The chill of the evening air settled over the pitch as Nikola Vlašić bounced the ball lightly on his instep, the crowd in Split buzzing with expectation.

“Everything goes through you tonight, Niko,” the coach had told him before the match. “You feel the rhythm, you set the tone.”

Now, with the score still level and the clock ticking past eighty minutes, Vlašić crouched slightly, scanning the backline like a chess master eyeing a checkmate.

A flick of his boot. A quick pivot. One, two — he danced between two defenders and burst into space.

“Shoot!” someone yelled from the stands.

But Vlašić wasn’t listening. He never rushed genius.

Instead, he waited half a beat, let the keeper commit, then curved the ball around him with an elegance only instinct could teach.

As it kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net, he turned to the crowd, index finger pressed to his lips — not in arrogance, but in reverence. Silence was his reply to the noise.

Later, as reporters circled, someone asked, “What were you thinking when you took on the whole backline like that?”

Nikola smiled slightly. “I don’t think. I feel,” he said. “And tonight… it felt like Croatia needed magic.”