The field was loud with movement—cleats digging into turf, voices cutting across drills, coaches barking instructions no one was really listening to. Out on the main pitch at Butmir, everything felt sharper. The turf was immaculate, the lines clean, the kind of space built for real players—no mud, no excuses.
Tarik and Adem moved like they were wired into it. Fast. Fluid. Like the ball belonged to them before anyone else could claim it. They didn't talk much—just read each other's movement and ran like hell.
I was posted high in the bleachers, sketchbook open across my lap, a sharp pencil dancing over the page. The lines came easy today.
There was something about this field—cleaner than Sarajevo had any right to be. The kind of place where dreams were supposed to start. Or break.
Tarik was showboating again, dragging the ball with the outside of his boot like the laws of physics didn't apply to him. Adem cut through two defenders without blinking, eyes locked on the goal like he was mad at it.
I just kept sketching.
Let the graphite mark every flex of muscle and flick of ankle. Let the shapes become rhythm. Let them both be beautiful for once—without needing to know it.
Then I saw it—Talha's Jeep pulling into the far corner of the lot.
He didn't get out.
He just sat there, engine off, arms slung over the steering wheel, head resting against it like he couldn't face anyone yet.
I watched him.
Tried not to. Failed anyway.
Eyes flicked between the field and that Jeep like I was waiting for something I didn't want to name.
Finally, he moved.
Stepped out slow, like every joint hurt. Like he'd been hit too many times in too many places and the bruises still whispered. He locked the Jeep with a soft click and tucked the keys into the front pocket of his jeans.
His stupid, low-slung, faded-black jeans.
The kind that looked like they knew his body too well.
And he was wearing the hoodie I stole last month. The one he only managed to steal back yesterday.
It looked better on me.
But somehow worse on him—in that way that made my stomach twist and my brain short-circuit.
Every part of him said danger, and every cell in me was apparently into bad decisions today.
I went back to my sketchbook before I embarrassed myself.
His feet carried him straight toward the bleachers like his body knew where he needed to be before his mind agreed.
He climbed up and dropped down onto the row just beneath me. My knees grazed his back.
He didn't speak. Didn't turn around.
Just sat there—forearms on his thighs, head down like the silence was something he needed more than the air.
The hoodie shifted when he exhaled, and I caught a flash of the shirt underneath. One of those plain, soft ones he always wore after fights—just slightly stretched at the collar, like even cotton had to work to stay on him.
I noticed the bruise immediately. right under the collar of his shirt —like it had clawed its way up his neck.
Another peeked low on his back, just visible above the waistline when his shirt lifted with his breath. Deep red, the kind that would turn black by nightfall.
It wasn't new.
Not really.
Talha was always walking into rooms like the aftermath of a story no one had the full version of.
And he never offered one.
Just sat there, spine curved, jaw locked, Like holding quiet was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
I should've looked away.
I didn't.
Instead, I tightened my grip on the pencil and sketched a line I wasn't supposed to.
He rested his arms on his knees and let his head hang low.
I didn't speak.
Just shifted slightly on the bench, pressing my knees a little more into his back. My left hand rested on his shoulder, nails scratching lightly back and forth in slow, steady motions. The way I knew calmed him down even if he'd never admit it.
With my right hand, I kept sketching.
Tarik and Adem—mid-sprint, cleats kicking up motion, jerseys clinging to their backs like second skin. I had them in full Manchester United kits, not because they were wearing them, but because that's how I saw them.
Tarik's shoulders thrown forward, mouth parted in a yell I didn't need to hear to understand. Adem sharp and centered, head down, balance low, the ball practically begging to stay at his feet.
The crest on their chests took the longest—every thread inked with care, like drawing it right might make it real.
They got the emails today. Third period.
Both of them had been called up for a tryout.
The recruiter would be in Sarajevo by the end of the month.
Adem was buzzing. Tarik was pretending not to panic.
I'd seen it earlier—third period math. After they read the email. The way he kept cracking his knuckles under the desk. The way he didn't touch his lunch. The way his foot wouldn't stop bouncing even when he was trying to flirt with the girl from 2C.
But out here?
Out here they looked like magic.
After a while, I kept scratching and started narrating.
"Adem's going to overrun the midfield again. Watch. He always pushes too far right when he gets tired."
Talha didn't answer. But he didn't shift either. Just stayed still and listened.
"Tarik's been dragging that left foot since warm-up. I don't know why he's trying to hide it. Like I can't tell."
My fingers kept moving.
"And he's playing aggressive again," I muttered. "Borderline dirty. Keeps throwing those shoulders like it's a street fight."
I leaned forward, frowning. "If he gets carded during this weekend's game, I swear I'm going to punch him myself."
Still nothing from Talha.
But I felt it—the tension in his back. Subtle. Controlled.
"The new guy's a weirdo," I said casually. "Number seventeen. Everyone seems to like him. I think he's slimy. Keeps calling me Baby Begović like he's not trying to flirt at the same time."
Still nothing from Talha.
"He asks questions he already knows the answers to. Like, fake humble. He's got main character energy and no actual plot."
Talha huffed. Just once. But it was enough.
"He's fast, though," I admitted. "Annoying, but fast."
I dragged my nails once more across his shoulder blade. He exhaled again, deeper this time.
I shifted, pulling my knees back a little—giving him space.
He leaned back into them.
Not much. Just enough to close the gap. Like he needed the contact more than the distance.
"Rough day?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Want to hear something good?"
No answer. But he didn't move away either.
"Manchester reached out," I said. "Tarik and Adem got emails. Tryouts. End of the month."
He turned slowly, eyes lifting just enough to meet mine. Like he wasn't sure if I was serious.
That's when I saw it up close.
His lip was split. His eyebrow too. There was a dark bruise blooming under one eye—sharp at the edges, the kind that comes from a fist.
I didn't say anything about it.
Didn't flinch.
Just looked at him like I always did.
Like I already knew.
I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and handed it to him without a word.
He took it carefully, fingers brushing mine, eyes scanning the screen.
The email was still open. FK Sarajevo x Manchester United. Official tryout invite. Logistics, expectations—and the cost, bolded near the bottom.
His eyes paused there. Went wide.
"S-six g-grand?" he muttered. "Ee-each?"
"Yeah," I said. "But there are scholarships."
He didn't look up. Just kept staring at the number like it might shrink if he blinked hard enough.
But he nodded.
Because scholarship was easier to accept.
It was something you earned.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmI8DyD8ohi
Not something someone gave you.
And I wasn't going to tell him otherwise.
He handed the phone back, then reached for my sketchbook.
It was already open to the drawing—Tarik and Adem in full kits, in motion, like they were already there.
He stared at it for a while. Long enough that I almost said something.
"Y-you dr-drew the cr-crest pe-prfect," he said, voice low.
I smiled. "I always get the details right."
He kept staring at the page, thumb brushing just beneath the corner like he wasn't ready to let go of it yet.
"Y-you th-think you're g-getting ahead of y-yourself?" he asked.
"No," I said, too quickly. "They're going."
He didn't argue. Just nodded once, slow.
He looked at me a beat too long, then passed the sketchbook back and turned toward the field.
We watched in silence as Tarik scored—sharp, fast, ruthless. The kind of goal that made coaches sit up straighter.
I didn't say anything. But I knew what Talha was thinking.
He wanted this for Tarik more than he ever wanted it for himself.
Wanted to give him something clean.
I didn't know everything about their home. Or anything really.
They kept us all away from it. But I knew it wasn't like mine.
I didn't know what it was, but I knew it wasn't safe.
I knew Talha would bleed out quietly if it meant his brother got to run.
And right now, watching Tarik carve through the defense like he belonged somewhere bigger—
Talha looked like he might let himself believe it was possible.
Even if he never said it.
A few minutes passed. Then he shifted slightly, eyes narrowing at something across the field.
"Th-that the n-new k-kid?" he asked.
I followed his gaze. Number seventeen. Fast. Too eager. And definitely watching me more than the ball.
"Haris. Transferred Monday." I said. "Still hasn't accepted that I don't come with the welcome packet."
Talha didn't laugh. Just kept staring. Eyes hard. Jaw locked.
"D-did you t-tell A-adem or T-tarik?"
I rolled my eyes. "Why? So they can beat the poor kid into next week?"
He didn't answer.
"Relax," I said, brushing my knuckles gently against his spine. "I know how to reject a guy without calling in my guard dogs. Thank you for looking out for me though."
He exhaled again. Didn't say anything else.
But when I glanced back a minute later, Number Seventeen wasn't looking at me anymore.
I'm sure seeing a six-foot-two bear of a man in a battered hoodie glaring down from the bleachers took care of that.
The drills ended a few minutes later. Tarik called something across the field. Adem laughed.
Talha didn't move.
I looked at him, then nudged his back with my knee.
"Can you bring the bike tomorrow?" I asked casually, like I hadn't been thinking about it since the game.
He glanced up at me, finally. Just a flicker.
"We could ride around the city while they practice. You and me. Just for a bit."
He didn't answer right away.
But I could already feel the yes.
The kind that settled low in my stomach and curled warm beneath my skin.
His eyes held mine a second too long before he looked away—slow, careful, like he knew what I was doing.
And maybe he was going to let me do it anyway.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It's not weird.
I mean, sure—he sat between her knees while she scratched his shoulder like a feral emotional support bear.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUVodpSaGzp
And yeah, she noticed the bruise on his back. And the lip. And the way his shirt collar stretched just enough to make her forget how to hold a pencil.
But he's basically her big brother.
She grew up with him.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfpfe3uAS02
He's always around.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1NROqLbTu7
She just... notices things. Like the shape of his jaw. Or how his back feels under her hand.
It's not that deep.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡASn4jZbiiV
It's definitely not attraction.
She just wants him to bring the bike.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoxWe6K7iAB
That's all.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1pTvnDyHyn
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu2Klu8QFmf
-Ash&Olive
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX7hI57IyIM
