The wings of kostiç

Chapter 1: Starting Line

Zagreb, Croatia - August 2021

The sun hit the gravel streets of the Kustić neighborhood like a spotlight on a stage. Fifteen-year-old Chris Kostiç adjusted his laces outside the rust-stained gate of the Dinamo Zagreb youth training ground. It wasn’t the first time he had done it, but it felt like it was. Every time he tied those boots, it was like setting a promise in motion.

He glanced up at the fading mural of Luka Modrić on the wall—cracked but proud. Chris wasn’t a midfielder like Luka. He was a winger, fast and daring, and he had one idol: Lionel Messi.

"You're early," said Marko, one of the coaches, passing by with a clipboard.

"I'm always early," Chris said, stretching his hamstrings.

"Keep that habit. It'll take you places."

Chris didn't reply. He knew where he wanted to go: the top. Real Madrid, Manchester City, Juventus. He didn’t just want to play for them—he wanted to own the pitch in their kits. To be remembered. Not just a Croatian prodigy. The greatest.

Home wasn’t far from the training ground, but it felt like another world. A cramped apartment where his mother juggled part-time jobs and still made time to pack his protein shakes. Where his seven-year-old twin siblings, Ema and Dario, fought over cartoon channels while Chris watched match highlights with the volume down.

His father had left scars. Not just on his mother’s wrist, but in the way Chris flinched when someone shouted too loud. His dad was dead now—overdose, three years ago. No one mourned. But the shadow lingered.

Football was the only place Chris felt control. On the pitch, his decisions mattered. A dribble, a feint, a sprint down the wing—all his. That afternoon, as training began, he moved like his life depended on it. Because it did.

He had one chance. One way out.

And as fate would have it, that same day, in the stands sat a scout

from Juventus. Watching.