I didn't even bother tying my shoelaces. The bus wasn't going to wait, and neither were the boys.
Someone was already shouting chants like we were going to war. Tarik's voice rose above the rest, half-yelling, half-laughing as he dragged his duffel behind him, cleats clipped to the side like a weapon. Adem walked just ahead, calm as ever, a quiet counterbalance to Tarik's chaos.
It was cold. Not snow cold—Sarajevo in March cold. Damp. Gray. The kind that made your fingers stiff and your breath curl. I stood on the sidewalk outside the team bus, arms crossed, regretting my outfit. Joggers and Tarik's team jersey seemed like a good idea earlier.
"Why do you always dress like you're immune to weather?" Tarik asked. "You're freezing."
I gave him a look. "No shit."
He rolled his eyes, peeled off his FK Sarajevo maroon warm-up jacket, and tossed it over my shoulders. "Put this on before you die."
"I'm not dying."
"You will. Fashionably. Before kickoff."
I slipped it on without saying thank you. He grinned like he'd won something.
The bus doors opened with a hiss, and the team surged forward—duffels hitting the steps, voices echoing against metal, too loud for dawn. Someone knocked over a water bottle, someone else stepped on it, and the driver barked something in Bosnian no one actually heard.
"KO JE NAJBOLJI?" one of the defenders shouted from the back of the line.
"SARAJEVO!"
"KO?"
"SA-RA-JE-VO!"
The chant caught like fire. I followed behind the noise, climbing onto the bus, Tarik right behind me. Adem had already secured the second row window seat. Headphones in, head tilted, scrolling through something. Classic.
I dropped into the seat beside him without a word, curled into his side like muscle memory. He shifted just enough to make room.
"I thought you'd get trampled," he said, voice low.
"Almost."
Tarik took the seat across the aisle, already unzipping his bag, already starting in.
"Y'all look like you got dragged here straight from a funeral."
I didn't even lift my head. "Keep talking and I'll make sure you don't leave Mostar."
Adem smirked, still scrolling. "Let her sleep, man."
"She's not sleeping," Tarik said. "She's sulking. There's a difference."
"Some of us need more than three hours of sleep," I said.
"Some of us are barely functioning after the recommended eight," Adem muttered.
"Some of us," Tarik added, grinning, "are about to humiliate Mostar on their own turf."
"Tell God," I muttered.
He smirked. "God already knows. He gave me the left foot."
Adem snorted. "And the ego."
I pulled out my headphones and opened my Quran app. Surah Rahman was still queued up from the night before. I hit play.
"Fabi ayyi aalaaa'i rabbikumaa tukazzibaan."
So which of your Lord's favors will you deny?
The repetition wrapped around me like breath. Familiar. Heavy. Safe. Each verse hit like a weight and a balm at the same time.
This was mine. My rhythm. My grounding.
The boys could chant and roar and throw insults across the aisle. But this—this brought me stillness.
Tarik reached across the aisle and plucked one AirPod straight out of my ear.
"Seriously?" I asked.
He blinked as it hit his ear, then leaned back and grinned.
"Peaceful Amina. I prefer her to the crazy woman that was belting Talk Dirty to Me last night."
"Bite me."
Adem didn't even look up. "Both of you need therapy."
The road stretched. The boys settled into chants and arguments over game strategy. Coach looked like he regretted taking the bus. Tarik had already declared himself captain of vibes.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over his name:
Superman 🦸🏽
Me:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhIr1y6Hkrg
Coming today?
Superman 🦸🏽:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWhu5mH7u07
Leaving within the hour.
Me:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIAwYg9FcLM
🏍️ or nah?
Superman 🦸🏽:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfk8J0BMxuU
👍
Me:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeQe1TIepUE
Take me home?
Superman 🦸🏽:17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡexkLCJ6dSP
Yeah. I've got you.
Tarik cracked one eye open. "That Talha?"
"No."
"If he's texting you before texting me back, I'm benching myself."
I didn't even blink. "You're not starting anyway."
He sat up, offended. "I am THE starter."
I smirked. "You think Coach is gonna let you start after that embarrassing performance with Zenica last week?"
Adem snorted without looking up.
Tarik narrowed his eyes. "We won that game."
"Barely. And only because Zenica's striker pulled a hamstring."
"That was divine intervention."I rolled my eyes. "You're lucky God likes clowns."
Adem chuckled. Tarik threw a granola bar at his head. It missed. Barely.
We were pulling into Mostar before I realized how fast the ride had gone. The city looked brighter than I expected—wide skies, sharp light, the kind of place that wanted to be explored.
The bus came to a slow stop outside the stadium. The players stood, stretching, grabbing bags. Coaches barked instructions.
As soon as the doors swung open and the bus hissed to a stop, the boys launched into movement—bags slung, cleats clattering, water bottles rolling down the aisle like they had lives of their own.
Tarik was already halfway to the front by the time I stood up.
"Yo!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Let's go embarrass Mostar real quick."
Adem stood, adjusted the strap on his duffel, then turned to me. "You coming in with us?"
I shook my head and tugged the jacket tighter around myself. "I've got two hours. I want to see the city."
Adem frowned. "Alone?"
I shrugged. "It's daylight."
Tarik leaned back around the seats. "Don't get kidnapped by some psycho."
"Thanks, Tarik. Really helpful."
"I'm just saying. You look very... kidnappable today."
I flipped him off as I backed toward the bus steps.
Adem raised an eyebrow. "Don't get lost."
I grinned. "I never do."
He didn't smile back, not really, but he didn't stop me either. That was as much blessing as I was going to get.
I waved once as I stepped down, then turned into the sharp light of Mostar.
The city opened around me like a story I hadn't read yet.
There was color—too much of it. Graffiti bleeding down side walls. Laundry hanging across balconies like flags. Market carts pushing through narrow lanes. A dog asleep in front of a café, perfectly still, like it owned the block.
I walked without knowing where I was going, letting the buildings pull me. The sidewalk felt uneven, the kind that made you look down every few steps. The kind that tripped you if you got too comfortable.
I liked it.
No one stopped me. No one looked twice. I passed an old man sweeping a storefront and a woman arranging pomegranates in a box like she was composing a photo.
The air smelled like fresh bread and car exhaust.
A few blocks off the main street, the noise faded. The sun had climbed higher now, bouncing off windows, catching in puddles. I turned a corner—and stopped.
The mural spanned an entire wall. Bright, cracked paint layered thick with meaning I didn't fully understand. A soldier holding a dove. A girl in hijab standing at the edge of a broken bridge. "Ima još dana." There are still more days.
I stood in front of it longer than I meant to.
Then pulled out my phone and took a photo. Maybe two.
The engine came from behind me—low, familiar, steady like a heartbeat I wasn't expecting.
I didn't have to turn.
Talha pulled up beside me on the curb, boots down, helmet still on.
Of course he looked like he just rode in from a movie trailer. Helmet, boots, gloves—very "Wanted criminal, 8/10 would not report."17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYLaKB03GW0
Not for me, obviously. But objectively: excellent casting.
"T-told my-self if I d-didn't find y-you by th-the bridge," he said, voice muffled, "I'd ch-check the -g-graffiti. F-figured you'd b-be out h-here trying to g-get ab-ducted or ss-something."
I smiled without looking at him. "That's exactly what your brother said. What the hell is wrong with you two? You and Tarik both immediately go to abduction."
He pulled off the helmet, and of course—sweaty curls, sharp jaw, that dead-eyed fighter look like he could ruin lives without blinking.
"Be-because you w-wander off a-alone in un-ffamiliar cities."
"In daylight."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Normal people say 'text me when you get there,' not 'try not to get kidnapped.'"
He nodded toward the pack strapped to the back of the bike. "Y-uour g-gear is in th-there."
I blinked. "You actually brought it?"
"Y-you as-asked."
That was it. No extra words. Like it made perfect sense—because to him, it did.
I unzipped the pack and pulled out the helmet first. Then the jacket—black, armored, heavier than it looked. Mine. Or at least the one I always wore when I rode with him.
I slipped off Tarik's warm-up jacket, folded it, and laid it gently across the pack. Cold air crept over my arms.
Talha didn't say anything. Just held the bike steady while I put on the jacket, zipped it up, and pulled the helmet over my head.
He offered a hand.
I took it.
He always made it look effortless—steadying the bike with one hand like it weighed nothing. Annoyingly competent.
I climbed on behind him like I always had, and there it was again—broad back, warm leather, and the quiet, infuriating certainty that this man was carved out of bad decisions and good genetics.
My hands found the place they always went. Right at his sides, not too tight.
Just before he pulled off, I jabbed my fingers into his ribs.
He flinched. "Y-you d-do th-that a-again, I'm t-tying you t-to the ss-seat."
I grinned behind the visor. "Talha... I might like that."
He let out a sharp breath. "Y-you need th-therapy."
"I've heard that before."
He shook his head once, muttered something under his breath, then started the engine.
I leaned back slightly, smug as hell, knowing I'd won whatever game we were playing today. Or at least made him twitch.
The streets blurred by, quick and clean beneath the tires. Mostar flashed past in cracked sidewalks and peeling paint, sun bouncing off the windshield of parked cars. We didn't talk. We didn't need to. The silence was easier at high speed.
When the stadium finally came into view, Talha slowed, pulling up alongside the row of team vans already parked near the players' entrance.
He cut the engine. The hum faded.
For a second, everything was still.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Yeah, she's drooling. Don't worry, she hates herself for it. This chapter contains high levels of helmet-induced thirst, leather-backed rage, and one man built entirely out of bad decisions and motorcycle fumes. Talha is not her type. Obviously. She's just...observant. With excellent taste. Shut up.
-Ash&Olive
17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGUsB74iDDd
