Chapter 5 The Stone Coach

Mila's sneakers squeaked softly on the freshly waxed floor of the indoor gym, her breath still short from the warm-up drills. She stood at half-court, eyes darting across the unfamiliar setup. The Red Star women's team, clad in white and crimson training gear, moved with sharp discipline. No smiles. No chatter. Just the echo of bouncing balls and the stern shouts of assistants in Serbian.

She had been here for barely a week.

Already, she felt the heavy silence of being too much-too loud, too black, too confident, too foreign.

"Circle up!" someone barked.

A sudden hush.

From the shadows of the bleachers, he appeared.

Tall. Square-shouldered. Close-cropped hair graying at the temples. A scar ran subtly along his jawline. The gym seemed to tense around his presence.

Marko Vujic.

The infamous coach. The ex-warrior turned tactician. The man who, according to Google, had once thrown a chair mid-game at a referee and refused all interviews since 2015.

He walked slowly, like someone used to commanding attention without demanding it.

His icy blue eyes scanned the group, then settled-briefly-on Mila.

No smile.

No nod.

Nothing.

Just a long, unreadable stare, like a soldier evaluating a threat. Or worse, a burden.

"You are not here to be liked," he said in clipped English, the accent thick but authoritative. "You are here to win. To suffer. To bleed. If you don't want that-door is there."

His gaze swept again.

"I don't care where you come from. I don't care what language you speak. Here, only one thing matters-discipline."

Mila clenched her fists. Her French pride bristled.

She had heard of hard coaches before. But this... this was war paint behind basketball talk.

"You," he said, pointing straight at her.

She blinked. "Me?"

"You're late."

"I was here fifteen minutes early," she replied in English, frowning.

He tilted his head slightly. "Then your mind is late. Your eyes, not focused. Your feet, too heavy. You don't see the court yet. You don't belong here-yet."

A few snickers echoed around her. Lana, the tall, blonde team captain, smirked behind her hand.

Mila bit back a retort. The air had changed, thick with unspoken challenge.

"Five laps. Now."

"What?"

Marko raised a brow. "Or you can go home."

No one moved.

Mila glanced at her teammates. Not a single one showed sympathy.

Fine.

Without a word, she dropped into a jog around the court. Each step was a statement: I belong here. I earned this.

She could feel Marko's eyes on her as she ran.

**

Twenty minutes later.

Drills.

Intense. Ruthless. Designed to test reflexes and stamina. Mila kept up-barely-but her movements weren't perfect. Her mind still spun from the humiliation of the earlier callout.

During a pass-and-shoot rotation, she hesitated for a split second, and the ball slipped through her fingers.

Marko blew the whistle. Sharp. Piercing.

He walked toward her slowly.

"Again."

Mila gritted her teeth. She reset, this time executing the move cleanly.

"Again."

She repeated.

"Again."

This went on five more times, until her legs burned and sweat rolled down her back.

Finally, he turned away.

That was it?

No "good." No "better." Just indifference.

She hated how much she wanted his approval.

**

Locker room. After practice.

Silence.

The shower hissed in the background. Mila sat on the bench, unwrapping her ankle tape, when Lana spoke from across the room.

"So, Paris girl, do you always drop balls like that, or only when important people watch?"

A few chuckles.

Mila didn't look up. "Better to drop one and learn than to play perfect and stay mediocre."

Lana's smile vanished.

Bold words.

A risky game.

**

Later that evening.

Mila lay on her twin bed in the dim dorm-like apartment provided by the club. Her muscles screamed. Her ego? Bruised.

She stared at the ceiling, headphones in, but the music couldn't block out Marko's voice echoing in her head:

"You don't belong here-yet."

Not yet. But soon.

She picked up her phone and opened the photo of her mom, Fatou, taken back home in their cramped kitchen in Saint-Denis. Her smile was weary, hopeful.

Mila whispered, "I won't come back defeated, Maman. I swear."

**

Flashback – Belgrade, Years Ago.

Young Marko crouched behind a crumbled wall, rifle gripped tightly in his trembling hands. Explosions thudded in the distance. Smoke curled through the alley.

Beside him, his older brother Nikola, calm, steady, mouthed words that Marko barely heard:

"One day, this will be over. And you'll have to find something to fight for, not against."

A scream shattered the silence. Marko turned.

Gunfire.

Nikola didn't scream.

He just fell.

**

Back to present – Coach's Office.

Marko sat at his desk, staring at the day's roster. Mila Touré. Born 2006. France. Position: shooting guard. Height: 1.78m. Weight: 68kg.

He should cut her.

He should.

Too emotional. Too raw. Too... something.

But the fire in her eyes-it wasn't showboating.

It was survival.

Marko sighed, rubbed his face. He couldn't afford distractions. He wouldn't be that kind of coach-the one who played favorites.

But damn.

That girl had something.

Something dangerous.

**

Next Morning.

Mila arrived first to the gym.

Empty.

Silent.

She dribbled alone, practiced layups again and again. Her breathing synced with the bounce of the ball. No judgment. No Lana. No Marko.

Just her.

And the court.

After twenty minutes, a sound.

She turned.

Marko stood in the doorway, coffee in hand.

He didn't say anything.

Just watched.

Then turned and left.

But as he walked away, Mila thought-maybe, just maybe-that his footsteps were a little slower this time.

**

Training. Later that day.

A new drill.

Marko called Mila's name.

Everyone turned.

"You lead this one," he said.

Lana looked furious.

Mila blinked, unsure if she'd heard right.

But she stepped forward.

Dribbled.

Passed.

Cut through the defense.

Shot.

Swish.

Marko didn't smile.

But he didn't blow the whistle either.

Which, somehow, meant more.

**

End of Chapter 5.

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