Between two kops

Chapter ten

Steven

"All I'm missing is Rajko Mitić to keep me from thinking about her..."

That thought had been pounding in my head since morning, like a drumstick hitting the drum on the North Stand. Loud. Sometimes I don't even know why the same stuff keeps coming back to me, like my brain just aggressively refuses to accept what I've known for a long time. Like it's purposely ignoring reality, only to drag me right back to the exact same f*****g place, over and over again.

You know that moment when you realize life isn't some fairytale your parents kept brainwashing you with before bed? When you get it through your head that there's no happy ending waiting for you just because you imagined it that way?

I never lived in a fairytale in my life. My story was never pretty, nor was it simple. And I was damn sure it wasn't about to magically become one now.

I crouched by the bed and pulled the laces tight on my Adidas Samba sneakers. My favorite green ones with the brown soles. My absolute favorite kicks. The ones we, whether in jest or not, call hooligans.

I grabbed my half empty backpack off the chair. Inside, there weren't any books this time. Just a few rolls of heavy duty duct tape and a couple of things we'd need on the stands today. School wasn't even on my mind this morning. And not just because of her... but mostly because of tomorrow's derby.

The Serbian Cup semi finals. The match all of us supporters can barely wait for. But honestly, it was never really about the cup. It's about our deep rooted rivalry. Matches like that aren't played, they're won. A draw doesn't exist for us, just like it doesn't for them. A loss even less so. And everyone knows it, both the guys down on the pitch and us up in the stands.

Today we had an organized turnout at the Rajko Mitić Stadium. Setting up the choreography for tomorrow's madness. I was part of the crew in charge of the prep and all the work around the ultras. And to be fair... that was the only thing currently keeping me afloat. The effort, the roaring, the noise, the crowd. Everything that can forcibly shut down your thoughts for a second, chase away your personal problems, and leave that familiar, bitter trace in my pathetic memories.

I opened my bedroom door, and that signature squeak of the hinges echoed down the empty hallway. Sharp and irritating, just like every other morning in this house. I took a few steps and in the next second, I was in the living room. The scene waiting for me there was so predictable it had turned monotonous from how often it repeated itself.

The TV was still blaring the trashy reality show Elita, shrieking voices mixing in the background, while my mom and dad were passed out on the sectional, completely out of it. The bottle of red wine on the coffee table was almost empty and leaning sideways, like it was about to collapse onto the carpet any second. They probably fell asleep right there after drinking last night. Nothing new if you ask me. Nothing smarter was ever done in this house anyway.

I walked over and shut off the TV. A heavy, uncomfortable silence instantly filled the living room. I paused for a second, looking down at them. I stood motionless for a few seconds with zero reaction inside me. I guess you just get used to every kind of s**t over time until you go numb.

I picked up the blanket from the floor and tossed it over them. A movement done more out of habit than any actual care. Luckily, they didn't even budge. If they had, I probably would've just brought a new problem on myself. They'd probably just jump down my throat with rage for accidentally waking them up. And how they can't get a single bit of sleep because of me.

It used to be that the smallest thing in this house, a wrong step or noise, was enough for both of them to take it out on me, as if I were personally to blame for every single thing that got f****d up in their failed lives. I turned around without a word, pulled my backpack onto my shoulder, and walked out.

The cold morning air hit my face instantly, clearing my head to a degree. I crossed the street at a fast pace and spotted our van parked by the curb from a distance. Packed. Inside sat Victor, Dean, John, and a few other local boys. The uproar, raw laughter, and thick cigarette smoke were spreading through the half open window before I could even reach the door.

"Ooh, here's our lion!" Victor yelled from the back seat the second he saw me, wildly waving a can he'd already managed to chug halfway down by eight in the morning.

"f**k your crazy head, how can you be pounding beer first thing in the morning, you animal?" I replied with a brief smirk, hopping inside and tossing my bag onto the floor by my feet.

"Steven, my bro... My liver refuses to operate at these RPMs until I properly lubricate it with a cold beer," he grinned.

"What's up, boys," I greeted the rest of the crew in the van one by one, pounding fists and nodding.

Only then, as I settled in, did I realize we weren't at full strength.

"Wait, where's Scot?" I asked, already knowing beforehand that something was off. Last night in the group chat, he was the first one insisting we shouldn't leave without him under any circumstances.

"Bro... He stayed with his girl," John chimed in from the side, shifting to make a little room for me next to the sliding door.

"What happened, she twisted his balls so hard he doesn't even dare go to the stadium with us anymore?" I commented with a cynical smirk. I hate when someone gives their word, promises the crew something, and then flakes out at the absolute last second.

"Ah, let him be, bro. His girl is pregnant. The guy doesn't even know if he's coming or going," Dean chimed in, shrugging his shoulders.

"You know how his girl is... Worse than the cops, bro. Twisted his ears while he was sleeping, so now Scot's going grocery shopping for the family instead of taping plastic sheets with us at the North Stand," Victor continued, spilling a little beer on the floor as he laughed out loud.

The van echoed with laughter immediately loud, brief, but laced with a weird kind of bitterness. It wasn't just busting his chops. In a way, all of us were actually bummed that our brother wasn't there with us.

"Bro got out, lucky bastard. Now we gotta tape up the whole stand under this sun..." John added, already wiping the first layer of sweat off his forehead even though we hadn't even pulled out yet.

"Whatever... Let me get this door, nothing to wait for then."

I stood up slightly from my seat, grabbed the metal handle, and slammed the sliding door shut. The sharp, metallic clack cut off the outside noise in a second, hermetically sealing us inside our own isolated world full of smoke, alcohol, and matchday plans right from the morning.

I looked over at the driver's seat. "Dimi, bro... Don't tell me you're drinking too?"

Dimi was sitting behind the wheel totally relaxed, as if he were riding a kid's bike, while two empty cans of Tuborg beer were already lying proudly in the compartment next to the gear shift.

"Nah, not much, bro... Easy, what's two beers for me," he muttered through his teeth, more to himself than to me.

I just closed my eyes helplessly and shook my head. There was no point in even talking to him. He was the only guy in the crew with a C-category license, so he acted like he was untouchable.

"Just watch where you're driving this falling apart piece of junk, for God's sake, so we don't all end up wrapped around a lamppost before we even make it out of Pančevo."

I sat back in my seat, rested my head against the cold glass, and stared out the window. The streets of Pančevo were almost spookily empty. A city that used to burst with life seemed like one of those dead, depressing towns today at this hour, the kind you just want to escape as fast as possible.

I dropped my head onto the dirty headrest and closed my eyes for a second. And in my mind absolute, total chaos. Christina's follow request that came in last night had completely thrown me off my game and wrecked every single f*****g defense mechanism I had. I don't get it... What kind of game is that girl playing? She has a boyfriend, and not just anyone, yet she approaches me so casually and boldly.

Or am I just tripping? Or am I just another trophy in line for her to play with out of boredom, just to pass the time? I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth clicked, and the phone I was nervously turning over in my fingers until a second ago slipped from my palm onto the floor. Nah, man. She's not that kind of girl. I felt it.

And that's what's f*****g with my head the most. I haven't even known her for half a day. We met once on that bench in the schoolyard, not to mention the bar... and she's already gotten under my skin like some heavy disease.

I didn't sleep a wink last night, just replaying the movie in my head... Her gaze, the specific way she pronounces her words, how she looks me right in the eyes like she's trying to crack every single secret I have. Little Partizan girl...

***

The van had barely emptied out behind the North Stand when absolute chaos erupted from all sides. The boys were already carrying heavy sacks full of red and white plastic sheets down toward the core of the stand. Someone was already cursing up a storm because duct tape had stuck all over his hand, frantically ripping and biting through it with his teeth as if that would magically speed up the job.

"Come on, boys! You're late," Pedja called out to us without looking up from his detailed blueprint of the tifo, as if every single line on that crumpled piece of paper were more important than all of us combined.

As I knelt on the plastic seats in the middle of the stand taping down the first piece of red sheet, my fingers immediately became sticky and my forehead soaked. The duct tape kept stretching under my fingers, snapping, sticking where it shouldn't at all. Real hell, bro.

The sun was beating straight down on me, but that physical strain felt damn good. Rajko Mitić, hard labor, and a hot sun. That was the formula that forced every single thought of her to finally evaporate from my head.

My shirt was already sticking to my back from sweat, but I paid no attention to it. This kind of reset was exactly what I needed. Physical. Purely brainless. The smell of the stadium, that specific blend of concrete and freshly cut grass hit my nostrils. For me, that always was, and always will be, the only true scent of freedom.

Every sector was mapped out impeccably. The Belgrade crew held the lower section of the stand, down near the running track and the pitch, while those of us from Pančevo worked the middle. All the way up at the top were the boys from out of town. Guys who crossed over a hundred kilometers just to stick down plastic sheets with us today. Nobody forced them, nobody paid them. They came on their own, driven by a deep love for the club and the stand where we all grew up.

I looked around, roughly twelve thousand seats on the North Stand were waiting for our hands to manually tape them up. A sea of seats, rows that visually stretch into infinity. But nobody in the crew stood around or complained. There was no time to waste anyway.

As time wore on, the mood among us grew more relaxed, especially after a couple of crates of cold beer made the rounds through countless calloused hands. Half the stand was already gleaming in perfect squares, and the grin on Pedja's face made it clear he was more than pleased with our work.

The whole concept of this ultras was for the entire North Stand to be covered in pristine red and white stripes tomorrow. For that to work, the stand needed to be packed to the absolute brim. I hoped it would be...

"Steven... Why are you quiet as a mouse?" Victor suddenly hit me right in the chest with an empty cardboard core from a roll of duct tape.

"Bro, I'm just thinking... Today would've been Danilo's birthday."

"I know, bro... None of us forgot, trust me," Victor said, his tone instantly turning deadly serious.

"How old would he be today?" Dimi chimed in from the step below, wiping sweat off his brow.

"Eighteen, bro. Coming of age. We should mark it properly later when we get back to Pančevo," I said, quieter than I meant to.

Less than a year ago, we lost a brother. He died in a horrific car crash on his way back from an away game in Novi Sad. Ever since that night, nothing in our crew has been the same. So many things lost their meaning back then.

Who would've thought a spark could be put out so easily. You go to an away match with your buddy, get drunk together, celebrate the win... and instead of all of us heading back to Pančevo together, our Danilo stays there forever, on that away trip. And then something starts gnawing at you from the inside, and you start replaying the tape in your head.

Maybe we could've avoided that s**t, maybe everything could've turned out differently if we'd just been a little more careful, but s**t. Then you realize you can't turn back time. What's done is done, my bro.

I remember that night. Strale was begging both the day and his own life to have died right alongside Danilo. Since he was behind the wheel, his soul kept tearing apart, relentlessly blaming himself. After that night, he never got behind the wheel of a car again, and after the funeral, he cut ties with the stands completely. He never returned to the core. Never hung out in the neighborhood with us again. I guess he was avoiding everything that reminded him of that incident.

"Victor, you look a little pale to me," Pedja appeared out of nowhere behind us.

Pedja was the engine and driving force behind everything we've been doing for years. Master of the North Stand and, in my humble opinion, the best, most authoritative leader who ever stepped up on the capo stand here.

"Pedja, bro... I'm dehydrated in this sun waiting for these younger guys to bring more beer," Victor dramatically began defending himself, clutching his forehead as if he were about to pass out.

"My bro, poor that suffering liver of yours. Next time I'll have to haul an entire tanker truck down here onto the running track for you."

"Ah, tell him to f**k off, Pedja! In the end, the three of us are gonna have to carry him to the van in our arms again anyway," John added with a loud laugh.

"Uh, bro... why is everyone so negative since this morning, bro," Victor muttered as he got up off his seat, playing deeply offended.

Every guy within a ten meter radius literally burst out laughing. Out of all us Pančevo boys, Pedja always liked messing with and busting Victor's calls the most. Not out of any bad blood, quite the opposite. Just for the pure supporter banter and fun. Honestly, nobody on the entire stand could keep up with the amount of beer Victor could throw down in a single afternoon. No exaggeration whatsoever.

Before the laughter had even died down, Pedja's expression shifted in a split second. He threw a sharp glance toward the top of the stand, judging the progress, and then turned back to us, significantly more serious than a second ago.

"Alright, brothers, that's enough messing around for top dollar. Speed up those hands a little now. We've got two hours tops to wrap this up, everything needs to be spot on. After that, I gotta hit the road for business."

His tone was crystal clear. He didn't have to shout at all. Nobody on the North Stand ever had to shout at us. Every single one of us knew perfectly well when the joking was over.

One of the older guys from the upper rows called out half aloud, "Pedja, bro... Do you want us all passing out from heatstroke?"

For a moment, there was that brief, tense beat where everyone waited for the leader's reaction. Pedja just let out a brief, challenging, rogue half smile and shook his head.

"No great loss for the stand anyway. Just a couple fewer junkies in the headcount, bro."

A second later, an explosion of collective laughter followed. The entire middle section of the stand literally shook with genuine laughter. Even the guys on the far end turned their heads to see what the joke was about.

"You heard him, Victor! You're officially number one on the hit list!" I threw at him with a laugh, nudging him with my elbow.

"Ah, go f**k yourself, Steven..." Victor muttered through his teeth, but he was already laughing out loud himself as he grabbed a new sack of white plastic sheets.

Without any further delay or empty chatter, everyone immediately got back to work. Hands went back to operating on autopilot, duct tape whistled through the air, and the plastic rustled under our fingers. And the sun above Belgrade was beating down as if it had zero intention of ever stopping.

I looked up toward the very top of the stand again. The rows had slowly but surely turned into flawless red and white stripes. Exactly the way Pedja had envisioned it in his head. The whole thing was starting to look like a serious display.

A few hours later, everything was finally done. By some miracle and through pure crew hustle, we managed to wrap up the entire choreography in record time.

Evening slowly began to settle over the stadium, and the exhausted crew gradually parted ways. Driving at a smooth, relaxed pace, we made our way back to Pančevo. Victor and the rest of the guys went straight home to shower and rest up for tomorrow's derby, while I headed on toward the city center by myself.

Honestly, I didn't have much of a choice. My best friend since our primary school days had literally blackmailed me over text, forcing me to stay in town and grab a coffee with her. Truth is, we hadn't spoken or seen each other in a pretty long time...

We met back during the absolute worst, darkest period of her life. I was just an ordinary kid back then, going to primary school, while she was hanging around somewhere at the edge of the yard, completely kicked out of her house. Yeah, her own flesh and blood parents cold bloodedly threw her out on the street like garbage. All over money. Too high of an expense for the family budget as they liked to cynically justify it to the world back then.

But she never gave up, not for a single second. She refused to end up in a children's home, nor did she ever want to beg or plead for anyone's fake charity. Unfortunately, the harsh life on the streets forced her early into the absolute worst, dirtiest, and hardest job a woman could possibly do in this twisted world. Prostitution.

Everyone in this horrible, hypocritical town automatically turned their backs on her back then and spat on her name. Every single one of them cast her aside like some diseased girl from the neighborhood. Everyone... except me. I stayed right there. By her side.

And then, slowly, millimeter by millimeter... completely on her own, through sheer willpower, strength, and pure spite, she pulled herself out of that quicksand and absolute hell. Bought an apartment, a car, built herself a stable, successful life. Today, ironically, she lives significantly better and cleaner than most of those moral bastions who turned their backs on her on the street with disgust. That's why I respected her more than anyone else.