Chapter 2: Vanja's fingers trail over Luka's sleeping form when his phone lights up with 'Ana ❤️' - she reads the message without hesitation, discovering their breakup was a lie, and now must decide whether to confront the basketball star or disappear before he wakes.
The first sliver of dawn painted the silk curtains of Vanja’s pink sanctuary a pale gold. She woke slowly, consciousness returning in fragments: the unfamiliar weight anchoring her hip, the deep, rhythmic breathing against the nape of her neck, the scent of male skin and lingering sex woven into the familiar perfume of her room. Luka’s arm was still draped heavily across her waist, possessively warm even in sleep. His breathing stirred the fine hairs at her temple.
She lay perfectly still, absorbing the surreal quiet. The frantic energy of the club, the desperate urgency in this very bed just hours ago, felt like a fever dream. Now, there was just this: the soft light, the deep stillness of the grand apartment, the solid heat of him pressed against her back. His breath hitched slightly, a soft sigh escaping as he shifted unconsciously, tightening his arm, pulling her deeper into the curve of his body. His lips brushed, feather-light, against the sensitive skin behind her ear. Not quite a kiss. An instinctive nuzzle.
Vanja closed her eyes. Every nerve ending sparked awake. The scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the sheer, undeniable presence of him – it reignited the embers that had barely cooled. He murmured something indistinct, Slovenian maybe, sleep-slurred. His hand slid lower, smoothing over the dip of her waist and settling on the swell of her hip, fingers flexing gently. His lips found the pulse point beneath her jaw, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss that sent heat pooling instantly between her legs.
"Luka," she breathed, half-protest, half-invitation.
He didn’t answer with words. His response was physical, primal. His hips pressed forward, the hard ridge of his renewed erection unmistakable against the small of her back. His hand slid around, fingers splaying possessively across her lower belly, pulling her flush against him. This time, the kiss he placed on her neck was deliberate, hungry. He trailed his mouth down her shoulder, nipping lightly, while his other hand moved to cup her breast, thumb circling her already taut nipple through the thin sheet.
Vanja arched back into him, a low moan escaping her lips. The languid heat of dawn transformed into something urgent. She twisted in his arms, turning to face him. Sleep-softened, his blond hair tousled, his blue eyes heavy-lidded but intensely focused, he looked devastatingly young and impossibly desirable. She reached up, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers. The kiss was slower than the frenzied coupling of the night before, deeper, more exploratory. Tasting, savoring. He rolled her gently onto her back, his weight settling over her, a welcome pressure. His gaze roamed her face, tracing the line of her cheekbone, the curve of her lip, with a reverence that stole her breath.
"No rush," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and desire. He dipped his head, kissing the hollow of her throat, then lower, his mouth closing over her breast. He worshipped her with his lips and tongue, moving with agonizing slowness, building the tension coil by coil inside her. His touch was different now – less frantic, more assured, attuned to the subtle shifts of her body. When he finally entered her, it was with a deep, controlled thrust that drew a ragged cry from her throat. They moved together in a rhythm that was both fierce and tender, the pink light gilding their sweat-slicked skin, the silence broken only by gasps and the soft, rhythmic creak of the antique bed. It felt less like escaping reality and more like claiming a sliver of it, fragile and precious in the breaking day.
Later, tangled in the rumpled sheets, Vanja traced the muscular lines of his shoulder with a fingertip. The rational world was knocking insistently. "I have a flight," she said quietly, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "Back to Berlin. This afternoon."
Luka propped himself up on one elbow, his expression clouding."Berlin? Today?" He looked genuinely surprised, maybe even disappointed. "Thought you were here longer."
"Research trip. Archives." She gestured vaguely towards the hallway, where her suitcase sat half-packed beside academic papers. "Gotta get back to the grind." She forced a lightness she didn't feel.
He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the tattoo on her hip he’d traced earlier."Right. The dusty pots." A ghost of his usual smirk appeared, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He glanced at his phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. "Shit. Practice. Early film session." He sighed, the weight of his own reality settling back on him. He leaned down, kissing her, slow and deep. "This was... unexpected."
Vanja managed a small smile. "Yeah. Unexpected." She watched him roll out of bed, the sheer scale of him momentarily filling the room. He moved with unconscious athletic grace, gathering his clothes scattered on the blush-colored rug. The intimacy of the night, the depth of the morning, seemed to shrink back with each item he pulled on. The connection felt suddenly fragile, tied to this room, this stolen morning.
He pulled his Mavericks hoodie over his head, his hair sticking up adorably. He walked back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed her again, quick and firm. "We should... talk? Or... something. Later?" It wasn't a promise. It was a question, tentative, almost awkward.
"Sure," Vanja said, keeping her voice steady. "Later." She watched him slip out of the pink sanctuary, closing the door with a soft click. The room felt vast and quiet again, holding only the scent of him and the fading warmth on the sheets. The silence echoed.
The next three months unfolded in a digital limbo. Berlin was rain-slicked streets, the sterile hum of the university library, the relentless pressure of her dissertation proposal. Luka was a constellation of pixels on her phone screen. They never "talked later" in any meaningful way. Instead, there was a low-level digital hum: a funny basketball meme he sent after a bad loss ("Look at this airball! Tragic!"), a fire emoji under an Instagram story she posted of a particularly vibrant Berlin sunset, a quick "haha" reaction to a sarcastic tweet she made about academic bureaucracy. Once, late at night, a grainy Snapchat video of him laughing with teammates in a dark club, the bass thumping. She’d replied with a simple "Looks wild," and he’d left it on read for two days before sending a thumbs-up.
She watched his stories, a passive observer in his glittering life. Highlights from games, flashing lights of events, quiet moments in a sleek, modern apartment that screamed "NBA rookie contract." And then, gradually, more frequently, her. Anamaria. First, just a glimpse – a feminine hand resting on his arm in a group shot. Then, clearer pictures. Her leaning against him at a restaurant, smiling. Him carrying her luggage at an airport. The captions were innocuous, never explicitly declaring anything, but the familiarity in their poses spoke volumes. The high school sweetheart. The complication he'd said was over, but clearly wasn't. Vanja’s stomach would knot each time. She felt like she was watching a rerun of a show she hadn't intended to star in.
Then came the photo that cut. Luka, relaxed on a plush couch, bathed in golden afternoon light. Anamaria lay curled against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, sleeping. His arm was wrapped protectively around her, his expression peaceful, content. Almost... proprietary. The caption was just a simple heart emoji from her account. Anamaria❤️. Tagging him.
Vanja stared at the photo on her phone screen, perched on the edge of her narrow bed in her tiny Berlin sublet. The familiar ache in her chest wasn't sharp anger; it was a dull, heavy throb of humiliation. The frantic passion in Belgrade, the connection she’d felt shimmering in the dawn light… it shriveled under the casual intimacy of that picture. She wasn't a secret he cherished; she was a secret he hid. A reckless night easily buried under the comfortable weight of his old life. She felt stupid. Naive for thinking the magnetic pull meant anything more than a temporary detour for him. The fire-haired distraction. The "unexpected" blip.
With cold, precise movements, she opened his Instagram profile. Hit the three dots. Selected 'Mute'. His stories vanished from her feed. His posts wouldn't appear unless she actively sought them. A flimsy digital barrier against the sting. She tossed her phone onto the rumpled duvet. It landed with a soft thud. The silence in the small room felt different now. Not peaceful. Hollow. She was the dirty secret who’d muted the star player. The anthropologist reduced to data point in someone else’s messy relationship history.
Across Europe, in a sun-drenched Madrid cafe, Zorana practically vibrated with gossipy energy over video chat. "Girl, you will not believe who Antoine met at that charity gala last night? Luka! Your Luka!"
Vanja stirred her tea, the spoon clinking too loudly against the cheap mug. "Not my Luka," she corrected, her voice flat. Antoine, Zorana’s latest conquest, was indeed a French midfielder for Real Madrid. Because of course he was.
"Okay, the Luka," Zorana conceded, waving a perfectly manicured hand. "Anyway, Antoine said he was talking, like, really talking, to the Mavericks GM? And his agent? Big, serious vibes. Antoine overheard…" she leaned closer to her camera, lowering her voice dramatically, "…that the offer is insane. Like, generational wealth insane. Dallas is locking him down. He’s signing. Officially NBA."
Vanja felt a bizarre pang. Not jealousy, exactly. More a sense of finality. The chasm between their worlds wasn't just geographical anymore; it was stratospheric. The boy who’d kissed her in a pink bedroom was cementing his place on a global stage. A stage where she had no role. "Good for him," she managed, the words tasting bland.
Zorana studied her face on the screen. "You okay? Still hung up on the Belgrade thing?"
Vanja forced a laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears. "Belgrade was months ago, Zo. Ancient history. Just… tired. Dissertation hell." She changed the subject, asking about Antoine, about Madrid, about anything but the blond giant whose muted stories were a constant, silent rebuke in her phone. She ended the call promising to visit soon. The screen went dark, reflecting her own tired face back at her. The fire-engine red of her hair looked almost garish against the grey Berlin light filtering through the window. She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over Instagram. Not to check his feed. Just to see if he’d noticed he was muted. If he’d cared enough to reach out directly. The notification list was empty. He hadn't chased. Why would he? He had his world. She had her muted screen, her dusty archives, and the hollow ache of knowing she’d been nothing but a vividly colored footnote. The chapter was closed. He was signing his future. She was staring down hers, alone.
The muted Instagram icon felt like a bruise she kept pressing. Vanja threw herself into Berlin’s grey grind: archives smelling of dust and decay, endless cups of bitter coffee, the cramped solitude of her student housing. Her fire-red hair was a defiant slash of color against the drab cityscape. Sometimes, scrolling aimlessly, she’d see it. A notification. lukadoncic77 liked your post. Her heart would hitch, stupidly, before logic slammed down. Just a reflex. Muscle memory for the social media age. Meaningless.
Zorana’s face popped up on video chat, Madrid sunshine blazing behind her. "Vanj! Guess who Antoine saw absolutely dominating practice yesterday? Your Balkan Adonis! Dropping dimes like it’s nothing." Antoine, Zorana’s footballer fling, was apparently Luka’s new neighbour in some elite athlete enclave. "He asked about you," Zorana added, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Vanja snorted, stirring lukewarm tea. "Doubtful. Why would the NBA’s newest golden boy remember his one-night fling from Belgrade? Especially now he’s taking the world by storm." She kept her voice light, dismissive. Like discussing the weather. Inside, a tiny, pathetic part held its breath.
Zorana waved a dismissive hand. "Pfft. Men remember. Especially when it’s you. He still follows you, no? Reacts sometimes?"
"Sometimes. A meme. A like. Big deal." Vanja shrugged, shifting the phone. "He probably mass-likes half his feed between practice drills. It’s algorithm noise, Zo. Not affection." She changed the subject to Zorana’s upcoming birthday bash in Madrid. Vanja needed sun, sangria, distance from this pointless loop. She booked a flight.
A week later, scrolling while waiting for her laundry in the dank basement, she saw it. A photo dump from one of Luka’s Dallas teammates. BBQ, pool, laughing faces. And there, near the edge: Luka, arms wrapped firmly around Anamaria in a crushing sideways hug. Her head rested comfortably against his shoulder. He looked relaxed. Happy. Utterly claimed. The caption: Squad vibes. 🔥 Vanja stared. The Belgrade dawn, his sleepy kisses, the whispered "Unexpected" – it all curdled into a sour, humiliating paste. The digital breadcrumbs meant nothing. She was a footnote in his highlight reel, easily archived.
Fingers cold, she navigated to his profile. No hesitation this time. Clicked ‘Unfollow’. A clean, sharp cut. The hollow feeling lingered, but it felt cleaner than the nagging ache of muted hope. Berlin’s grey felt almost comforting. Protective.
Three months later, Madrid pulsed with late-summer heat. Zorana’s birthday party spilled from a chic apartment onto a rooftop terrace strung with fairy lights. Music thumped, bodies swayed, laughter mingled with the clink of glasses. Vanja leaned against the railing, sipping cheap sangria, letting the warm Spanish air and Zorana’s infectious energy wash over her. She felt lighter. Removed. Luka was a distant, closed chapter back in Texas. She laughed at something Antoine said, genuinely relaxed.
Then the energy shifted near the doorway. A ripple of murmurs. Heads turning. Vanja glanced over, sangria glass halfway to her lips.
He filled the doorway. Taller, somehow, than she remembered, radiating a loose-limbed confidence. Blond hair ruffled, dressed in expensive-looking casuals. Luka scanned the crowded terrace, his gaze sharp, assessing. It swept past Antoine, past Zorana squealing his name, past clusters of semi-famous faces… and locked onto Vanja.
Hunger. Raw, unmistakable hunger flared in his eyes. The same intensity from the Belgrade club, the Belgrade dawn. It hit her like a physical blow, scattering her hard-won indifference. He started moving towards her, a determined force parting the crowd. Vanja’s breath hitched. She braced herself, the sangria suddenly sour on her tongue. He stopped inches away, the scent of him – expensive cologne and something inherently Luka – washing over her. The terrace noise faded to a dull roar.
"You cut your hair, and its blonde now" he said, his voice low, rough. His eyes traced the shorter, sharp lines of her blonde bob where it ended just above her shoulders His gaze dropped, lingering on her lips.
Vanja forced herself to meet his stare, summoning frost. "It grows and I got tired of dying it" she replied, voice clipped. "Where’s Anamaria? Texas keeping her busy?" The name felt like throwing a grenade.
He flinched, almost imperceptibly. His focus didn’t waver from her face. "Not here." He took another half-step closer. The heat from his body was overwhelming. "You look... incredible." His gaze wasn't just appreciative; it was devouring. Tracing the curve of her neck, the strap of her slip dress. The old magnetism pulled, fierce and undeniable, warring violently with the sting of the photo, the months of silence. Her carefully constructed walls felt dangerously thin.
He leaned in. "Been thinking about Belgrade." His breath warmed her ear. "A lot." Before she could protest, before she could summon a single rational thought, his hand was on her waist, pulling her firmly against him. His mouth crashed down on hers.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was claiming, desperate, fueled by sangria and whatever restless energy drove him. His lips were insistent, his tongue seeking entrance. Vanja’s body betrayed her instantly, melting into the familiar heat, the sheer physical power of him. Her free hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt for balance. For a dizzying second, the rooftop, the party, the past three months dissolved. There was only his mouth, his hands, the terrifying rightness of his body against hers. Then reality slammed back.
She tore her mouth away, gasping. Shame and fury warred within her. "Stop," she hissed, pushing against his chest. He released her, his eyes clouded with confusion and alcohol, his lips still parted. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a sharp, angry gesture. "Do you have a girlfriend, Luka?" The question sliced through the pulsing music.
He blinked, swaying slightly. Ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she remembered from Belgrade – frustration, uncertainty. He looked down at his shoes, then back up at her, his expression genuinely bewildered. "I…" He swallowed. "I don't know." The words were slurred, thick. Empty.
The absurdity, the sheer insult of it, crystallized her resolve. That photo of him holding Anamaria flashed behind her eyes. His digital silence. His drunken confusion now. She wasn't waiting in the wings for him to figure it out. She stepped back, putting solid space between them. Her voice was ice. "Figure it out. Then maybe talk."
She turned on her heel, pushing past Antoine’s confused look, ignoring Zorana’s wide-eyed stare from across the terrace. She didn’t look back. The warm Madrid night air felt suddenly suffocating. She walked out, the pulse of the party fading behind her. Her flight back to the States couldn’t come soon enough.
The recycled air in the taxi from DFW tasted like stale pretzels and defeat. Vanja slumped against the window, watching the sprawling, sun-baked flatness of Dallas blur past. Back to the PhD grind at UT Austin, back to dusty archives and the comforting, predictable weight of academic isolation. The Madrid rooftop felt like another planet, another lifetime. Luka’s drunken kiss, his pathetic "I don't know" about Anamaria – it should have cemented her resolve. It mostly just left her feeling scraped raw and stupidly homesick for Belgrade nights that belonged to someone else now.
Months bled into the relentless Texas summer. Life narrowed to the library’s fluorescent hum, her cramped grad student apartment smelling of takeout and printer ink, and the ever-present ache of dislocation. She dyed her hair back to its natural dark blonde, cutting it sharp and short. A reset, she told herself. Practical. Nothing to do with erasing the fiery phantom of who she’d been in his presence.
One muggy Thursday evening, sprawled on her worn couch grading undergrad papers, her laptop pinged with a notification. The NBA Draft. She hesitated, thumb hovering over her trackpad. Why inflict this? But a morbid curiosity, the same impulse that makes you poke a bruise, won out. She clicked the stream.
The arena lights were blindingly sterile. Hype music thudded through her tinny speakers. Names were called, young men in ill-fitting suits embraced families, strode onto the stage, futures crystallizing. Vanja watched detachedly, a scientist observing ritual. Then the Commissioner stepped up. "With the first overall pick in the 2018 NBA Draft, the Dallas Mavericks select… Luka Dončić."
The roar was deafening even through her laptop. The camera cut instantly to him. He stood, taller and broader than she remembered, radiating a calm gravity beneath the shock of blond hair. That easy, infectious grin spread across his face. Pure, unadulterated joy. He hugged his father fiercely, then turned to his mother. Mirjam’s face was crumpled with pride, tears streaming as she clutched his face, murmuring words lost in the din. Vanja’s own throat tightened unexpectedly. The raw, familial love was undeniable, beautiful. Her eyes scanned the tight family circle. No Anamaria.
She’ll probably come later, Vanja thought automatically, the familiar pang twisting beneath her ribs. He’ll need someone familiar, someone close, in all this madness. The image of Anamaria curled against his chest on that Dallas teammate’s Instagram flashed, sharp and unwelcome. His mother released him, beaming, and Luka turned towards the stage, the Mavericks cap placed on his head. He belonged to Dallas now. To the world. His world.
Her phone buzzed, Zorana’s face lighting up the screen. Vanja muted the draft stream. "Vanja! Did you see? First pick! Holy shit, Dallas! He's coming to Texas!" Zorana's voice crackled with transatlantic excitement and cheap Madrid wine. "Are you okay? Like, seriously?"
Vanja stared at the frozen image on her laptop – Luka waving to the roaring crowd, a king accepting his crown. "Yeah," she managed, her voice surprisingly steady. "I'm okay. I'll live." She forced a dry chuckle. "It’s not like I’ll see him again, Zo. Him and I? We live in different solar systems. Different galaxies."
"Ah, don't be dramatic!" Zorana scoffed. "You're both ridiculously hot, both tall blondes, both Balkan warriors! Dallas isn't that big! Maybe… I don't know… bump into him? Accidentally spill your coffee on his ridiculous designer shoes?"
Vanja snorted. "Yeah, sure thing. Because striking up conversation with NBA royalty after dousing him in latte sounds like a solid plan. As if dating in this town wasn't already like finding a specific grain of sand on South Padre Island. Blind dates with physicists who talk about quarks? Pass."
Zorana sighed dramatically. "Okay, fine. Point taken. But promise me you'll go out? Do something not involving dusty bones? For me?"
"Maybe," Vanja conceded, knowing she probably wouldn't. "I need to finish grading this mountain of existential dread disguised as essays. Talk later, Zo."
Days later, fueled by a bizarre mix of defiance and Zorana’s nagging, Vanja met her friend Monica for brunch at a trendy spot in Deep Ellum. Monica, a fellow grad student in Linguistics, was relentlessly cheerful. "Okay, spill the Euro tea," she demanded over avocado toast. "Madrid stories. Were the men as intense as they say?"
Vanja poked her fruit salad. "Intense? One tried to serenade me with flamenco guitar at 3 AM outside my hostel window. Does that count?" She spun a sanitized version, omitting the six-foot-seven Slovenian-shaped elephant in the room. After brunch, wandering the vibrant street art-covered walls, Monica stopped her. "Photo op! This mural is insane." Monica pulled out her phone, framing Vanja against a kaleidoscopic explosion of color. Vanja leaned back, forcing a bright, carefree smile she didn't feel, the Texas sun bleaching her newly blonde hair almost platinum.
Later that evening, scrolling through her own feed, Vanja posted the photo: Back in the Big D with the bestie! ☀️ #DeepEllum #DallasVibes. She tagged Monica and the location. A notification popped up almost instantly. lukadoncic77 liked your photo. A simple, silent blue heart beneath the image of her laughing against the mural.
She stared at it. No message. No comment. Just a digital fingerprint. Proof he’d seen her, here, in his new kingdom. Knowing she existed a few miles away in the same sprawling city. The distance between them felt smaller than ever, yet wider. He was the first pick. The prince arriving. She was just a girl in a tagged photo, liked and left behind. She locked her phone screen, the glow fading in the dim apartment. The silence pressed in, heavy and expectant, broken only by the distant wail of a Dallas police siren. He knew she was here. He hadn't said a word.