The wings of kostiç

THE WINGS OF KOSTIČ CHAPTER 7: Manchester Trials

Chris Kostić had never flown alone before.

The plane hummed steadily over Europe, clouds streaking past like racing thoughts. He stared out the window, headphones in but no music playing. Just silence. The kind that settled inside his chest like mist. Somewhere beneath them, the English Channel turned, cold and grey, like the city he was flying toward.

Manchester.

Ten days.

Ten days to prove that everything he had built—every bruise, sprint, and whispered dream—was more than just boyhood fantasy. Ten days to earn a place in the world he had only seen on television. Where stars were forged. Where pressure was constant. Where noise never stopped.

He landed to drizzle and wind. A driver with a City badge met him at arrivals and drove him through a maze of streets. He passed fans in light blue jackets, murals of legends on brick walls, kids kicking balls under bridges. Every corner of Manchester seemed soaked in football.

The Etihad Academy was everything he imagined and more.

Clean lines. Glass walls. Grass that looked too perfect to be real.

They handed him a training kit. Number 77. He grinned at the coincidence.

"We heard you're a playmaker," said the youth coach, a tall man named Marcus with a northern accent thick as fog. "You're here because someone's seen something. But trials mean pressure. You only get the ball if you take it. Understood?"

Chris nodded. "Understood."

The first training session was a shock to the system.

Everyone was fast. Everyone was strong.

Every pass snapped like a whip. Every drill had a tempo that made his lungs claw for air. The midfielders barked instructions. The defenders pressed like wolves. Chris felt like a tourist on the wrong street.

Until the scrimmage.

That was when he found it again.

The rhythm. The whisper.

A one-two near the edge of the box. A turn so quick the defender lost balance. A scoop pass over two bodies. A backheel that made the assistant coach stand.

By the end of the hour, the rhythm belonged to him.

Coach Marcus clapped a hand on his shoulder as they walked off.

"Not bad, lad. You like the cold, eh?"

Chris just smiled, breathing heavily. "It wakes me up."

---

Day three. Rain.

Chris sat in the academy dorms, watching old footage of David Silva. The way he moved, slow and sudden at once. The elegance. He took notes. Drew lines in his journal. Visualized spaces.

The other trialists stayed quiet around him. Some were loud. Brash. Trying to intimidate. One called him "Croatian Messi" with a sneer. Chris didn’t react. He let his football speak.

And speak it did.

Day five, they played a friendly against the U18 squad. Chris started on the bench. Watched as the match played out like a chessboard. Then in the 52nd minute, Marcus turned.

"You're in. CAM."

Chris pulled his jersey tight. His heart thundered.

He stepped on.

First touch? Heavy. Lost it. Groans from the sidelines.

Second touch? Sharp. A spin past one, a slide pass to the winger.

Third? A curling ball into the box, headed in by the striker.

Assist.

Now the crowd—small but loud—was watching.

He glided. Wove. Dictated.

He saw moves before they happened. He didn’t just react. He sculpted.

By the 80th, he had two assists and a goal from the edge of the box, a low drive that kissed the post.

The scouts wrote quickly.

---

Day seven. He called home.

His mother’s voice cracked with joy.

"We’re proud of you, Chris. Just keep being you."

He nodded, wiping his eyes.

"How’s Mia?"

His mum hesitated.

"She’s... quiet."

He ended the call with a promise: "I’ll come home better."

---

Day ten.

The final session. No audience. Just coaches. Observing everything.

They ran a full 90-minute game. Chris was everywhere. Linking play, creating pockets, drawing fouls, threading impossible passes. He wasn’t perfect, but he was undeniable.

After the match, Coach Marcus pulled him aside.

"I don’t usually do this," he said. "But you need to know: you've got something rare. We're going to be in touch. Real soon."

Chris nodded, dazed.

"Thank you, sir."

As he packed his bags that evening, he found a note in his locker.

"You play like you're already part of the dream. Keep chasing it."

— KDB

His hands trembled.

Kevin De Bruyne.

He folded the note and slipped it into his wallet.

The flight back to Zagreb felt different.

Not because of the clouds or the city lights.

B

ut because now, Chris Kostić wasn’t just a boy dreaming of becoming a footballer.

He was one.

And the world was beginning to watch.