The wings of kostiç

Chapter 2: Breaking In

The buzz of the locker room was always the same—the slap of tape being ripped, cleats clinking against the concrete floor, jokes flying too fast to catch. Chris moved through it like a ghost. Not because he was shy, but because he knew why he was there.

He changed into his training kit quickly, avoiding the mirror. He didn’t like looking at himself before matches. Superstition, maybe. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see the hunger in his own eyes—not yet.

Coach Davor blew his whistle. "Out. Warm-up."

The boys flooded the pitch. Chris felt his pulse pick up as his studs hit the turf. This was where everything mattered. The whole day, the whole week, the whole year came down to how he moved now.

Today wasn’t just any training. It was a scrimmage against the U17s. Two years older, stronger, smarter. Most of the younger boys grumbled. Chris didn’t. He welcomed it.

"Kostić! Left wing!" the coach barked.

He nodded. That spot was his, unofficially. Everyone knew it. He stretched out his arms and looked around the pitch. Then he locked eyes with the scout sitting in the stands—blazer, notebook, sharp eyes.

Chris swallowed. He couldn't mess this up.

First half. He played it safe. Simple passes, basic positioning. He studied the older defenders, how they moved, how they communicated. They didn’t respect him yet. Good.

Second half. 0-0.

Coach waved from the sideline. "Go at them, Chris."

Permission.

He didn’t wait. Next possession, he received the ball near the halfway line. One touch, and he exploded forward. The first defender stepped up—too slow. Chris pushed the ball past him with the outside of his boot, already gone.

The second tried to muscle him. Chris dipped his shoulder, shifted the ball to his left, and darted by.

Now the box. One last defender. Chris feinted right, then slashed left, planting him like a tree.

He didn’t shoot. He crossed. Perfect height, perfect pace.

Goal.

Even the U17 keeper clapped.

Coach Davor let out a sharp whistle. "Again!"

Chris turned back, heart pounding, but not tired. Not yet. He could feel the game flowing through him now. Every touch was fire. Every run had purpose.

After the scrimmage, the team huddled in the locker room, sweaty and laughing. Chris sat quietly, peeling off his socks, when the assistant coach tapped his shoulder.

"Someone wants to talk to you."

Outside the tunnel, the scout was waiting. Chris approached, heart in his throat.

"Chris, right? I’m Matteo Romano, Juventus youth development."

Chris nodded.

"You played well today. You see space before it opens. That’s not common."

Chris didn’t know what to say. He just nodded again.

"We’re tracking a few players. You’re one of them now. Keep this up. We'll be in touch."

That was it. He was gone.

Chris stood frozen. A gust of wind chilled his sweat-drenched shirt. He didn’t smile. Not yet. Not until it was real.

---

That night, back home, he ate in silence. His mom watched him closely. "Good day?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Scrimmage went well."

"No injuries?"

"None."

She smiled faintly, brushing her hair back. It had more gray now. Chris noticed it, even if she tried to hide it.

"I’m proud of you, Chris. You know that, right?"

He nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. The praise hit too close.

After dinner, while Ema and Dario snored under their shared blanket, Chris stood on the balcony, looking out over the city. Lights blinked in the distance like stars unsure of themselves.

He pulled out his phone and opened YouTube. Messi highlights. 2011 Champions League Final. He watched it like it was gospel.

One day, he told himself. Not just to play. To win. To inspire.

His phone buzzed. A message from Toni, his teammate.

"Bro, that scout asked about you. He only stayed till halftime. You must’ve done something."

Chris typed back slowly.

**"Did my job."

He set the phone down. Tomorrow was another day. Another training.

But deep down, he knew something had changed.

A door had opened.

And now, he had to run through it.