Chapter 10: Breaking Point
The descent felt like walking onto a pitch seconds before a derby. Vanja followed Manuel down the stairs, the muffled roar from the TV and the guys’ shouting growing louder, sharper. The scent of paprika, roasted peppers, and cooling sarma hung heavier here, mingling with the faint ozone smell of the electronics. Serge was sprawled dramatically on the far end of the sleek black sofa, clutching his thigh with theatrical agony. "I swear, it's spasming! That goal celebration was worth it, but damn!"
Tom snorted, tossing a controller onto the empty cushion beside him. "You jumped two inches off the ground, Gnabry. Dramaqueen." He glanced up as Vanja approached. "Ah! The reinforcements! Neuer drafted you? Brave woman."
Aleksandar, perched on the arm of the sofa near Serge, gave Vanja a quick, assessing look. "You sure, V? You looked dead on your feet upstairs."
The protective note in his voice grated slightly. She wasn't fragile glass. "Dead on my feet, maybe," Vanja retorted, forcing a lightness she didn't feel. "But still capable of schooling you all at FIFA. Where's my weapon?" She scanned the low table cluttered with controllers, discarded plates, and beer bottles.
The only free spot on the long sofa was next to Joshua. He sat rigidly upright on the far left, controller already in hand, eyes fixed on the paused screen showing Bayern Munich versus Real Madrid. His jaw was set, his blond hair a sharp contrast against the dark leather. He hadn't acknowledged her arrival.
Manuel nudged a controller towards her with his foot, pointing to the gap beside Joshua. "There. You're with me. Bayern, obviously." He settled himself into a deep armchair facing the screen, looking completely at ease, like a king surveying his domain.
Vanja hesitated for a split second, the air suddenly thick. The space beside Joshua felt like a minefield. But backing down wasn't an option. Not after Manuel’s challenge, not after Joshua’s dismissal. She took a breath, the borrowed Roma shirt brushing her thighs as she moved. She stepped over Lennart’s legs where he sat on the floor, then lowered herself onto the sofa cushion beside Joshua.
The leather was cool through the thin cotton of the shirt. She deliberately didn't look at him, focusing on picking up the controller, her fingers fumbling slightly. The distance between them was minimal, just the width of the cushion seam. As she leaned forward slightly to grab the controller from the edge of the low table, her bare thigh accidentally, inevitably, brushed against the side of Joshua’s knee.
It was the briefest contact. Skin against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. A fraction of a second.
Electricity.
It wasn't just warmth. It was a jolt, visceral and shocking, shooting up her leg and freezing her breath. She felt the hard muscle of his knee tense instantly beneath her touch, a rock-solid flinch. Her own skin tingled, the ghost of Max's possessive grip instantly overshadowed by this sudden, shocking connection.
He didn't move away. Didn't react outwardly at all, except for that infinitesimal tensing. His gaze remained locked on the pixelated Allianz Arena, his thumb idly circling the analog stick. But the air between them crackled, charged with a tension so thick it seemed to hum.
Vanja snatched the controller, pulling her leg back, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stared blindly at the screen, the vibrant colors a meaningless blur. The noise of the others – Serge moaning, Tom teasing, Aleks asking Manuel something – receded into a dull buzz. All she was aware of was the heat lingering where her skin had touched his, and the rigid wall of his presence beside her, radiating icy resistance and something else, something hot and dangerous beneath the surface.
Manuel leaned forward, his gaze sharp as it flickered between the frozen screen and Joshua's unnaturally still profile. "Alright, Pavlović, you're with Bischoff. Vanja and I will destroy you. Kimmich, ready?"
Joshua gave a curt nod, jaw clenched. "Ready."
The game resumed. Pixelated players surged across the screen. Vanja tried to focus, her fingers clumsy on the unfamiliar buttons. Manuel guided her calmly, his deep voice rumbling instructions. "Easy, easy... press X to pass... now, sprint, R2... look for the run..."
She made a clumsy pass that was easily intercepted. Serge whooped from his prone position. "See! Told you! She's gonna cost you, Manu!"
"Shut up, Serge," Manuel said mildly, his eyes still occasionally drifting towards Joshua.
Vanja gritted her teeth, forcing concentration. She intercepted a pass clumsily, then somehow managed a lob through ball that Manuel’s digital self latched onto, streaking towards goal. "Yes! Go on!" Vanja yelled, leaning forward instinctively as Manuel’s player rounded the keeper. He slotted it home.
"Get in!" Manuel grinned, clinking his beer bottle against hers where she'd left it on the table earlier. "See? Natural."
Vanja managed a shaky smile back, a flicker of triumph momentarily cutting through the fog of tension beside her. She glanced sideways, unable to stop herself. Joshua was hunched over his controller, his knuckles white, his grey eyes narrowed in fierce concentration on the screen, utterly absorbed in demolishing Tom and Aleksandar's defense. He hadn't reacted to their goal. Hadn't looked at her once since she sat down.
A fresh wave of frustration, sharp and bitter, washed over her. The deliberate ignoring was worse than anger. It was erasure. The electric jolt from that accidental touch still simmered in her veins, a stark contrast to this wall of indifference. The memory of Max's possessive croatian whispers, his sudden disappearance, felt entangled with this rejection, a confirmation of her own perceived worthlessness.
The game continued. Passes fizzed, tackles flew in, goals were celebrated and lamented. Vanja started to get the hang of the controls, her competitive spirit flaring. She pulled off a neat skill move, earning a surprised grunt of approval from Manuel. She laughed, a genuine, if slightly breathless, sound. "Told you I'd kick your asses!"
During a break in play, a cutscene showing a player receiving treatment, Vanja reached for her beer bottle on the low table again. It required another slight lean forward. This time, she was acutely aware of her proximity to Joshua. Her arm brushed against his, sending another spark through the thin sleeve of the Roma shirt. His entire arm tensed. He shifted minutely away, a barely perceptible recoil.
It was the final straw.
The frustration, the hurt from Max, the humiliation of his dismissal earlier, the confusing, unwanted attraction crackling under the surface – it all coalesced into a reckless surge of defiance. She pulled back, putting her bottle down without taking a sip. The digital physio was still waving his magic sponge. The noise level dipped slightly.
She turned her head fully towards Joshua. He still stared rigidly ahead, the blue light from the screen reflecting in his stormy grey eyes. The line of his jaw could have been carved from marble.
Vanja leaned in, just a fraction. Close enough that her breath, if he turned, would ghost over his ear. Close enough that the faint, clean scent of his soap cut through the lingering spices. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, so low and intimate it was swallowed by the ambient noise of the game and the others’ chatter. Only meant for him. A challenge thrown down in the dark.
"I dare you," she breathed, the words barely audible, laced with defiance and a raw, aching vulnerability she couldn't hide. "Look at me. Just once."
The effect was instantaneous. Violent.
Joshua froze. Utterly still. Not breathing. Every muscle in his body seemed to lock into place, coiled tighter than a spring under ultimate pressure. The controller in his hands creaked ominously. The tension radiating off him shifted, deepening, becoming almost feral. The icy detachment didn't just crack; it shattered. The screen in front of him might as well have gone black. His head didn't turn, but his entire being focused with laser intensity on her presence beside him, on the heat of her whisper against the shell of his ear, on the devastating audacity of her dare.
From his armchair, Manuel Neuer saw it all. He saw Joshua’s back stiffen like steel rebar driven into concrete. He saw the minute tremor that ran through the midfielder’s shoulders. He saw the white-knuckle grip on the controller, the tendons standing out starkly on Joshua’s forearms. He saw the sudden, terrifying stillness that wasn't calm, but the eye of a hurricane.
Manuel’s own relaxed posture vanished. He leaned forward slowly, his blue eyes narrowing, sharpening from amused observer to focused analyst, watching the controlled explosion happening silently on the sofa. He didn't say a word. He just watched, the faintest frown etching lines between his brows, the easy camaraderie of the game forgotten as he witnessed the precise moment Joshua Kimmich’s legendary discipline imploded. The air in the room thickened, charged with the silent detonation of her whispered words. The game on the screen resumed, the pixels moving, but the real contest, the dangerous, visceral one, was happening right there on the black leather sofa.
The pixels flickered back to frantic life on the screen, Bayern players surging forward. Joshua didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t breathe. The controller groaned again in his clenched fist. That coiled, explosive tension held the air hostage, thick enough to choke on. Across the room, Manuel’s gaze remained locked on him, sharp and assessing, missing nothing.
“Kimmich! Mate! Your winger’s wide open!” Tom’s shout cut through the static in Vanja’s head. “What are you doing, sleeping?”
Joshua flinched, a micro-spasm breaking his statue-like stillness. His thumb jabbed violently at a button. His pixelated player launched a wild, desperate cross that sailed high over the bar into the digital stands. A collective groan erupted.
“Scheiße, Josh!” Serge complained, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Pass! It was a simple pass!”
Joshua remained silent. Rigid. His knuckles were bone-white. Vanja could feel the heat radiating from him, a furnace contained within the icy exterior. He hadn’t looked. He hadn’t turned his head a single millimeter towards her. Her whispered dare hung in the charged air between them, unanswered, amplifying her humiliation. The electric shock of their accidental touch felt like a cruel joke now. She stared blindly at the screen, the vibrant green pitch blurring. Max’s sudden vanishing act, the hollow ache in her chest, collided violently with Joshua’s brutal, pointed indifference. Just once. He couldn’t even grant her that.
“Alright, my turn!” Aleks declared, staggering up from the sofa arm and grabbing a controller from Tom. He plopped down heavily on the floor near Vanja’s feet, momentarily breaking the suffocating bubble. “Vanj, distract Kimmich again, yeah? Make him screw up more.” He grinned up at her, oblivious to the depth of the wound he’d just poked.
Vanja forced a brittle laugh, the sound scraping her throat. “I think my distraction powers are tapped out, Aleks.” She pushed herself up abruptly, the leather cushion sighing. “Actually, I’m fading. Gonna head back upstairs. Enjoy the massacre, Manuel.” She didn’t look at Joshua. Couldn’t. The rejection was a physical weight pressing down.
Manuel gave her a slow, understanding nod, his eyes flicking once more to Joshua’s unnaturally still profile. “Get some rest, Vanja. Thanks for the assist.”
She fled, the noise of the resumed game and Serge’s renewed complaints fading behind her as she climbed the stairs. The scent of cooling sarma felt suddenly cloying, suffocating. Alone in the dim hallway upstairs, she leaned against the cool wall, pressing her palms to her eyes, willing the unshed tears back. Fuck you, Joshua Kimmich. Fuck you, Max. Wherever you are.
Three Days Later: Club Krystal, Munich
The bass pounded deep in Vanja’s chest, a relentless thrum that vibrated the sticky floor under her strappy heels. Strobe lights sliced through the thick haze of smoke and expensive cologne, catching the gleam of sequins and the flash of teeth in forced smiles. She clung to her overpriced vodka tonic, the ice long melted. Aleksandar, already swaying slightly beside her, yelled something unintelligible over the din, gesturing wildly towards the VIP section roped off near the back. Manuel, a towering, calm presence at her other side, scanned the crowd with the detached focus of a goalkeeper surveying a crowded penalty area.
“He’s gone to find the loo or more drinks, probably both!” Vanja shouted back at Aleks, her voice strained. The relentless energy of the club felt overwhelming, abrasive against her raw nerves. She glanced towards the VIP section Aleks had pointed at – a raised platform bathed in cooler blue light, packed with sleek figures and guarded by impassive men in black suits. Her gaze swept idly over the scene: sharp suits, shimmering dresses, laughter that looked sharp-edged under the cold light. Then it snagged. Hard.
Max.
He was leaning back in a plush booth, one arm draped casually along the back of the seat. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, open-collared white shirt, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome. Relaxed. At ease. Surrounded by men whose faces were all hard angles and watchful eyes, and women whose smiles seemed practiced, predatory. He laughed at something one of the men said, the sound lost in the club's roar but the easy posture unmistakable. Comfortable. Natural. Like he belonged right there in the heart of that dangerous-looking circle.
Vanja’s breath hitched. Shock punched through the vodka haze, cold and sharp. He was here. Back in Munich. Looking like that. Without a word to her. All the frantic texts, the unanswered calls, the gnawing worry about where he’d vanished to… it condensed into a single, searing point of betrayal. She started forward automatically, pushing past a swaying couple, her eyes fixed on him. Max.
He chose that exact moment to glance towards the dance floor. His grey eyes met hers across the smoky distance. Recognition flared instantly in his gaze, sharp and intense. For a fraction of a second, a lifetime, they held contact. Vanja felt a fragile, desperate hope flicker. She managed a small, tentative smile, her hand lifting slightly in hesitant greeting.
His expression didn’t change. No smile, no frown. Nothing. Like flipping a switch, the connection died. His gaze slid right past her, over her shoulder, as if she were invisible. Air. A smudge on the lens. He turned back to the man beside him, resuming his conversation, his face a smooth, unreadable mask. The dismissal was absolute, brutal, and utterly public.
The fragile hope shattered. Pain, sharp and humiliating, lanced through her. Unseen tears burned the backs of her eyes, making the strobe lights blur into streaks of colour. The exact same erasure Joshua practiced, but this… this cut infinitely deeper. He was inside me. He whispered promises against my skin. Now, nothing. A void. She stood frozen amidst the pulsing crowd, feeling utterly exposed, a raw nerve ending in the middle of a riot.
Max didn’t look back. He kept his gaze resolutely away from where he knew she stood, his knuckles white where they gripped his glass beneath the table. Fuck. He saw the hurt flit across her face, the confusion, before he’d ruthlessly shut it out. He hated himself with a ferocity that tightened his chest. But the cold, assessing eyes of the man to his left – Leka, a key supplier whose territory overlapped dangerously in the Balkans – had followed his glance. The last fucking thing Max needed was the leaders of the Albanian network noticing his connection to Vanja Brandt. Especially not now. Especially not with her father’s known establishments. Protection tasted like ash in his mouth. He forced a laugh at Leka’s comment, the sound hollow even to his own ears.
Vanja turned away, blindly, the world tilting. She stumbled back through the crowd, bumping into sweaty bodies, the music now a painful assault. She found Aleksandar leaning heavily against the bar, blinking owlishly, and Manuel watching her approach with immediate concern etched onto his face.
“Vanja?” Manuel’s deep voice cut through the noise. “What happened? You look…”
“Aleks,” she interrupted, her voice trembling only slightly, choked with unshed tears she refused to let fall. She gestured towards her swaying friend. “He’s done. Can you… can you help me take him home, Manu?” The plea was clear, a desperate need to escape this suffocating place and the crushing weight of Max’s dismissal.
Manuel Neuer, the immovable wall, looked from her strained expression to Aleksandar’s drunken slump. Understanding, or perhaps just innate protectiveness, flooded his calm blue eyes. He didn’t ask questions. He simply nodded, a decisive dip of his chin. He effortlessly hooked an arm around Aleksandar’s waist, hauling the younger player upright. “Sure thing,” he rumbled, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “I’ll take the two of you home.” He guided Aleksandar towards the exit, creating a path through the throng with his sheer presence.
Vanja fell into step beside him, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead on the glowing exit sign. She didn’t glance back towards the VIP section. Not once. The image of Max, handsome and utterly indifferent amidst his dangerous world, was already seared onto her retinas. The tears remained unshed, trapped behind a wall of icy numbness, as Manuel steered them out into the marginally quieter chaos of the Munich night.
The cool night air was a slap after the club's sweaty furnace. Vanja inhaled sharply, the scent of damp pavement and distant traffic cutting through the lingering perfume and smoke clinging to her skin. Aleksandar mumbled incoherently against Manuel's shoulder as the goalkeeper effortlessly propped him up against a lamppost, flagging down an Uber with his free hand. The city lights blurred in Vanja's vision, streaking neon across her retinas, mirroring the chaotic mess inside her head. Max's dismissal played on a loop – the switch flipping, the icy nothingness where warm recognition should have been.
"Easy, Pavlović," Manuel rumbled, shifting his grip as Aleksandar sagged. The Uber pulled up, sleek and anonymous. Manuel bundled Aleksandar into the back seat with practiced efficiency, then gestured for Vanja to slide in next to their semi-conscious friend. She did, folding her legs under the tight white dress she’d worn hoping to feel powerful, feeling anything but. Manuel climbed in the front, giving the address to Aleksandar’s building. The silence inside the car was thick, punctuated only by Aleksandar's soft snores and the rhythmic click of the turn signal.
Vanja stared out the window. Munich slid by – elegant facades, glowing shop windows, couples laughing in sidewalk cafes. Normal life. It felt alien. The numbness began to crack, replaced by a raw, scraping ache low in her belly. A need to obliterate the image of Max’s cold eyes, the phantom sting of Joshua’s deliberate avoidance. She needed noise. Heat. Anything to burn out the cold knot of humiliation. Her gaze drifted to the rearview mirror, catching Manuel’s steady blue eyes reflected there. Watching her. Assessing, like he had back at Aleksandar’s during the FIFA game. A different kind of tension sparked, dangerous and immediate.
They hauled Aleksandar out of the Uber, maneuvering his dead weight through the lobby and into the elevator of his sleek building. The ride up was silent except for their breathing and the soft hum of machinery. Vanja focused on the sharp scent of Manuel’s cologne, clean and woodsy, a stark contrast to the club's cloying sweetness. The doors slid open onto Aleksandar’s dimly lit hallway. Manuel shouldered most of the weight, guiding Aleksandar to his bedroom door.
"Keys?" Manuel asked, his voice low.
"Hip pocket," Aleksandar slurred, waving a limp hand vaguely towards his backside.
Manuel expertly fished them out, unlocked the door, and deposited Aleksandar onto his bed. He pulled off Aleksandar’s shoes, tossed a blanket haphazardly over him, and clicked the lamp on the bedside table to its lowest setting. Aleksandar was already out, his breathing deepening into sleep.
"Done," Manuel murmured, turning back towards Vanja, who stood silhouetted in the doorway, the light from the hallway casting her tight white dress in an almost ethereal glow. He moved to walk past her, back towards the living room. "I'll call him a cab later. Let him sleep it off."
"Manu." Her voice stopped him. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the quiet. He turned, his face a mixture of calm and slight confusion in the dim light.
"What?"
"Come." She didn't move from the doorway, blocking his path back to the living room. Her dark green eyes held his, wide and unnervingly direct in the shadows.
Manuel frowned slightly, shifting his weight. "Come where? Vanja, you should get some rest too. Rough night." His gaze flickered over her face, concern deepening the lines around his eyes. She looked pale beneath the remnants of her makeup, her usual vibrancy dimmed.
"Manu," she repeated, stepping closer, invading his personal space with a boldness that felt brittle. The faint scent of her perfume – something expensive and floral with a dark, smoky base – wrapped around him. "I… I need to forget." Her voice dropped, rough with unshed tears and vodka. "Just for tonight. Okay?" She gestured vaguely towards Aleksandar’s darkened room. "He's out."
Manuel stilled. His eyes dropped, taking in the way the thin white fabric clung to every curve – the swell of her breasts, the dramatic dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. It looked like a second skin under the hallway's soft glow. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he consciously dragged his gaze back up to her face. "Vanja…"
"You are great, Manu," she breathed, closing the remaining distance. Her palm pressed flat against the solid wall of his chest, feeling the powerful muscle beneath his shirt, the steady thud of his heart. "And you are hot." She tilted her head up, her lips slightly parted. "Seriously hot."
He managed a strained smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He shook his head slowly, firmly. "No. No, Vanja. Whatever you're thinking… no." His voice was low, gravelly with restraint.
She froze. The raw plea in her eyes hardened into something defensive, wounded. The hand on his chest didn't move. "Don't get me wrong," he continued, his gaze intense, searching hers. "You are incredible. Anyone can see that. But that thing in the club, seeing Max like that…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "And whatever you've got going on with Kimmich… it's… messy. Complicated."
"There is nothing between me and Kimmich!" The denial burst from her, sharp and immediate. She didn't address the club, Max, the crushing humiliation – only Joshua. Her fingers flexed slightly against his pec. "Nothing!"
"It would complicate things, Vanja," Manuel insisted, his voice dropping even lower. His own pulse hammered under her touch. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. His resolve felt slippery. "Seriously complicate them."
"Manuel." Her other hand came up, resting beside the first, anchoring herself to him. She leaned in, the proximity electric. Her scent filled his senses – perfume, vodka, and something uniquely, devastatingly her. "I don't want complicated," she whispered, her voice thick with desperate need. "I want you. Fuck, I need you. Right now. Pure and simple." Her dark green eyes locked onto his pale blue ones, challenging, demanding. "Don't you want me?"
He looked at her. Really looked. The stunning, wounded vulnerability warring with fierce determination in her eyes. The impossible fullness of her breasts straining against the white fabric, the sinful curve of her waist beneath his palms, the potent femininity radiating from her. The heady scent of her skin and hair, a siren song cutting through every shred of his discipline. The memory of her thigh brushing Joshua’s, the crackling tension he’d witnessed, warred with the raw ache radiating from her now. His control, usually as solid as his goal line, splintered.
"Fuck." The word ripped from his throat, raw and guttural. It wasn't agreement, it was surrender.
His hands, large and sure, shot out, gripping her waist, hauling her flush against him. Then his mouth crashed down onto hers. Hard. Possessive. Vanja gasped against his lips, a sound that instantly morphed into a deep, ragged moan as she kissed him back with equal ferocity, her fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape. The world outside – Max, Joshua, the PhD thesis waiting on her laptop, the crushing weight of it all – dissolved into white noise. There was only the heat, the demanding pressure of his mouth, the hard planes of his body against hers, and the desperate, obliterating need. A low, primal growl vibrated in Manuel’s chest as he deepened the kiss.