Sentimental offside

The court buzzed under Mila's sneakers.

"Encore, Mila! One more time!" shouted Coach Djamal from the sideline, clipboard in hand, his voice echoing off the gymnasium walls.

She spun, stepped back, and shot.

Swish.

The net sang. The crowd-though small-erupted. Her mother, Fatou, stood clapping in the stands, tears glistening in her eyes. Mila barely heard them. The pounding in her chest was louder. This wasn't just another shot. It was her final one on French soil.

Tomorrow, she'd be gone.

Her jersey clung to her back, soaked in sweat. Her Afro puffed out under the edge of her headband, defiant, like her. Around her, teammates crowded for hugs and selfies, but Mila stayed near the center circle, looking up at the faded ceiling of the gym she'd grown up in.

Nineteen years old. A prodigy, they said. Too ambitious, others mumbled. She didn't care. She had to make it.

A booming voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Mademoiselle Touré!" Coach Djamal approached, his eyes sharp but proud. "You were on fire tonight."

"Merci, Coach." She forced a smile.

"You ready for Belgrade?"

She shrugged, grabbing her towel. "I'm ready for anything."

Liar.

Truth was, she'd never been farther than Brussels. And now, she was flying alone into a country she barely understood, to join a team she'd only seen on YouTube. Red Star Belgrade. Prestigious. Ruthless. And deeply traditional. No room for mistakes. No room for outsiders.

Which is exactly what she was.

Coach Djamal read her silence and lowered his voice. "They'll come at you hard. Different culture. Different game. But you-Mila-you're built for this."

Her throat tightened. She nodded, words jammed inside her chest.

**

In the locker room, the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and goodbyes. Mila peeled off her jersey like she was shedding a second skin. It still smelled like dust and hope.

Lina, her closest teammate, threw a damp towel at her. "Don't forget us when you're rich and famous in Serbia!"

Mila laughed. "Girl, if I survive winter over there, I'll consider it a win."

The girls chuckled, but their laughter faded when Lina added, "They don't like people like us there, right?"

Mila froze, towel halfway to her face. "People like us?"

"You know..." Lina gestured vaguely at her skin, her curls. "Different."

Mila forced a smirk. "Good. I like being different."

But inside, something twisted.

Was it pride? Fear? Maybe both.

**

That night, the lights in her small apartment flickered with every passing train. Mila sat on the floor, surrounded by half-packed luggage and unopened letters from scholarship rejections.

On her phone screen, an email blinked.

Flight Confirmed – Paris (CDG) to Belgrade (BEG)

Departure: 10:15 AM

Status: Final

No return ticket.

Her mother shuffled in from the kitchen with a bowl of mafé. Mila wasn't hungry, but she accepted it.

Fatou sat beside her. "You nervous?"

Mila didn't answer right away.

"I'm scared I won't be enough," she said finally. "I've never played at that level. And I've heard things about Serbia..."

Fatou put her arm around her. "You're not going to Belgrade to be liked. You're going to be seen. Let them see your fire, Mila. The rest will follow."

"But what if I mess up?"

"Then mess up. And rise again. That's what Touré women do."

Mila smiled, weak but grateful. Her mother had raised her alone, juggling cleaning jobs, night shifts, and prayers whispered between bus stops.

This was their shot.

**

The airport was a blur of neon lights, goodbye hugs, and customs agents.

Fatou hugged her so tightly Mila could barely breathe.

"You have your creams?" she asked. "And that scarf I gave you?"

"Oui, maman."

"Don't lose your French, hein. And if anyone messes with you-"

"I punch first, talk later. Got it."

They laughed. Then cried.

As Mila walked toward the gate, her duffel heavy on her shoulder, she heard her mother's voice one last time.

"Make them remember your name!"

Mila didn't look back.

If she did, she might never leave.

**

The plane landed in Belgrade with a jolt.

Gray skies.

Cold wind.

A language that curled and cracked in unfamiliar rhythms.

Mila zipped up her coat, stepped into the terminal, and tried to look confident.

At the exit, a tall man in a red tracksuit held a sign: TOURÉ.

He didn't smile.

"Dobrodošla. Welcome. I am Goran. Team driver."

He spoke English with a sharp accent.

She nodded. "Hi. Mila."

No handshake. Just a motion to follow.

Outside, the air bit her skin. Not Paris-cold-Eastern Europe cold. And the city looked like it hadn't laughed in years. Buildings with bullet holes, concrete facades stained by time and war. People walked fast, heads down.

In the van, Goran said nothing.

Silence thickened as Belgrade passed by in monochrome shades.

Mila stared out the window, her reflection pale, wide-eyed.

Had she made a mistake?

**

Red Star's training center sat like a fortress on the edge of the city-steel, brick, and frost. Inside, the receptionist barely looked up before handing Mila a keycard.

"Room 214. Upstairs."

The room was small. Sterile. Twin bed, desk, tiny window. A team tracksuit lay folded on the chair.

Mila sat on the mattress. Her breath misted in the cold air.

No welcome basket. No flowers. No smiles.

Just silence.

She checked her phone-no messages. She tried to call Lina, then hung up before it rang. Too early to crack.

Instead, she grabbed the ball she never traveled without and headed to the indoor court.

**

The gym was vast, echoing, silent-until the creak of sneakers echoed behind her.

"Hey!" A female voice rang out.

Mila turned.

A group of five women entered-tall, athletic, all in matching gear. One led them, blond ponytail swinging. Lana.

Captain, Mila guessed.

They looked at her like she was a bug on the hardwood.

"You're the French girl?" Lana asked in accented English.

Mila nodded. "Yeah. I'm Mila."

The girl scoffed. "We'll see how long you last."

The others chuckled.

Lana leaned closer. "This isn't Paris. No one's impressed here."

Mila swallowed her pride and said nothing.

For now.

**

That evening, she finally met him.

Marko Vujic.

Coach.

The legend.

He entered the locker room like a storm-tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes like cracked ice. He wore all black, even his whistle.

"Training. Tomorrow. 7 A.M. Sharp," he said, voice low but commanding. "No excuses."

Then his eyes landed on Mila.

Slight pause.

No smile.

No handshake.

Just one word.

"You?"

She stood straighter. "Mila Touré."

Another pause. He blinked slowly.

"Let's see if you play as loud as you talk."

Then he walked away.

The door slammed behind him.

**

That night, Mila couldn't sleep.

The mattress was hard. The room was colder than outside. And her heart felt too big for her chest.

She wrapped herself in the tracksuit jacket and sat by the window.

Somewhere out there, the city moved in shadows. Strange lights. Distant sirens. No one here knew her. No one here cared.

She was alone.

And yet, deep down-beneath the nerves, the doubt, the fear-a small fire burned.

Let them stare.

Let them doubt.

She didn't come to Belgrade to blend in.

She came to conquer.

**

[End of Chapter 1]

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