho, as if to say, How can you be this shameless?

Mourinho just smirked.

"Clown."

Tottenham kept pushing, desperate for a breakthrough.

Meanwhile, Suker lurked on the last line, constantly scanning.

Tottenham's center-backs maintained a careful distance.

Suker twitched his shoulders.

Both defenders jumped, stepping closer before awkwardly resetting when Suker didn't move.

Test confirmed.

If Suker sprinted, they'd foul him—tactically.

Suker could just wait it out.

But he wanted more goals.

A hat-trick!

He needed to reclaim the Champions League scoring lead.

Two goals were great, but Ronaldo was on fire too. Who knew if he'd bag another brace?

Suker didn't want to share the top spot—he wanted to own it.

He checked his options.

Corluka had tucked inside, clearly wary of Suker.

Left flank? No chance.

But the right…

Suker's eyes gleamed.

Gallas was pushed higher, supporting Lennon's attacks.

That left a gap.

This could work.

Suker turned toward his own half. "Kaká!"

Kaká looked over.

Suker pointed at Gallas.

Kaká blinked, then understood.

THUD!

Pepe intercepted a pass and fed Alonso.

Before Alonso could turn, Kaká roared: "Here!"

Alonso, facing his own goal, played it square.

Kaká took it and charged right at Gallas.

Gallas stepped up to confront him—

And left a canyon behind him.

Suker spun and exploded into the space.

At the same time, Kaká slipped it to Alonso, who threaded a pass into Suker's path.

Suker had curved his run perfectly, staying onside before blasting forward.

"SUKER!! BREAKING THROUGH THE RIGHT! HE'S IN!"

Suker raced forward, Tottenham's center-backs scrambling to catch up.

As they closed in, Suker suddenly cut inside, charging straight at them.

"Come on then! Foul me again!"

Now in the box, Suker weaved from right to left.

The defenders froze.

Dawson instinctively grabbed Suker's shirt—

But Suker yanked forward, dragging Dawson off-balance.

The defender stumbled, then face-planted onto the turf.

"OH~~~ SUKER!! DAWSON COULDN'T HOLD HIM! CAN ASSOU-EKOTTO RECOVER?"

Suker planted his right foot, swung his left—

BAM!

The ball squeezed through Assou-Ekotto's legs, clanged off the far post, and rippled the net.

68th minute—Suker's HAT-TRICK!

Real Madrid 3-0 Tottenham!

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!!!"

"SUKER!! A HAT-TRICK! THREE GOALS TO BURY TOTTENHAM! THERE'S NO COMING BACK NOW!"

"WHAT A RUN! DAWSON TRIED TO WRESTLE HIM DOWN BUT ENDED UP ON THE FLOOR!"

"MY GOD! THIS REMINDS ME OF RONALDO'S ICONIC GOAL—UNSTOPPABLE, UNHOLDABLE, UNREAL!"

Dawson lay on the grass, pounding the turf in frustration.

He'd had Suker's shirt, but Suker had wrenched his arm awkwardly, sapping his strength.

He couldn't let go—so he'd been dragged down instead.

His shoulder still ached.

But none of that mattered now.

Suker's goal had shattered Tottenham's spirit.

Their second-half changes had briefly sparked hope, but this counterattack crushed it.

Bale gasped for air, fists clenched.

He'd been invisible today.

After all the media hype, he could already imagine the headlines.

But worse than that was the gulf in quality.

Tottenham hadn't just been beaten—they'd been dominated.

Real Madrid hadn't given them a whiff of a chance.

From the starting lineup, to the flow of the game, to the substitutions—

Every step had been calculated.

And now, they were paying the price.

Bale finally understood why Arsenal had been humiliated.

They'd mocked the Gunners, but they hadn't even mustered a proper shot.

Exhaustion set in—legs heavy, minds defeated.

Luckily, Real Madrid eased off.

The third goal had broken Tottenham.

78th minute—

With the game dead, Mourinho made his final change.

Suker came off, replaced by youngster Dani Carvajal.

Carvajal felt like he was dreaming.

Getting consistent minutes in both La Liga and the Champions League?

Even in a dead rubber, it was invaluable experience.

Suker, meanwhile, was satisfied.

A hat-trick would surely put him back atop the scoring charts.

Unless Ronaldo bagged one too.

But Boas' Chelsea, while inconsistent, still had Mourinho's defensive foundations.

They should keep Ronaldo quiet… right?

Mourinho watched the dying moments.

The game was over, but Bale kept sprinting.

No real chances, just sheer stubbornness.

Mourinho approved.

In fact, he'd had his eye on Bale since the group stage.

"Do you think that Bale could cut it at Real Madrid?" Mourinho suddenly asked.

Faria turned. "You're interested?"

"Hard not to be. His speed alone makes him a weapon. With a stronger midfield behind him, he'd be devastating."

"But we've got Kaká on the right."

"Kaká won't last forever," Mourinho shook his head. "And he's transitioning to midfield. We'll need a right winger soon."

"If Kaká moves to midfield, what about Alonso?"

"They can play together. Alonso controls tempo, switches play, and pings long balls. Kaká's a natural No. 10—more direct, more aggressive. Perfect for linking midfield to attack, plus he can still make those surging runs."

Faria blinked. "So… you're not ditching Alonso?"

"Why would I? The 'Spanish purge' was just politics."

"Fair enough. That does leave the right wing open. But Bale won't come cheap. And Tottenham's chairman is a nightmare."

Mourinho smirked. "Not our problem."

He paused. "Not yet, anyway."

The final whistle blew.

2010/2011 UEFA Champions League Quarterfinals, First Leg:

Real Madrid 3-0 Tottenham Hotspur

Suker's hat-trick stole the headlines, but Srna's lockdown of Bale was just as crucial.

As the players mingled post-match, Suker approached Van der Vaart.

"Great game," they exchanged a quick hug.

Though not close, they were former teammates.

Casillas joined them, slinging an arm around Suker.

"You lot this season…" Van der Vaart shook his head. "You're not just strong—you're terrifying."

"Oh, and watch out for United," he added. "Their No. 7—Ronaldo—is scoring for fun. With that midfield behind him, he's unstoppable."

Casillas grinned, squeezing Suker. "We've got this guy. The best!"

Van der Vaart chuckled.

Nearby, Gareth Bale hovered awkwardly.

He wanted to join the conversation but didn't know how.

"Bale!" Van der Vaart called him over.

Bale perked up, hurrying over.

"What do you think?" Van der Vaart gestured to Bale. "Don't let today fool you—with a better midfield, his speed changes everything."

Bale flushed at the praise.

Suker studied him.

He'd heard Bale was introverted, even awkward. But now he saw the sensitivity beneath.

"Gareth Bale?" Suker said suddenly.

Bale nodded.

Suker pulled off his jersey, offering it.

"Do you prefer shooting or crossing?"

Bale froze, then hastily swapped shirts.

"I… I'm not sure," he mumbled. "But I want to win."

Suker beamed, clapping Bale's shoulder before walking off.

Bale looked baffled.

Van der Vaart shrugged.

Suker, meanwhile, was plotting.

Bale's personality? Strange, isolated, fragile.

But easy to manage.

In his past life, Bale's Real Madrid career had been rocky.

Under Ancelotti—reluctantly tracking back.

Under Benítez—grudgingly playing as a No. 10.

Under Zidane—begrudgingly accepting the bench.

Even when chances arose, he never seized them, fading into irrelevance before leaving.

His late-career golf obsession? Probably just coping.

Most pros were hyper-competitive.

Suker was obsessive.

But Bale? He compromised.

Money, comfort, family—that's all he really wanted.

Yet his talent was monstrous.

A wasted potential.

But if Bale came to Real Madrid…

Suker could mold him.

Another worker under his wing.

CREAK—

Suker pushed open the locker room door to chaos.

"SRNA! SRNA! SRNA!"

The squad chanted, arms around each other.

Suker was the match-winner, but that was routine now.

Srna's shutdown of Bale? That was the story.

Srna, grinning ear to ear, bounced with his teammates.

After today, his stock had skyrocketed.

Bale had destroyed Maicon—so Bale Maicon.

Srna had pocketed Bale—so Srna Bale?

Srna dreamed of a "World's Best Fullback" title.

Especially if they won the Champions League.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice Suker creeping up—

Until his shorts were yanked down.

"HOLY—"

Suker gaped.

The room froze.

Srna's smile shattered.

"You're this wild? No underwear?!" Suker squeaked, then bolted.

Srna, bright red, yanked his pants up and gave chase.

The locker room erupted.

The players stared at where Srna had been, then glanced at themselves.

And despaired.

"Damn… Srna's packing," Di María muttered.

Pepe: "He always showers alone. I thought he was ashamed…"

Ramos, deadpan: "Turns out we're the ones who should be."

The room exploded.

"WHO'S 'WE'? JUST YOU! YOU YOU YOU YOU—"

"I'm different!"

"My sweat dried, I'll shower at home!"

"I was a sub! I didn't sweat!"

"Pretty sure you warmed up—"

"SHUT UP OR I'LL BREAK YOUR LEGS!"