She climbed off the bike like she hadn't just said the most unhinged thing I'd heard all week.
Helmet off, hair a mess, smirking like she hadn't meant a word—or maybe meant all of it.
I was still trying to reset my pulse.
We were barely through the stadium gate before she was already ahead of me, cutting through the crowd like it owed her space. I caught up just as she waved to someone on the security team, like she belonged here. Like she belonged everywhere.
Tarik and Adem were on the field, mid-warm-up. Both of them scanning the stands like they'd been doing it since the second they started stretching.
Adem spotted us first. His shoulders dropped—just a bit—and he elbowed Tarik, who turned, squinted, and visibly deflated when he saw Amina alive, upright, and not being shoved into the back of some Mostar van.
Tarik muttered something to Adem—probably "she didn't get herself kidnapped after all"—then broke into a grin.
He waved. Or maybe saluted. Hard to tell with Tarik—it was always part joke, part big-brother alert system.
Then, mid-stretch, he pointed straight at Amina and yelled something I couldn't hear but knew was probably foul.
She flicked him off.
With both hands.
Adem gave a low smile, still stretching. Tarik laughed so hard he lost track of the drill and got barked at by the coach.
Amina shouted something back like she was front row at a derby, like she hadn't just nearly given them both ulcers for the last forty-five minutes.
Then she laughed, loud and unbothered, and dropped into the seat beside me like she owned it.
Too close. Like always. Like personal space wasn't a thing with her.
Her shoulder brushed mine. Her knee knocked my thigh. She didn't even notice.
She never did.
She'd been sitting too close since she was seven —since she started following me around like I was something she'd decided to claim. She always sat like I was hers to lean on, talk at, fall into.
And maybe I was. Just not in the way she thought.
She demanded parts of me I didn't give to anyone else. My calm. My attention. My presence.
I gave it. Quietly. Always.
But she never asked for permission.
And I never had the spine to tell her no.
"Did you bring snacks?" she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. "D-0 I l-look like I cc-carry s-snack?"
"You give snack energy."
I snorted. "Th-that doesn't m-mean any-thing."
"It means you should've brought me snacks."
I shook my head and looked back at the field.
Tarik was bouncing like he had caffeine in his blood. Adem looked like a surgeon—precise, brutal, still somehow elegant.
They were on fire.
The score was 2–2, just shy of halftime, but Sarajevo had Mostar cornered. The rhythm was shifting. You could feel it in the chants. In the way the boys moved—tight, aggressive, alive.
Amina shouted like she was paid for it.
"COME ON, TARIK! SHOW ME SOMETHING OTHER THAN THOSE BIRD LEGS!"
Tarik didn't even look back. Just gave her the finger over his shoulder and kept running.
Next play, he hogged the ball too long and lost possession. Amina stood up like she was on the sideline, not the third row up.
"PASS THE DAMN BALL, BALL HOG! YOU ARE NOT THE MOMENT!"
Tarik turned, hand to his chest like she'd just shot him. Then flipped her off again—double this time.
She blew him a kiss and sat back down.
Adem got clipped on a run down the sideline and went down hard. Amina stood again.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? REF, OPEN YOUR EYES! YOU WANNA BORROW MINE?"
The ref ignored her. Everyone else didn't.
A kid two rows down laughed. One of the subs on the bench held up a hand in the shape of a heart. Amina saluted him like a general.
When Sarajevo earned a corner, she was back on her feet again, hands cupped around her mouth.
"LET'S GO, ADEEEEEM! SEND IT!"
He didn't look back. Just lined up like he always did—focused, calculated.
But when the ball went flying and Sarajevo nearly scored, Amina whistled like she was starting a riot.
She wasn't just loud for Tarik and Adem. She knew every name on that field.
"ADO! WIN IT BACK, BABY!"
"YUSUF, DO NOT LET THAT SKINNY BOY OUTRUN YOU, PLEASE, I'M BEGGING!"
They loved it. They laughed mid-play. One kid made a heart over his head as he jogged back onside.
Someone else winked. Tarik waved her off like a mosquito.
And still, she kept going.
Cheering. Trolling. Commanding like she was born to be in the stands, like she wasn't just part of the city—she was the voice of it.
Even I had to admit it—she made Mostar feel like a home game.
At one point, one of the defenders misread a pass so badly the ball flew straight into the assistant coach's clipboard. Papers went flying. The entire sideline froze.
Amina cupped her hands and shouted, "IT'S OKAY, AJDIN! YOU'RE JUST A LITTLE DYSLEXIC!"
Tarik nearly tripped over his own feet from laughing. Adem covered his face.
Ajdin turned and bowed dramatically. Amina saluted him from the third row.
Even I cracked a smile.
She was laughing so hard she had to lean forward. Her hand landed on my leg without her noticing.
I noticed.
I also noticed the back of her jersey. Tarik's name stretched across her shoulders in white block letters—HADŽIĆ.
She'd worn it a hundred times.
It shouldn't have done anything.
But it did.
Seeing my last name on her like that did something stupid to my chest.
I shifted slightly, pulling my leg back—just enough that her hand slipped off and dropped to her lap.
She didn't notice.
I looked away.
She elbowed me a minute later. "Wait. Hold on—look over there."
"Wh-what?"
She tilted her chin toward the far end of the stands. "The guy in the black jacket. VIP row. Left side."
I squinted. "Wh-what about h-him?"
She was already grinning. "That's him."
"Ww-who?"
"Elvir Hasanović. The striker. I'd recognize that big Balkan head anywhere."
I didn't recognize him from the back, but she stood and cupped her hands around her mouth.
"NUMBER NINE! LAST GAME WAS A TRAVESTY!"
He didn't turn right away. Just tilted his head like he wasn't sure.
Amina didn't wait.
"YOU WERE ONSIDE! THAT WASN'T EVEN CLOSE. REF WAS BLIND OR BOUGHT, I SWEAR TO GOD."
The man turned. Definitely him.
Elvir Hasanović. Bosnia's starting striker. Mostar-born, national team golden boy, and still built like someone who grew up dodging bricks and chasing streetball through construction sites.
He spotted her. Eyebrow up. Smile already forming.
"You got opinions now?" he called back.
"I always have opinions," Amina yelled. "You gonna listen to them?"
He laughed. "You cheering for Sarajevo?"
"Obviously."
"You talk big for a girl in enemy territory."
She stepped one foot up on the seat in front of us like she was about to deliver a speech. Her voice rang through the stadium like she had a mic.
"If Sarajevo wins, you owe me your number."
Elvir raised an eyebrow, amused. "How old are you?"
I cut in, flat. "T-too y-young."
Amina didn't even flinch. "Not for me. For them." She pointed down to the field. "Number 9 and 10. Hadžić and Begović. They're the future."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Begović?"
"Adem," she said. "Twin. Striker. Calm face, brutal finish."
"And Hadžić's the loud one?" Elvir asked.
"Very."
He gave her a longer look. Her jersey. Her mouth. The way she carried herself like she was part of the infrastructure.
He tilted his head. "And what exactly are you gonna do with my number, little Begović?"
"I know you're recruiting for Manchester," she added. "Don't play with me."
Elvir let out a full laugh, hands on his hips like he couldn't believe her. "Here I was thinking you were just a passionate fan. Turns out I'm being used."
Amina shrugged. "Welcome to Mostar. You want loyalty, adopt a dog."
Elvir laughed harder. "You're a menace."
"Menace with a mission," she shot back. "Now make the call if we win."
He gave her a long look, then nodded slowly. "If they win, I'll make the call."
She sat back down like she hadn't just casually rerouted the future of two careers between corner kicks.
I stared at her.
Mostar had just subbed in fresh legs, and Sarajevo looked like they were slowing. Two minutes left in the game.
Tarik caught a wild pass from midfield and took off like he was shot out of a cannon.
He danced through two defenders, lost the third with a spin that made the crowd gasp, and still kept the ball close—low, controlled, vicious.
Amina stood up so fast she knocked over her water bottle. "GO, GO, GO!"
He was boxed in, just outside the box, nothing but pressure on his left. He shifted, faked the pass to Adem—and then, out of nowhere, took the shot.
Long range. Stupid angle. Impossible timing.
The ball flew.
Time slowed.
Then the net rippled.
Top corner.
Clean.
Goal.
The stands erupted.
Amina screamed so loud half the bench turned to look. She jumped, full force, onto my back. I staggered once and caught her legs like I'd done it a hundred times before.
We were both shouting. Everyone was.
On the field, Tarik dropped into a slide across the grass like he was in a commercial. Arms wide, grin feral.
Adem tackled him from the side mid-slide, knocking them both into the turf.
They stayed there, arms locked around each other, grinning like idiots.
Kid's got nothing easy. Not at home. Not anywhere.
Still shows up. Every time.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0c9c2Loyrd
Honors classes. Top scorer. Like it's normal. Like he's not carrying half the weight I should've kept off him.
He's got fire. And control. And that thing no one can coach.
He earned this.
He's earning all of it.
Amina was still on my back, screaming like she was leading the damn parade.
She pointed straight at Elvir, grinning like a lunatic.23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdSLehJNvP2
"THAT'S HADŽIĆ, BABY! REMEMBER THE NAME WHEN YOU MAKE THAT CALL!"
Elvir just laughed and gave her a mock salute.
I didn't say anything.
She was out of control.
But somehow, it always worked. And part of me hated how much I loved watching it happen.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In this chapter: Amina yells at a national striker, negotiates Premier League recruitment mid-game, and launches herself onto the back of a professional fighter like it's just another Saturday. Talha says nothing, feels everything, and nearly blacks out when she sits too close and casually wears his last name. Tarik scores. Adem gets tackled. Manchester should start panicking.
Also: someone please remind Talha he's not allowed to fall in love with the girl who flicks off his brother mid-drill and casually derails his entire nervous system before kickoff.
He's doing great. Everything's fine.
23Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0X9tbWLOWv
