Offside Lives - Part 1

The Invitation

Rain moved sideways across the hotel window, pushed hard by a summer wind that hadn’t been in the forecast. Dario Veskic stood near the glass, barefoot, shirtless, watching the cranes swing in slow arcs above the Monaco skyline. Construction lit the far end of the harbor; new luxury boxes perched above the waterline, a skeletal outline of a future stadium wing, and gleaming towers branded with sponsor logos, built for anyone still buying into the myth of glamour that hovered just above the pitch.

His reflection in the glass looked thinner than he remembered. More shadow beneath the eyes, less fire in the jaw.

The call was already late.

He lit a cigarette, more out of reflex than desire. The agent had told him to quit. Cameras would be on him again soon. “New era, Dario. New look, new discipline.”

There wasn’t any new era. Just a string of recycled mornings, stale air. A throb behind his right eye, ever since Qatar. Since that header he missed. Since the last time he saw his son in the stands. He could still see the floodlights from that match, could still taste the grit in his mouth after the final whistle. They’d said he’d lost a step. Maybe he had.

He swept past the counter, ignoring the smudged mirror’s faint white trace—fallout from a party a few nights back.

Behind him, the room stayed quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning. A woman lay asleep on the far side of the bed, back turned, hair gathered in a loose knot. One heel dangled, the sequined strap catching the low light. Her clutch sat open on the nightstand, phone screen dim but blinking. A perfume bottle rested beside it. Chanel, half full. He didn’t know if it was hers or borrowed.

She belonged to the world of sponsors and side tables. The kind of woman who never stayed for breakfast and never asked questions either. He couldn’t place her name. She’d arrived with someone else. Maybe a teammate, maybe a sponsor. He didn’t ask. She wouldn’t be here long. One of those glittery after-party types. Always in the background, always laughing at the right time.

Her phone lit up: Car pickup, 6:45 p.m. Hotel Miramar. Dress code: white.

She read it without reacting, murmured something to herself, and slipped on her heel without meeting Dario’s eyes.

He turned back to the window, touched a new cigarette to the old one’s ember. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Held.

Behind him, she stirred—half sat up, hair falling across one eye.

“You look wired,” she said. “Everything okay?”

He exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

She nodded, smiled faintly. “Fair enough.”

He glanced back. “Sorry if I wasn’t talkative.”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging on the sheet.

The silence returned, lighter now. Not uncomfortable. Just real.

His phone buzzed once, then again, pulling his eyes to the screen. A voicemail icon blinked softly in the corner. He stared at it for a moment, then tapped play.

His ex’s voice was steady, tired. Dino’s mother. “Dino’s asking about you, Dario. Don’t disappear again.”

He deleted it, thumb lingering. Dino’s name hit like a missed shot, sharp and gone. The cigarette trembled in his hand. Then the phone rang again, screen flashing an unknown number.

“Veskic.”

“This is Coach Renz.”

The voice came sharp, northern, clipped. Dario had met him once, three years earlier, after a friendly against Belgium. Renz hadn’t said much then either.

“You’re in,” he said. “Medical checks tomorrow. Report by noon.”

That was it. The line disconnected.

Dario held the phone for a moment after the line went dead. The cigarette had burned halfway down. Ash clung to the edge of the table, where it met the glass. He tapped it into a coffee cup and took a long drag, eyes on the window.

Somewhere in the haze above the yacht lights below, he felt the shift. Quiet, but solid.

He turned to the bed and paused.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Time to go.”

She sat up straighter, brushing her hair back. “Got it,” she said with a small nod.

He crossed to the minibar and cracked a bottle of water, downing half of it before tossing the rest in the sink. His mouth tasted like ash. And the aftertaste of too many mornings like this. On the dresser sat a half-zipped duffel, mostly empty. His boots, his kit—scattered. As if he hadn’t expected to go anywhere. As if he hadn’t believed the call would come.

In the bathroom, he splashed water across his face. The mirror showed his bloodshot eyes, pale skin, a jawline worn down by travel, alcohol, and months of thinking too much. He braced his weight on the sink.

For a few seconds, he just breathed. Deep, steady.

The call didn’t mean he was going to the World Cup.

Not yet.

But it meant they’d started looking again.

And that was enough to make the room feel smaller.

He dried his face with a hand towel and stood in the half-light, cigarette breath fading, engine turning over. He could feel it now. The machinery waking back up. The version of him they used to talk about. The one who finished games when others faded. The one who made defenders panic and keepers sweat.

He stepped into the main room and flicked on the news. Sports coverage. Transfer gossip. Summer league highlights. Haaland to City. A winger to PSG. Nothing about Dario’s €20 million move to Marseille, sealed last night. Club orders, silent until the medicals. But the blogs would catch the scent soon.

Back in the bedroom, the woman stood by the bed, smoothing her blouse, adjusting her skirt. She glanced toward the mirror, considered fixing her hair, then let it be. She stepped to him without a word, kissed him lightly, no pretense, no meaning beyond the gesture, and turned for the door.

By the time she gathered her things and left, the rain had passed. The harbor shimmered under a soft Monaco twilight. Reflections rippled in the puddles along the marble walkways, gold and red from docked super yachts and cafes lighting up the shoreline.

Dario stood at the window again, arms crossed.

He wasn’t back.

Not yet.

But he could smell the grass again. He could feel the weight of the ball at his feet.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard the roar of a stadium.

That was enough.

For now.

***

After she left, he showered, changed into fresh clothes, then sat by the window too long. Waiting for something to shift. Eventually, he laced up his shoes and went for a run.

Down past the marina. Past the anchored yachts and silver balconies and overpriced cafes. The city shimmered under late morning light, and the sea looked staged, too blue, too calm.

He ran until the noise in his head went quiet.

Each breath came sharper. His feet found rhythm. Muscles burned, but he kept moving.

He stopped at a fountain near the Jardin Exotique and bent over, palms on knees, lungs heaving.

Nothing had changed. But at least now he was tired.

The tests were tomorrow.

He already knew he’d go. He’d known since Renz’s call. Since the dream started breathing again. But that didn’t stop the doubt from coming.

***

Dario spent the following morning pacing between the sink and the window, wondering if he’d make it through. The last few nights hadn’t exactly been clean. He did the math. Counted the days. It didn’t help.

He nearly called his agent twice, once to stall, once just to hear a voice that wanted nothing from him.

But something held him back.

The weight of Renz’s call. The echo of that kid’s voice.

Or maybe just the quiet truth: it was this, or nothing.

The phone buzzed around noon.

“You ready?”

Dario leaned against the doorframe, scanning the city below. The skyline shimmered in the summer haze, cranes frozen mid-swing.

“Almost,” he said.

“You’ll need to be. They want bloodwork, imaging, cardio. No red flags. This isn’t charity, Dario. They’re watching.”

“I know.”

“Good. And clean up. You look like you’ve been living under a bridge.”

Dario smirked. “The bridge had better coffee.”

He clicked off and tossed the phone on the bed. Opened the duffel. Started packing—jersey, running shoes, razor, old wristband, half-dead earbuds.

Left the cigarette pack on the counter.

***

The medical center wasn’t far. A walk downhill past the casino, through the square. The scent of the sea rising in waves between buildings.

He’d been inside before, years ago. The scanners, the pulse monitors, the staff that didn’t smile. Back then, he’d walked in like he owned the place.

Now he walked in like he needed it.

Inside, a nurse greeted him by name, handed him a clipboard, and pointed to a hallway. The walls were white and bare. Sterile. Dario filled out the forms, handed them back, and sat in silence while machines hummed behind the doors.

They drew his blood. Hooked sensors to his chest. Ran him on a treadmill. The treadmill roared, sensors tugging. His knee twinged, a dull throb echoing the Qatar miss. One bad scan, and the comeback was over.

His breath burned, legs heavier than they should’ve been. If the scans showed damage, he was done. No World Cup. No comeback.

When he stepped out into the sunlight again, his shirt clung to his back. His heart was still kicking. He felt it in his throat.

That night, he skipped the bar. Took a walk instead, hands in his pockets. The streets smelled of rain and car exhaust, fried food and something sweet from a bakery near the square. A kid darted past with a football at his feet, laughing as he weaved around invisible defenders.

Dario paused. Watched.

He didn’t want to scare the kid, but something tightened in his chest.

The kid turned. Noticed him. Slowed down. For a fleeting second, the kid’s grin became Dino’s, six years old, chasing a ball in the park, his shoelaces always untied. The voicemail’s echo stung harder now, uninvited. ‘Don’t disappear again.’

“You play?” the boy asked.

“Used to,” Dario said.

“You look like you did.”

The boy grinned, turned, and jogged off.

Dario didn’t move. The street was quiet again.

He still looked like he did.

And this time, it felt like maybe that was enough.