Chapter 3 A City of Faded Colors

The moment Mila stepped out of the airport terminal in Belgrade, the cold air hit her like an unexpected slap. It wasn't just the biting chill of early autumn-there was something else, something invisible but tangible, that clung to the streets and buildings. The sky was an overcast gray, as if the city was wrapped in a shroud of melancholy, tired from a long, restless night.

Mila wrapped her jacket tighter around her slender frame and pulled her suitcase behind her. She had left Paris, her familiar playground of basketball courts, street cafés, and bustling multicultural neighborhoods, for this city she barely knew. Belgrade was supposed to be a fresh start, a new chapter for her basketball career-and maybe for her life. But right now, all she saw was coldness. Not just in the weather, but in the faces she passed, the silence between people, the gray façades of buildings scarred by time and history.

"Welcome to Belgrade," the taxi driver said without enthusiasm as he loaded her bags into the trunk. His eyes avoided hers, scanning the street like a man lost in thought-or haunted.

Mila managed a small smile. "Thank you."

She couldn't shake off the feeling that she had landed in a place frozen between past and present, where memories of a brutal war still whispered in the cracked walls and the empty lots.

The drive from the airport to the city center was short but revealing. Rows of Soviet-style apartment blocks stretched along the main roads, their concrete faces stained by years of neglect. Shops had old signs in Cyrillic, and the few pedestrians they passed walked with heavy steps and heavy hearts. Mila noticed graffiti on some walls, slogans that she couldn't understand but that seemed like silent protests or scars of anger.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from her mother.

"Stay strong, Mila. This is your fight now."

She read the words twice, feeling a sudden tightness in her chest. Yes, this was her fight. She wasn't just here to play basketball; she was here to prove herself to a city that seemed unwilling to welcome her, to a team that probably saw her as an outsider, and to herself, struggling against her own doubts.

The taxi stopped in front of a modest but sturdy building - the apartment where she would live, a small sanctuary far from the basketball arena she was about to enter. The landlord greeted her with a curt nod and handed over a set of keys without a smile.

Inside, the apartment was simple-barely furnished-but it had a window overlooking a narrow street below. Mila set down her suitcase and took a moment to breathe. She felt a strange mixture of excitement and loneliness.

Outside, the city noises drifted in-some distant voices arguing in Serbian, the rumble of a tram, the faint melody of an accordion playing somewhere in the distance. It was unfamiliar, but strangely alive.

She walked to the window and looked out. Across the street, children played soccer with a worn-out ball, their laughter breaking through the grayness. A small dog barked. Life was here. Life was real, despite the scars.

Her phone buzzed again-this time it was a message from the team captain, Lana.

"Don't expect a warm welcome. You're not here because they want you."

Mila swallowed hard. The warning stung, but it didn't surprise her. She knew that joining the Red Star was going to be a battle beyond the court.

The following morning arrived with a pale sun struggling to rise. Mila bundled herself up and headed to the training center, her heart pounding with nerves and anticipation. The team's building was old but well-maintained, surrounded by towering walls covered in peeling paint and faded murals of past glories.

Inside, the atmosphere was sterile, cold. The locker room was silent except for the shuffle of shoes and quiet whispers. Mila's entrance was met with curious glances-some indifferent, some hostile.

She noticed Lana in the corner, arms crossed, her sharp eyes fixed on her with a mixture of challenge and disdain.

Mila forced herself to stand tall. This was her moment.

At the first practice, the coach Marko Vujic appeared like a shadow-tall, rigid, with an expression carved from stone. His voice was short and commanding as he ran drills and barked instructions. Mila tried to keep up, but the unfamiliarity of the style, the language barrier, and the cold stares from her teammates weighed heavily on her.

When she fumbled a pass during the tactical session, Marko's sharp rebuke cut through the gym like a whip.

"Focus! Discipline!" he barked in broken English mixed with Serbian.

Mila felt her cheeks burn, frustration bubbling inside her. She had left everything behind to be here-to prove herself-and yet she was being reduced to mistakes.

During breaks, the team huddled quietly, excluding her, speaking in hushed Serbian. Lana would occasionally glare, sending icy looks that made Mila's skin crawl.

After practice, Mila lingered, shooting baskets alone under the dim lights. She wiped sweat from her forehead and tried to block out the whispers and cold energy in the locker room.

Suddenly, she felt a presence nearby. Marko was standing by the door, watching her. His eyes were unreadable-stern but not unkind. For a moment, he said nothing, just observed.

Then, in a low voice, he said, "You have fire. But fire without control burns everything."

Mila looked up, surprised by the rare compliment masked as criticism.

"I will learn," she replied firmly.

Marko nodded once and turned away.

The day closed with Mila walking through the city streets back to her apartment. The sky was darkening, and the faint scent of roasting chestnuts filled the air. She passed a small café where an old man was playing a melancholic tune on his accordion. The notes seemed to echo the sorrow and hope mingled in the city.

Mila realized that Belgrade was like her basketball career so far: bruised, misunderstood, and full of hidden strength waiting to be discovered.

She clenched her fists, determined. This city, this team, this challenge-they would not break her. They would shape her.

And somewhere deep inside, a fragile hope began to flicker-a hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find a place here.

**

End of Chapter 3

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