The wings of kostiç

THE WINGS OF KOSTIÇ

CHAPTER 4

Chapter 4: Rain Games

Zagreb, Croatia – August 2021

Rain came hard that evening, fast and loud, like a drummer losing his mind. Chris sat in the corner of the locker room, lacing up his cleats with wet fingers. The practice pitch was already half mud, and the sky outside hadn’t even tried to clear. Coach Davor had warned them. “If you want to be pros, you train in anything. Rain, snow, thunder. No excuses.”

Chris didn’t mind the rain. He actually liked it. Something about the way it drowned out the noise in his head.

As he jogged onto the pitch, drenched before warm-up even began, he scanned the touchlines. No scouts today—no sharp suits with notebooks. Just soaked assistant coaches, swearing under their breath and trying to keep cones from flying away.

But one person was there.

Mia.

She stood under a torn umbrella by the fence, hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized hoodie. Chris looked for a second too long and turned away quickly before anyone noticed.

“Chris!” Toni shouted, passing him a ball. “Focus, bro!”

“Always,” Chris muttered, collecting the pass.

Training was chaos. The ball skidded, stuck, and spun weird. First touch became a gamble. Timing became guesswork. But Chris felt electric in it—his instincts sharper, his feet faster. The weather became part of the game, not the enemy.

“Watch the run!” he called out, slipping between defenders like water through cracks.

A sharp cut, a burst past two cones, and a flick over a sliding tackle. He didn’t score, but Coach Davor nodded from the sideline. Approval, quiet and rare.

After drills, while the others moaned about the rain and stripped out of soaked kits, Chris stayed. He wasn’t ready to stop.

Coach waved him off. “Don’t drown, Kostiç.”

Chris smiled faintly and jogged over to the fence. Mia didn’t move, just raised an eyebrow.

“You ever go home?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he replied.

They stood in silence for a beat, the rain forming little rivers along the concrete path.

“You were good again,” she said finally.

“You’re starting to sound like a scout,” Chris joked.

“I’d be a better one. At least I stay till the end.”

Chris chuckled. That was true. “Why do you come?” he asked.

Mia shrugged. “Sometimes I get bored. My brother’s too young to walk home alone. I wait around.”

Chris nodded, then leaned on the fence. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

“Looks like you do.”

“I just… I don’t want to end up stuck here.”

Mia looked past the pitch. “Yeah. I get that.”

The rain finally slowed. The last players were leaving, shouting across puddles and shoving each other into wet bushes.

“You walk home?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She handed him her umbrella. “Then take this.”

Chris hesitated. “What about you?”

She smirked. “I’ll run. Besides, I know all the dry shortcuts.”

Chris took it, their fingers brushing for a split second. Just enough to notice.

“Thanks,” he said.

“See you around, Messi.”

He didn’t correct her.

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That night, Chris walked slowly. Umbrella in hand, boots in his bag, headphones in. No music played. He just wore them to block out the world.

He passed the bakery, its windows fogged up. The smell of fresh bread drifted out, mixing with the damp air. He passed the little kiosk where the owner always watched football on a tiny screen. Tonight it was a replay—Croatia vs. Spain. Modrić’s goal played in slow motion.

Chris stopped and watched through the glass. The way Luka moved—calm, precise, always three seconds ahead. He admired him. He really did. But he still wanted to be different. Not the next Luka. Not even the next Messi.

Just the first Chris Kostiç.

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Back home, he peeled off wet clothes and dropped his bag by the door. His mom was ironing shirts at the table, a quiet hum from the radio in the background.

“Training in that storm?” she asked without looking up.

Chris nodded.

“You’ll get sick one of these days.”

“I won’t.”

She gave him the look. “Don’t test me.”

He smiled, grabbed a towel, and went to shower. The twins were watching cartoons, volume just low enough to be annoying.

As steam filled the bathroom, Chris closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. The game, the pitch, the rain—it all played in his mind like a movie on loop. But what stuck wasn’t the goal he almost scored.

It was the way Mia handed him that umbrella. The way she called him Messi.

He didn’t know what that meant yet. Didn’t want to think too much about it. But something small had shifted. Like the air before a storm.

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Later that night, he lay on his bed, scrolling through his texts.

One from Toni:

“U17 coach asked about you today. Just saying.”

Another from an unknown number:

“This is Matteo. I’ll be back in Zagreb next month. Keep working.”

Chris stared at the messages. One foot in the world he knew, one already stretching toward the unknown.

He opened YouTube again. Searched: “Messi rain goal compilation.”

The video played. Drops falling, crowds roaring, Messi gliding like the ball was born to follow him.

Chris whispered to the dark ceiling above him:

“One day.”

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