The wings of kostiç

THE WINGS OF KOSTIÇ

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 5: First Touches

The tension in the air was different now.

Chris could feel it before he even stepped onto the pitch. The tempo of life had shifted. His name wasn’t just scribbled on a roster anymore—it was whispered in hallways, muttered on training grounds, and posted on forums that compared up-and-comers across Europe. One good performance, a few words from a scout, and suddenly people looked at him longer, listened to him more.

But it was still just potential.

Chris sat on the end of the locker room bench, lacing up his boots. He did it slowly, deliberately, like every loop of the lace was a grounding ritual. He wasn’t nervous, but he was… keyed in. His senses were sharp. He could hear the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, the faint sound of cleats scraping the concrete, the hollow echo of a water bottle being squeezed.

It was matchday. A friendly, sure, but against Hajduk Split’s U17s. Rival youth academies. Always tense. Always a little more than just a game.

"Ready to cook again?" Toni grinned from across the locker room, tossing him a wristband.

Chris caught it midair. "Let’s eat."

Coach Davor stepped in, clipboard in hand. “Keep it tight, boys. Keep it smart. We’ve got eyes on us again today.”

More scouts?

Chris didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

---

The warm-up was routine. Passing drills, short sprints, formation walkthroughs. But Chris kept scanning the sidelines. A figure in a Juventus jacket stood near the dugout—Matteo Romano. Again.

And next to him, someone new. A woman, maybe mid-30s, sharp ponytail, tablet in hand. She didn’t clap. She didn’t smile. She just watched.

Chris turned back to the ball at his feet.

Focus.

---

The whistle blew.

Dinamo kicked off, and the game began with crackling energy. It wasn’t long before the tackles got a little harder, the shouts a little louder. Hajduk played with aggression, looking to stamp their presence early.

Chris hovered near the left wing, waiting. Observing. The ball rarely came to him in the opening ten minutes, and that was fine. Let them forget him.

And then—boom.

A sudden switch from the right flank. The ball sailed through the air, curling across the pitch. Chris judged its flight, took two steps back, and cushioned it with his thigh so softly it barely made a sound. He didn’t stop. One motion. He spun his defender, burst forward, and cut in toward the box.

The crowd stirred.

A fake shot, a body feint, a right-footed low cross zipped across goal.

Toni tapped it in.

1–0.

---

Chris jogged back, breathing light. He didn’t celebrate. He never did unless it mattered. But inside, the fire flared a little hotter.

They tried to double up on him after that. Hajduk’s right-back and winger clamped down hard, pushing him toward the touchline every time. So he changed his game. Instead of running, he played clever. Quick one-twos, disguised passes, ghost runs into the half-space. It wasn’t flashy—but it was deadly.

By halftime, it was 2–1 Dinamo. Chris had an assist and had drawn the foul that led to a free-kick goal.

---

Back in the locker room, sweat dripping, Coach Davor gave his usual half-time talk. Chris only half listened. His eyes flicked to the hallway beyond the door. Was Matteo still there?

"Chris," the assistant coach called. "You’ve got five minutes with someone outside. Be quick."

Chris blinked. "Now?"

"Now."

---

He stepped into the hallway, the scent of cut grass and wet turf still in his nose.

The woman with the ponytail was waiting. She didn’t smile.

"Chris Kostiç, right?"

He nodded.

"I'm Elena," she said. "I scout for Ajax. You were electric out there."

Ajax. That hit him like a jab to the ribs.

"I’ve seen a lot of youth talent," she continued. "But your movement—it’s instinctive. You create space like you’ve been doing it forever."

Chris didn’t know what to say. His mouth felt dry. "Thanks," he managed.

"We’re not making offers," she said quickly. "Not yet. But I’d like to follow your progress. We’ll be in Zagreb next month. I’ll be watching."

She handed him a card.

Then she turned and walked away.

---

The second half was a blur.

Chris didn’t score. He didn’t need to. He controlled the tempo. He dictated the flow. He was, in the simplest terms, inevitable. Like the next breath.

Dinamo won 3–2.

---

That night, he didn’t go straight home. He stopped by the corner café Mia had mentioned once. It was nearly empty. She wasn’t there, but he sat down anyway. Ordered a juice. Watched the night through the window.

His phone buzzed.

Toni: “Broooo Ajax?? You serious?”

Chris smirked.

He typed slowly.

"Two assists. Two scouts. One goal I’m still chasing."

Toni: “What goal?”

Chris didn’t reply.

---

Later, back on his balcony, he st

• ared at the stars again. But tonight they didn’t seem unsure. They burned steady. Fierce.

One of them, maybe, had his name on it.