Chapter 2 A One-Way Ticket to Belgrade

Mila stood in the crowded departure hall of Charles de Gaulle Airport, her fingers tight around the handle of her battered suitcase. The buzz of travelers rushing past, their footsteps echoing on cold tiles, blurred into a dull roar in her ears. It felt surreal-this was it. Paris was behind her now. Ahead was Belgrade, a city she barely knew, a team that might never truly accept her, and a future that felt as uncertain as the dark skies gathering outside.

She swallowed hard and glanced once more at the small boarding pass in her hand. Flight AF137. Gate 23B. Destination: Belgrade Nikola Tesla Airport. She could almost hear the clock ticking down the seconds before her life would pivot on an axis she didn't yet fully understand.

Her mother's voice rang in her head: "Remember who you are, Mila. Wherever you go, never forget that."

Fatou's words had become a kind of mantra since the moment the offer from Red Star Belgrade arrived-an opportunity to join a professional women's basketball team in a city scarred by history and silence. For Mila, it was a chance to break out of the shadow of her modest upbringing in the Parisian suburbs, to prove that a girl like her could conquer a world so far removed from everything she'd ever known.

Yet, as she stood among the crowd, a strange knot of doubt twisted deep in her stomach. Would she be strong enough? Would the cold stares and whispered prejudices she feared so much come true? Was this dream worth the price?

A sudden tap on her shoulder jolted her back to the moment.

"Mila? Hey, are you okay?" It was Jérémy, one of her closest friends from the Paris team, holding a small travel pillow in his hands.

She forced a smile. "Yeah. Just... nervous, I guess."

He nodded knowingly. "You're about to change your whole life. It's scary, but you'll be amazing. Don't forget us."

She hugged him tightly, the warmth of the moment clashing with the chill of the impending farewell. Around them, the announcements called for passengers to board. The gate was opening.

With one last look at the familiar cityscape framed by the airport's wide windows, Mila swallowed her fears and stepped forward.

**

The airplane's hum was a constant lull, but sleep refused to come. Instead, Mila stared out the window at the patchwork of clouds illuminated by the moon, her mind swirling with thoughts about what awaited her. Belgrade-a city with a history heavy enough to press down on anyone's spirit. A place where the scars of the Balkan wars still lingered in silent alleys, wary eyes, and old stories no one spoke of lightly.

She tried to imagine the Red Star gymnasium, the teammates she would meet, the coach whose reputation was as stern as the Serbian winter. Would she be accepted? Or would she remain the outsider, the foreigner with a fire too wild for their taste?

Her phone buzzed. A message from her mother.

"Pray every day. God is with you, even in the cold."

Mila's fingers tightened around the device. That simple phrase gave her a fragile sense of hope.

**

Landing in Belgrade was like stepping into a different world. The airport was smaller than she imagined, quieter, less polished. Outside, the air was crisp and sharp, a cold that seeped into her bones despite her thick jacket.

Her driver, a man in his late forties with a stern face but kind eyes, greeted her with a nod. "Welcome to Belgrade, Miss Touré. I will take you to the team residence."

The ride through the city was a silent tour of contrasts. Crumbling buildings stood side by side with shiny new apartments. Graffiti mixed with faded murals. People moved quickly, faces guarded. It felt like a city holding its breath.

Mila pressed her forehead against the window, watching the passing world, trying to memorize the streets, the faces, the smells that would soon be her new reality.

When they arrived, the team residence was imposing but bare-a cold stone building that echoed with emptiness. She dragged her suitcase inside and felt the weight of solitude settle around her.

That night, as she unpacked her few belongings, Mila stared at the photo taped to the inside of her suitcase lid-her mother smiling, her younger brother playing basketball in the courtyard back home. The warmth of home was a world away.

She whispered, "I'm going to make you proud."

**

The next morning, the true test began.

The gym smelled of sweat and old leather. The echo of basketballs hitting the hardwood floor was like a drumbeat in Mila's chest. She was early, trying to absorb the rhythm, the atmosphere.

But the welcoming smiles she had hoped for never came.

Her teammates glanced sideways, whispers trailing behind her as she changed into her jersey. The captain, Lana, a tall, blonde Serbian with ice in her eyes, barely looked at her, and when she did, it was with thinly veiled disdain.

Mila's heart pounded as the coach, Marko Vujic, entered the room. His presence was magnetic yet forbidding-a man carved from stone with sharp eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her.

He wasted no time. "Touré. Follow me."

The training was brutal. Marko demanded precision, discipline, a style Mila had never been forced to adopt. Her first tactical mistakes were met with cold rebukes.

"Again. No hesitation."

Mila felt the sting of isolation deepen with every drill. Her instincts screamed to play free, but here, in this foreign place, freedom was a luxury she could not afford.

The locker room after practice was colder than the air outside. Lana confronted her, voice low but cutting.

"You don't belong here. This is our team, our rules."

Mila's fists clenched. "I'm here to play. Not to fit your mold."

The tension crackled like electricity, a silent battle waged beneath forced smiles and averted gazes.

**

Back in her small, stark room, Mila lay on the bed, exhaustion crushing her. The walls seemed to close in, reminding her how far she was from everything familiar.

She called her mother, her voice trembling.

"Mom, it's harder than I thought. They don't want me here."

Fatou's calm voice was a lifeline. "Remember, my daughter, strength is not just in your hands, but in your heart. The world will test you. You must rise every time."

Mila wiped tears from her eyes. "I want to make them see me-not just as a player, but as someone who deserves to be here."

"Then don't give up. Fight, but also be patient."

**

The days blurred into a cycle of cold practices, silent meals, and lonely nights. Yet, beneath the surface of rejection, Mila noticed something shifting.

One afternoon, while running drills alone after practice, she caught a glimpse of Marko watching her from the doorway. His stern face softened ever so slightly. It was a moment-brief, almost imperceptible-but it planted a seed of something fragile and new.

Was this the beginning of understanding?

**

Belgrade was not the city Mila had imagined. It was harder, harsher, but also filled with stories waiting to be told-stories of pain, resilience, and hope.

As she drifted off to sleep that night, Mila felt the weight of the journey ahead. She was a stranger in a strange land, but she was determined to fight, to belong, and maybe, just maybe, to find something unexpected along the way.

The game was just beginning.

**

End of Chapter 2

______________________