The locker room was a furnace—sweat, music, shouting, and the kind of joy that makes your face hurt.
Steam rolled out of the showers. Cleats slammed against tile. Someone had propped a speaker on top of a kit bag blasting turbo-folk at full volume, and every few seconds a wet towel snapped through the air like a whip.
Voices overlapped—Sarajevo grit, Ilidža drawl, a few Posavina vowels thrown in. Chaos. Beautiful, earned chaos. Half the team was shirtless, dancing like they'd just won the Premier League. The other half was filming.
"KO NE SKAČE—"
"NIJE SARAJLIJA!"
They were jumping in place, shoulder to shoulder, cleats slamming the tile like they were trying to break it. Someone banged on a locker for percussion. Someone else poured water over a teammate's head mid-chant.
It was chaos. Beautiful, earned chaos.
Adem was already dressed, tying his laces like it was a ritual—black joggers, FK Sarajevo warm-up jacket zipped to the collar, and a fresh pair of maroon Nike Air Max Plus TNs that looked straight out the box.
He moved like the win hadn't touched him. Like walking off the field with an assist and two near-goals was just part of his schedule.
Meanwhile, I was still shirtless, towel around my waist, grinning so hard my face hurt. My legs were jelly. My lungs still tight.
Worth it.
We'd humiliated Mostar. In their own stadium.
"You see that final shot?" Ajdin shouted from the other side of the room. "Bro curved it like a snake!"
"Snakes don't curve!" someone yelled back.
"They do when Hadžić kicks them," Ajdin said, clapping me on the back as he passed.
Adem looked up from tying his shoes. "Please never say that again."
"Y'all are just mad I carry this team on my back."
"You're the striker," Adem said, deadpan. "That's literally your job."
I threw my towel at him. It missed. He didn't even blink.
But he smirked, just a little.
The truth was, I never would've made that shot if he hadn't set it up. He saw the lane three plays ahead, sent it like he knew exactly where I'd be. I didn't call for it. Didn't need to.
He plays like chess. I play like fire. It works.
Has since we were kids.
Someone from midfield jogged past us, hair still wet, phone in his hand. "Yo—was Amina talking to Elvir Hasanović in the stands?"
I froze. So did Adem.
The guy kept going. "Think she called him out on a call last game? I don't know. She was yelling. It was beautiful."
Adem blinked slowly, then grabbed his bag. "A hundred says she offended him by the third sentence."
I laughed. "Two hundred says he's already in her DMs."
Adem scrunched his face like he smelled something foul. "Ew. Dude's like... almost thirty."
"Exactly," I grinned. "Perfect target."
Ajdin leaned around the row of lockers. "Nah, forget Elvir. She's probably got half the federation on read already."
"Don't say that," Adem said, flat.
"Bro, she roasted the national striker in front of a whole stadium. You think he didn't ask for her number after that?"
"Stop talking," Adem muttered, slinging his duffel over his shoulder like he was gearing up for war.
Someone from the showers shouted, "Yo, Begović! Tell your sister to check her Instagram DMs!"
"I will block you in real life," Adem said without turning around.
Ajdin grinned. "You're just mad 'cause your sister's fine and terrifying. It's confusing for the rest of us."
Someone else chimed in, towel around his neck. "Nah, it was kinda hot. She was yelling at Elvir like she was his coach."
"That's what I'm saying," said another voice. "She talks like that to me, I'm proposing."
Adem threw his bag down with force. "You say one more thing about my sister, I will break your jaw."
Ajdin held up both hands, still laughing. "I'm just saying, man—your sister could run a country."
"And I hope it's a country you're not allowed in," Adem muttered.
"Why you mad?" one of the defenders said. "It's a compliment. Loud girls are sexy."
"She's not loud," Adem snapped. "She's expressive. And deadly. And she she has brothers."
"I like that," someone else added. "That's attractive."
Ajdin grinned. "Since we are on the topic of brothers—your brother's always around her. Kinda makes sense."
"What makes sense?" I asked.
"I mean... she rides his bike. He shows up to every practice and game. Don't act like it hasn't crossed your mind."
I blinked. "You think Talha has a crush on Amina?"
Ajdin shrugged. "I'm just saying."
"No." I shook my head. "Absolutely not. I'd drown him in the Miljacka first."
That got a round of cackling.
Ajdin clapped his chest. "You're so dramatic."
"I'm a Hadžić. We don't do subtle."
Someone from the back shouted, "Honestly? They'd be terrifying together."
"I'd rather date her myself," I said.
Adem gagged audibly. "She's too good for all of you assholes."
I patted his shoulder. "You know you're lucky, right?"
Adem glared. "How?"
"Most people's sisters don't clear national strikers before the half."
We finished dressing and packed up our gear, the boys still hollering across the room about the goal, the slide, the hug, the fact that Mostar had walked off without even shaking hands. They were pressed.
And Elvir Hasanović had been there to watch it.
Their hometown hero. Their ex-striker. National team royalty sitting in the stands while we torched his legacy on his old pitch.
Made it even sweeter.
I lived for it.
Adem and I stepped out into the parking lot, duffels slung over our shoulders.
And there they were.
Talha and Amina.
She stood next to the bike, helmet in her hands, armored jacket zipped halfway up like she was about to ride into a Marvel movie. Talha leaned against the seat, arms crossed, still as ever.
It was the first time I'd seen him since the fight.
And he looked like shit.
Bruise under his eye. Split skin across his cheekbone. Swelling along his jaw. But it was the cut near his temple that hit me—sharp, thin, too clean for the cage.
I stared, trying to piece it together.
What came from the fight.
And what came later.
What he took inside the ring.
And what he took when he got home.
My stomach twisted. Guilt settled low and hard in my chest.
I wasn't there.
I stayed at the Begović house so we could make the bus on time. I missed the fight. I missed everything after.
And I hated that I wasn't there. But I hated more that I was glad I missed it. That's the part I can't shake.
Adem slowed beside me. "Amina's riding with Talha?"
I didn't even hesitate. "Oh hell no."
I picked up my pace.
"Amina!"
She turned around with that innocent fake smile—the one that meant trouble was coming.
"We're celebrating," I called out. "You're riding back with us."
She opened her mouth to argue.
"Nope. Uh-uh. We just humiliated Mostar. You're sitting next to me while I retell my goal ten times louder than necessary. Non-negotiable."
Adem smirked as he walked past her. "I want the full Elvir transcript. Word for word."
"Y'all act like I don't have a choice," she muttered, but her lips were twitching.
Ajdin stepped out of the locker room just in time to hear it. "She's not riding back with the team?"
"Unacceptable," someone else added. "We need Baby Begović. She's our mascot."
"Our chaos manager," another chimed in.
"Our good luck charm," Ajdin said, fist over his chest like he meant it.
Amina rolled her eyes. "You're all ridiculous."
"But you love us," I grinned.
She sighed like we were ruining her life.
Then turned to Talha and handed him the helmet.
"Sorry, Superman. I've been drafted."
Talha didn't say anything. Just nodded and took the helmet back from her without flinching. She unzipped the armored jacket, handed it back to Talha, and followed Adem toward the bus like switching rides wasn't a big deal.
I hung back with Talha.
Up close, it was worse.
The bruise under his eye. The swelling near his jaw. The cut along his cheekbone. And that thin, sharp gash near his temple. Too sharp. Too intentional. Not from the cage. From home.
I'd already seen it all from a distance. But standing in front of him, I couldn't pretend not to know what I was looking at.
I nodded toward the bruise. "That from the fight?"
He nodded once.
Then I glanced at the cut near his hairline. "Dad?"
He hesitated. Just for a second.
Then: "R-rakija b-bottle."
I let out a slow breath through my nose.
"Yeah," I said. "Sounds about right."
He didn't explain. He never did.
"You win?"
Talha nodded once. "S-still un-d-defeated."
I smiled, crooked. "Good. You'd better be."
I reached out, and he dapped me up like we were still ten years old in the courtyard after school.
"I'll see you at home," I said.
He nodded again.
I jogged to the bus, tossed my bag under, and climbed in.
Amina was in the second row, window seat. She had her phone in her hand, but she wasn't texting. Just scrolling.
Ajdin was already sitting beside her, grinning like he belonged there.
I stopped and laughed—dry, sharp.
"Ha. You really tried it. Get up."
He raised his hands. "She didn't tell me to move."
"She didn't need to."
Ajdin sighed. "Can't believe you're kicking me out after that performance."
"Can't believe you sent a shirtless selfie to her DMs last week."
He blinked.
I leaned in. "Keep talking and I'll tell Adem."
Ajdin stood immediately. "Seat's all yours, bro."
I dropped into the seat beside her.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5b2Mk8cMGE
"You're so annoying," Amina muttered, smiling.
"So how much of that Elvir conversation do I get to hear before we hit Konjic?"
She smiled, eyes still on the screen. Then she looked out the window.
Talha stood by his bike, helmet in one hand, jacket draped over his arm.
She lifted her hand and waved.
He didn't wave back. Just nodded.
She didn't stop looking back until the stadium disappeared behind the curve of the road.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
In this chapter: Tarik scores. Adem calculates physics mid-air. Amina emotionally destroys the national striker. The team is dancing, shirtless, and fully feral. Ajdin nearly dies. And Tarik threatens to drown his older brother in the Miljacka over a girl he definitely doesn't have feelings for. Totally normal post-game vibes.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOKrcBC0rBu
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-Ash&Olive
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