Chapter 4 The Cold Locker Room

The moment Mila pushed open the heavy metal door, the buzz of conversation came to a jarring halt.

Tiled walls, faded banners, rows of lockers clinging to peeling paint-this was no Parisian training facility. The Red Star locker room felt like a frozen bunker, both in temperature and in atmosphere. A chill not just in the air, but in the eyes of every woman who turned to look at her.

Mila stood still for a beat, gripping the strap of her gym bag tightly. Her sneakers squeaked faintly as she stepped inside, but no one moved to greet her. Just a wall of stares-cool, unreadable, some openly hostile.

A tall blonde girl, arms crossed, leaned against the far wall, chewing gum like it was an act of defiance. Lana, the captain. Mila recognized her from the scouting files. A seasoned player, known for her precision on the court-and apparently for her territorial glare.

"Bonjour," Mila said with a small, polite smile.

No response. Only the sound of someone zipping up a duffel bag.

Switching quickly, she tried again. "Zdravo. I'm Mila."

Still nothing. Lana finally scoffed, murmuring something in Serbian that made a few others smirk.

So that's how it is, huh? Mila squared her shoulders, choosing the only empty bench near the back. She sat down, pulled off her hoodie, and focused on her laces, ignoring the tension crackling around her like a live wire.

A girl with short black curls tossed her towel into her bag and brushed past Mila without looking at her. Another muttered something under her breath-again in Serbian-punctuated by laughter.

Even without the words, the message was clear: You're not welcome here.

**

The door slammed again. This time, silence turned into something sharper-like everyone had been waiting.

Mila looked up and saw him.

Marko Vujic entered with the heavy steps of someone used to command. He wasn't tall, not by Serbian standards, but there was a presence about him that filled the room before his voice even left his lips.

"Dobro jutro," he said flatly, glancing at each player. His eyes skipped over Mila at first-then snapped back.

She held his gaze. Just for a second.

He said nothing to her. Not a greeting, not a nod. Just that unreadable expression, carved in stone.

"Court in five," he barked, then turned on his heel.

The women sprang into motion. Mila followed, unsure whether she was included or just tolerated.

**

The gym was colder than the locker room. Concrete walls, squeaky floorboards, and banners from past glories that looked like they hadn't been dusted since the early 2000s.

"Two laps," Marko ordered.

Mila ran. Her legs were tight from travel, and the cold wasn't helping. The others surged ahead, but she stayed steady, keeping her breath even.

The first drill was passing.

"Touré, with Lana," Marko announced without looking.

Lana didn't hide her distaste. "Super," she muttered, barely audible.

They started. The ball smacked between their hands. Hard, fast. Mila adjusted quickly to the rhythm-then Lana changed it up suddenly, sending a pass wide.

The ball bounced off Mila's fingers.

"Again," Marko's voice snapped.

Mila retrieved the ball and reset.

Another pass. Another off-rhythm fake. Mila caught it this time-but barely.

This went on for five minutes. Each time Mila adapted, Lana found a new way to make her stumble.

The others watched in silence.

Finally, Marko blew his whistle.

"Enough. Next drill."

Mila turned away, jaw clenched.

**

After the third drill, she felt a bead of sweat drip down her back despite the cold.

"Pair shooting. Ten makes each," Marko called.

Mila partnered with a girl named Katarina, who didn't speak a word but passed the ball mechanically. Mila's first shots were off-too fast, too tight. Then she slowed her breathing. Step. Jump. Release.

Swish.

Again.

Swish.

After six, Katarina began to pass with more rhythm. Mila glanced at her-there was no smile, but the hostility seemed to fade by one degree.

Progress? Maybe.

Until the scrimmage.

**

Marko split the team into two. Mila was benched first. She watched the others move with smooth, almost telepathic understanding. This was a team that had played together for years.

When she was finally called in, it was abrupt.

"Touré. Sub in for Ana."

No encouragement. No nod. Just cold direction.

Mila stepped on the court, nerves crackling.

Lana was on her side. Great.

The ball was in play. Mila cut to the right, signaled for a pass. Ignored.

She repositioned. Called again. This time the ball came-hard and fast, low. She bent to catch it, spun, and nearly collided with a defender.

Still, she drove. Up, shot-

Blocked.

A rough shoulder brushed hers on the way down.

No whistle.

Back on defense, she scrambled. Late by a step. Her mark scored.

Marko said nothing.

**

The scrimmage ended. Mila's team lost.

Marko walked onto the court.

"Discipline," he said, addressing the group. "We don't win with chaos. We win with control."

He turned to Mila. "And you-slow your game down. This isn't Paris streetball."

The insult was veiled, but it hit.

Mila nodded once, lips tight.

Lana snickered under her breath.

Marko blew his whistle. "Cool down. Locker room."

**

Back in the locker room, the cold had somehow grown deeper. Mila took a shower quickly, wrapping her hair in her towel, muscles aching.

No one spoke to her. No one offered a glance.

She got dressed in silence, packed her bag, and stood.

Lana walked past her, close enough to brush shoulders.

"You're fast," she said in accented English. "But fast isn't enough here."

Then she was gone.

Mila swallowed hard. She refused to let the sting show.

**

Outside, the wind hit her like a slap. She pulled her hoodie over her head and started the walk to the small apartment the club had arranged for her.

The streets of Belgrade were grey, the buildings tired. A city trying to rebuild, still carrying too many scars.

Like the team.

Like her coach.

And maybe, like herself.

But Mila wasn't planning on being benched forever. If this was a war, she would fight.

Even if the first battle had gone to the cold locker room.

**

End of Chapter 4

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