The Gym – Late Night
The weights clanged like a war drum. Josip's muscles screamed, sweat pooling in the hollow of his collarbone as he deadlifted 220 kilograms. Again. Again. Again. The gym's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting his monstrous shadow against the wall.
Weak. Replaceable. Forgotten.
The flashbacks returned in bursts: the snap of his hamstring during the Feyenoord match, the muffled roar of the crowd as he crumpled, Femi's wide-eyed face sprinting onto the pitch. The physio's voice echoed in his skull. You'll need time.
Time? Time was a luxury for losers.
He dropped the bar. The crash echoed through the empty room. He caught his reflection in the mirror—jaw clenched, veins pulsing. This is all I am now. A ghost in the weights room.
The Call
His phone buzzed. The ringtone, a Croatian folk tune, was jaunty and sharp. Josip hesitated before answering.
"What did you do today?" his father asked, voice rough and gravelly.
"Training." Josip wiped blood from his split knuckle.
"Training? Or punishing?" A pause. "I watched the semifinal. That Nigerian boy—Femi—he plays like you used to. Hungry."
Josip's grip on the phone tightened. "He's reckless. Flashy."
"And you? What are you now? A storm trapped in a bottle?" His father sighed. "Listen, son. Football is not a knife to hold to the world's throat. It's a mirror. You see yourself clearest when you lose."
The line went dead.
Josip hurled his water bottle across the room. It exploded against the wall. Shards of plastic scattered like his pride.
The Mirror
Back in his dorm, he stared at the medal hanging from his mirror. Tarnished gold. His first academy win in Split. Age fourteen. Champion, the engraving read.
His phone lit up. A DM from a fan.
Benchwarmer. Should've stayed in Croatia.
He typed a reply. Watch your mouth.
But he froze. Behind the medal was a photo. Young Josip, muddy and wild, grinning with his arm around his brother after a backyard match. Before the scouts. Before the pressure. Before the injury.
He deleted the comment. The medal swayed gently, catching the light.
The Pitch – Dawn
Frost clung to the grass. Josip arrived just as the sun bled orange over Amsterdam. Femi was already there, weaving through cones. His breath plumed in the cold.
They didn't speak. Josip started lunges, each stretch sending a dull blade of pain through his healing hamstring. Femi's touches were light and deliberate. Click. Click. Click. The ball moved like it belonged to him.
Up in his office, Coach Bakker watched from behind the window, black coffee in hand. Two shadows on one pitch. One future.
Josip walked off the pitch, his footsteps purposeful. His internal monologue was a jumble of emotions, but one phrase kept repeating: "I don't need to like him. I just need to beat him. Or maybe… maybe I need him to beat the version of me I hate." The fire still burned within him, but it was no longer a raging inferno. It was a slow-burning flame, one that fueled his growth and ambition.