Chapter 12: Vania
The pristine white corridors of the Säbener Straße training facility hummed with subdued energy. Vanja leaned against the cool wall outside the players' lounge, the scent of deep-heat rub and freshly laundered kit sharp in the air. Distant shouts from the training pitch filtered through the reinforced glass. She felt raw. Sore muscles protested subtly, a constant, throbbing reminder between her thighs. The high neck of her soft cotton t-shirt hid Manuel’s bite mark, but the memory of it, of everything, pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. She’d spent the hours since dawn replaying the brutal, shattering intensity in Aleksandar’s shower, the way Manuel had walked out leaving only silence and confusion in his wake.
The door to the inner sanctum swung open. Players spilled out, buzzing with post-training fatigue and adrenaline. Laughter, the clatter of boots on tile, the slap of high-fives. Aleksandar emerged, spotting her instantly, his face breaking into a wide, easy grin. His dark hair was damp, his training jacket unzipped.
"Mala!" he called, his voice warm, cutting through the din. He started towards her, opening his arms. "Didn't know you were coming by! Perfect timing!"
Vanja pushed off the wall, forcing a smile that felt brittle. The familiar comfort of him was a lifeline. "Couldn't miss seeing my favourite midfielder limp off the pitch," she joked, her voice thankfully steady. She stepped into his embrace, relaxing fractionally as his strong arms closed around her. He smelled of grass, sweat, and his usual clean, citrusy deodorant. Safe. Predictable. "You looked sharp out there," she mumbled into his shoulder.
"Always am," he laughed, giving her an extra squeeze before pulling back, hands resting on her shoulders, his eyes scanning her face with brotherly concern. "You okay? You look... tired. Big night after I crashed? Heard you thumping about."
Before Vanja could formulate a plausible lie about dropping books or tripping over furniture, a deeper voice cut in, smooth as aged whisky but carrying an undercurrent that froze her spine.
"Good seeing you in the light of day, Vanja."
Manuel Neuer stood a few feet away. Dressed in dark training gear, his damp blond hair pushed back, he looked effortlessly imposing. His grey-blue eyes weren't calm today. They held an intensity that pinned her in place, a raw, assessing heat that stripped away the morning’s feeble attempts at normalcy. He hadn’t just seen her; he knew her, in the most carnal, exposed way possible. The memory of his cock pistoning into her against the shower tiles, his guttural roar as he came inside her, flooded her senses, tightening her nipples against her bra.
Aleksandar, oblivious, beamed. "Manu! Good session, yeah?" He clapped the giant keeper on the shoulder.
Manuel’s gaze never left Vanja. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips. "Very good, Aleks." His eyes flickered down her body, a slow, deliberate inventory that felt like a physical caress, then back to her face. "You recover okay?" The question was innocent on the surface. The heat in his eyes was anything but.
Vanja’s cheeks flushed. She willed her voice not to tremble. "Uh, yeah. Fine. Thanks." She couldn't look away. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken filth and the echo of her screams.
Aleksandar glanced between them, his easy smile faltering slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "Recover? You two party together last night?" he asked, confusion lacing his tone.
Serge Gnabry, bouncing over, trainer bag slung over his shoulder, skidded to a stop beside them, eyes wide with curiosity. "Whoa, what did I miss? Vanja and Manu? Since when—"
"Vanja." The voice was like ice water thrown over the charged atmosphere.
Joshua Kimmich stood rigid, a few paces behind Gnabry. His blond hair was perfectly in place, his expression meticulously composed, the model professional. But his grey eyes, usually sharp and focused, were glacial shards fixed on the tableau: Vanja pressed slightly against Aleksandar’s side, Manuel looming close, radiating possessive heat. Joshua’s knuckles were white where he gripped his water bottle. The cold fury radiating off him was palpable, a stark contrast to Manuel’s smouldering intensity.
Aleksandar’s confusion deepened into open bewilderment. "Josh? You alright, mate?" He looked from Joshua’s stony face to Vanja, then back to Manuel, who finally tore his gaze from Vanja to meet Joshua’s glare. A silent, dangerous current passed between the two men, heavy with challenge and unspoken violence.
Vanja felt the ground tilt. She unconsciously pressed her thighs together, the movement sending a fresh throb through her sensitized core. The soreness was a brand, a reminder of Manuel’s possession. Joshua’s icy stare was a condemnation. Gnabry whistled low under his breath, taking an instinctive step back.
Manuel broke the charged silence, his voice deceptively casual, yet layered with meaning only he, Vanja, and Joshua could fully comprehend. "Just welcoming our resident academic." He deliberately looked back at Vanja, his gaze dropping pointedly to her mouth for a heartbeat. "Glad you're... upright." He nodded curtly, first at Aleksandar, then with deliberate slowness at Joshua. "Jo." He turned and walked away, his stride powerful and unconcerned, yet radiating a tension Vanja knew intimately.
The silence he left behind was suffocating. Joshua’s gaze snapped to Vanja, sharp enough to cut. "Vanja. " His greeting was clipped, impersonal. "Gnabry. Pavlović. Team meeting in five." He didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, his back rigid.
Aleksandar stared after him, then at Vanja, his expression a mixture of worry and dawning suspicion. "Vanja... what the hell was that? What's going on with you and Manu? And why does Josh look like he wants to murder someone? Preferably Manu? Or maybe you?"
Gnabry raised his hands, backing away further. "Yeah, I'm out. Whatever this is, it looks like a hand grenade with the pin pulled. See you guys later." He practically jogged down the hall.
Vanja closed her eyes for a second, the sterile air of the facility suddenly too thin. She focused on the distant thud of a football being struck on the training pitch. She opened her eyes to Aleksandar’s expectant, concerned face. "It's... complicated, Alek," she whispered, the words scraping her throat. "Really complicated."
He studied her face, the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw. He sighed, pulling her into another brief, tight hug. "Complicated usually means messy, mala. You know where I am. Anytime." He pulled back, squeezing her shoulders. "Gotta run to this meeting. Don't... don't do anything stupid, okay?"
She managed a weak smile. "No promises."
He gave her one last troubled look before jogging after Gnabry, leaving her alone in the echoing corridor. The scent of Manuel’s intensity and Joshua’s fury seemed to linger. Her body ached, a confusing mix of satisfaction and shame. She needed air. She needed to be away from this pressure cooker of testosterone and unspoken conflict. Pushing off the wall, she headed for the main entrance, her steps quickening, desperate to escape the weight of their stares, both the heated one she could still feel like a brand and the icy one that promised a reckoning.
The heavy glass doors of Säbener Straße hissed shut behind Vanja, cutting off the sterile air and the oppressive weight of those stares. Munich’s late morning sun felt harsh, too bright on her skin still humming from the encounter, the phantom press of Manuel’s body against the shower tiles a vivid echo. She fumbled for her phone, fingers trembling slightly, the memory of Joshua’s glacial fury twisting her stomach. Fuck. Aleksandar’s confusion, Gnabry’s retreat, Manuel’s deliberate, searing appraisal – it was a minefield she’d stumbled into blindfolded. She hailed a taxi, the city blurring past the window, a chaotic smear that mirrored the mess inside her head. She needed distance. Silence. A place where the only heat was from her coffee, not from a keeper’s predatory gaze or a midfielder’s icy rage.
Her own apartment offered temporary sanctuary. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, landing on shelves crammed with philosophy texts and Bayern scarves. She kicked off her shoes, the cool hardwood floor a shock against her soles. The silence pressed in, heavy and accusing. She made coffee, the rich, dark scent a small comfort, but her body betrayed her – a deep, insistent ache pulsed between her thighs, a visceral souvenir of Manuel’s possession. She leaned against the counter, cradling the hot mug, letting the burn in her palms ground her. Upright. His fucking word echoed. She sipped the scalding coffee, wincing, needing the sharp pain to cut through the fog of exhaustion and raw, conflicting desire. The phone vibrated on the countertop, shattering the fragile calm.
The screen flashed: Max. Vanja froze, the ceramic mug trembling slightly in her grip. Her knuckles went white. That name, now, felt like a physical blow, a violation layered onto the existing chaos. Rage, cold and sharp, washed over her, eclipsing the confusing thrum of need Manuel had left behind. She snatched the phone, stabbed the answer icon, and unleashed, her voice low and venomous. "You absolute fucking prick. Don't you dare call me again!" She ended the call before he could utter a syllable, fingers flying to block the number. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She slammed the mug down, coffee sloshing over the rim, staining the counter dark brown. Done. Finished.
Two days later, an ostentatious bouquet arrived – blood-red roses, lilies, expensive-looking greenery. The card bore only his scrawled initial: M. Vanja didn’t open the door fully. She stared at the bewildered delivery man holding the gaudy arrangement. "Wrong address," she stated flatly, her green eyes hard as chips of jade. "Take them back." She shut the door firmly, leaning her forehead against the cold wood, the sickly-sweet fragrance of the rejected flowers seeping under the doorframe momentarily overwhelming the comforting scent of her books and coffee. A cheap, desperate gesture. Pathetic.
The next call came late that evening. Unknown number. Vanja, sprawled on her sofa reviewing dense academic notes, her body still humming with residual soreness and the memory of Manuel’s teeth on her neck, hesitated. A cold dread coiled in her gut. She answered, her voice stripped of any warmth. "What?"
"Vanja." Max’s voice, tentative, strained, crackled down the line.
Her grip tightened on the phone. Fury ignited, white-hot and pure. "What do you want?" The words were shards of ice.
"Vanja, listen, I can explain—"
"No!" The word ripped from her throat, loud in the quiet apartment. "I don't care! Sure, you did it to what, protect me?" Her laugh was harsh, brittle. "Or was it just inconvenience, right? Too fucking inconvenient to actually be with me?" Her voice rose, sharpening with every word, fueled by the lingering ache between her legs and the image of Manuel’s knowing smirk. "You think you can just fucking call me, have me come running like some desperate whore, spread my legs, let you fuck me into oblivion, and then what? Go back to living your perfect little life? Just crawl back to me whenever you need a convenient hole to dump your load in?"
"Vanja, it wasn't like that—" His protest was weak, drowned out by her rage.
"Bullshit! Don't lie to me. Don't you have other women? I'm sure you fucking do. Plenty of them." The words tumbled out, laced with the bitterness of rejection and the raw vulnerability Manuel had exposed. "So take your pathetic flowers and your fucking apologies and shove them straight up your entitled arse. Fuck. Right. Off." She paused, breathing heavily, the silence on the other end thick with shock. "Don't call me again. Ever." She jabbed the disconnect button with savage finality.
Silence crashed back into the apartment. Vanja stood rigid, phone still clutched in her hand like a weapon, knuckles white. She was trembling, but it wasn't fear. It was fury. Pure, unadulterated fury. A line drawn in blood and bruised flesh. She was done. With Max. With his games. With being convenient. The phantom ache between her thighs pulsed, a reminder of another kind of possession, raw and undeniable, but that was a different fire. This? This was scorched earth. She dropped the phone onto the sofa as if it were contaminated. She was done.
The silence after slamming down the phone felt brittle, charged. Vanja paced the length of her living room, the expensive rug absorbing the frantic energy of her steps. Her thighs still throbbed faintly, a persistent echo of Manuel’s brutal claiming days earlier, a counterpoint to the fresh, jagged fury Max had ripped open. Done. The word echoed hollowly. Done with Max’s pathetic apologies and desperate flowers, yes. But the tangled mess with Manuel, the searing memory of his cock stretching her impossibly tight against the shower wall, his teeth on her neck? That wasn't done. And Joshua’s icy fury at Säbener Straße, the way his grey eyes had sliced through her like shards of glass? That was a storm gathering, dark and dangerous.
She needed distraction. Work. Her PhD thesis sprawled across the large oak desk near the window – dense philosophical arguments about ethics and power dynamics. She sank into the chair, forcing her eyes onto the text, trying to anchor herself in Kantian imperatives instead of the visceral memory of Manuel’s thick fingers ripping through her panties, shoving inside her wet cunt without preamble. The academic words blurred. Her body remembered the brutal stretch, the shocking invasion, the way she’d screamed his name as he pinned her, dwarfing her against the tile. She shifted in the chair, the slight friction against her sore flesh sending an unwanted pulse of heat through her core. Fuck. She slammed the book shut.
The slammed book echoed in the sudden quiet of her apartment. Vanja stared at the closed cover, Kant’s dense prose no match for the visceral replay scorching her nerves: Manuel’s massive hands pinning her hips against the cold shower tiles, the brutal stretch as his thick cock plunged deep, her own choked scream echoing off the porcelain. Her thighs clenched involuntarily, the lingering soreness a brand. She shoved away from the desk, the chair scraping harshly. Fuck philosophy. Fuck Max. Fuck the whole tangled mess. She needed noise, distraction, anything to drown out the phantom sensation of being utterly possessed.
Manuel Neuer drove his fist into the heavy bag with a satisfying thwack. Sweat stung his eyes, muscles burned, breath sawed in his lungs. Training. Discipline. Control. The fundamentals. Yet, beneath the punishing rhythm, Vanja’s face swam behind his eyelids. Not just the stunning beauty, the sharp wit – but the raw, shattered look in her dark green eyes when he’d pinned her against Aleksandar’s shower wall. The choked gasp as he ripped her flimsy panties aside. The slick, obscene sound of his fingers plunging into her dripping cunt without preamble. He remembered the impossible tightness, the hot clench of her around his cock as he fucked her ruthlessly against the tiles. Her nails raking his back, her scream muffled against his shoulder as she came violently around him. The sheer fucking intensity of it. He landed another vicious punch, the bag shuddering. He’d taken countless women. Used them, enjoyed them, forgotten them. Why did her taste linger? Why did the memory of her tight little cunt milking his cock dry haunt him? Why did the sight of her flinching under Joshua’s glare at Säbener Straße twist something inside his chest? It felt… dangerous. Unsettling. Like falling. He stopped, bracing his hands on the vibrating bag, head bowed, sweat dripping onto the mat. Scheiße. He was thinking about her too much. Far too fucking much.
The sterile chill of the luxury hotel suite felt suffocating. Joshua Kimmich stood rigidly by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring unseeing at the Munich skyline glittering below. Lina’s voice, sharp and accusatory, cut through the tense silence behind him. "...barely present, Joshua! Distant. Cold. Like I’m some… inconvenience." She paced, her heels clicking on the polished marble. "Is it the pressure? The captaincy talks? Or is it her?" The accusation landed like a slap. He didn’t turn. Vanja’s face flashed before him – pressed slightly against Aleksandar’s side, Manuel Neuer looming over her with that predatory fucking heat in his eyes. The possessiveness radiating off the keeper had been palpable, obscene. Joshua’s jaw clenched, knuckles white where he gripped the window frame. He’d seen the faint shadow on Vanja’s neck beneath her shirt collar. He knew. He fucking knew what that shadow meant. The image of Neuer’s massive hands on her, his cock buried deep in that tight little body he’d fantasized about claiming himself, ignited a cold, vicious fury in his gut. "Her?" Joshua finally spoke, his voice dangerously low, devoid of its usual measured calm. "What the fuck are you talking about, Lina?" He turned slowly, his grey eyes glacial shards. "Don't project your fucking insecurities onto me." The fight exploded then, harsh words ricocheting off the expensive walls – accusations of neglect, counter-accusations of paranoia, the unspoken specter of Vanja’s undeniable presence hanging thick between them. Lina’s tears, usually a potent weapon, only fueled his icy rage. He grabbed his jacket. "I need air," he bit out, slamming the suite door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame. The pristine hallway offered no solace. Only the echo of Vanja’s imagined gasp under Neuer’s assault.
Rain lashed against the windshield of Max’s sleek black Audi, blurring the neon signs of the upscale bar district into watery streaks. He slumped in the driver's seat, the expensive leather smell mingling unpleasantly with the sharp tang of single malt whisky on his breath. His third. Or fourth. He’d lost count. Vanja’s voice, venomous and final, echoed relentlessly in his skull: "Fuck. Right. Off. Don't call me again. Ever." He’d fucked up. Monumentally. The desperate, pleading calls blocked. The obscenely expensive roses returned unopened. Her rejection was absolute, a door slammed so hard it felt permanent. He took another burning gulp of whisky, the liquid doing nothing to dull the sharp ache in his chest. He pictured her face – not the furious mask from the phone call, but the way she’d looked beneath him, eyes wide and dark, lips parted, taking him deep. The addictive tightness of her cunt. The way she’d moaned his name. Convenient? Was that all it had been? A convenient hole? The thought curdled the whisky in his stomach. He hadn’t meant it like that. Not really. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring briefly into the rainy night, startling a couple hurrying past. Desperation clawed at him, raw and ugly. He needed her back. Needed to explain, to grovel, to make her see. But how? She wouldn’t answer. Wouldn't listen. Wouldn't fucking see him. The rain intensified, drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof. He was drowning. And Vanja, brilliant, fiery, impossible Vanja, was the only fucking oxygen left. He stared at his phone’s dark screen, the reflection of his own desperate eyes staring back. He had no idea what to do next. Only that he couldn't stop.