Chapter 9: Unavoidable Collision
The scent of sarma – minced meat and rice wrapped in tender cabbage leaves, simmered in a rich tomato sauce – filled Aleksandar Pavlovic’s sprawling apartment, a fragrant counterpoint to the usual expensive coffee and leather. Vanja stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the tiny cars weaving through the city grid. Munich glittered, indifferent. Inside, the warmth felt claustrophobic.
"I think I'm going to go, Aleks." Her voice was flat, lacking its usual spark. She tugged at the hem of the oversized AS Roma shirt that swallowed her frame, a relic from a happier, football-fueled trip.
Aleksandar looked up from arranging plates on the low table already groaning under the weight of ćevapi, ajvar, fresh pita, and the steaming pot of sarma. His brow furrowed. "What, V? Now? The guys are literally on their way. To play FIFA, eat… you cooked! You don't want to stay? Try your own sarma? It smells incredible."
He gestured towards the feast, a testament to the comfort she found in the familiar rituals of her heritage, a stark contrast to the sterile intensity of Max's penthouse and the lingering phantom ache of his hands, his demands whispered in croatian. Gone. Just… gone. Poof. Like smoke. And the silence from Joshua… it was a different kind of cut. Deeper, somehow. Professional. Final. She’d seen him at Säbener Straße two days ago, walking with Serge Gnabry, deep in conversation. His grey eyes had swept right past her as if she were a training cone. Aleks had called out; Joshua hadn’t even flinched. Just waved and kept walking.
"Your teammates don't need me here, Aleks," Vanja sighed, turning from the window. "They're your friends. I'm…" She waved a hand vaguely towards the food. "The temporary caterer. You just don't want me moping alone in my room, I get it. But listen, I think that—"
The sharp bzzzt of the doorbell sliced through her sentence. Aleksandar shot her a look that was equal parts exasperation and pleading. He crossed the polished concrete floor and swung the door open.
Tom Bischoff, Lennart Karl, and Manuel Neuer stood there, grins already forming. The crisp scent of cold air and expensive cologne briefly cut through the aromas of home cooking.
"Hey Pava! Smells unreal in here," Tom said, clapping Aleks on the shoulder as they filed in.
"Jo and Serge are stuck behind some idiot driver," Manuel announced, his gaze already sweeping the room, landing on the laden table. His eyes widened. He stopped. "Fuck," he breathed, genuinely impressed. "That's… wow."
Vanja managed a small, tight smile from near the window. "Hope you're hungry."
Manuel's gaze flickered over her Roma shirt, then back to the spread. "Starving. Seriously, Pavlović, you've outdone yourself."
Aleksandar grinned, a touch too brightly. "Not me. Chef Vanja." He gestured towards her. "Yeah, she's staying with me for a bit." He offered no further explanation, his tone casual but the look he shot Vanja was protective, shutting down any follow-up questions.
Just then, the doorbell buzzed again. Aleks went to answer it.
Vanja felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach. Too many people. Too much noise. Joshua. She didn't wait. "Gonna grab something upstairs," she murmured, already heading towards the staircase tucked away near the kitchen before the newcomers fully entered. She didn't look back.
Serge Gnabry entered first, sniffing the air appreciatively. "Okay, who died and made Pavlović a Michelin star chef? This looks insane!" He surveyed the table – the golden-brown ćevapi nestled beside the vibrant red ajvar, the perfect pillows of sarma. "Seriously, who made this?"
"Vanja," Manuel supplied, already helping himself to a piece of pita. He nodded towards the stairs Vanja had just vanished up. "Apparently she's bunking with the Pavlović for a while."
Aleksandar reappeared, followed by Joshua Kimmich. Joshua’s expression was relaxed, anticipating the usual banter and FIFA tournament, his blond hair slightly mussed from the wind outside. He was mid-laugh at something Serge had just said.
"...and Josip’s grabbing that ridiculous candy from that place by the station," Serge was saying. "Said he’ll be five minutes."
Joshua’s laugh died abruptly as Manuel’s words registered. His grey eyes snapped from Serge to Manuel, then to Aleksandar. The casual ease vanished, replaced by a sudden stillness. His gaze darted towards the staircase Vanja had disappeared up, then back to the table laden with food she’d made. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The scent of sarma, rich and comforting to everyone else, suddenly felt heavy, accusatory.
She is here.
The thought slammed into him with the force of a missed tackle. Staying here. With Aleks. Cooking for the team. After everything. After him. After Max. The clean, disciplined lines of his world tilted. He cringed internally, the easy camaraderie of moments ago replaced by a sudden, sharp awareness of her presence just upstairs, and the complicated, dangerous tangle of feelings he’d been trying so hard to outrun. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of his jacket. He forced a neutral expression, but the tension radiating from him was palpable, a silent thunderclap in the suddenly charged air of the apartment.
He forced a neutral expression, but the tension radiating from him was palpable, a silent thunderclap in the suddenly charged air of the apartment. Tom and Lennart were already digging into the ćevapi, oblivious, chatting about the weekend's match. Manuel, leaning against the kitchen island, watched Joshua with the quiet intensity of a seasoned keeper assessing a dangerous free kick, his coffee mug paused halfway to his lips.
"Right, controller," Joshua announced abruptly, his voice tighter than usual, cutting through the chatter. He strode towards the vast TV unit, deliberately turning his back on the staircase, the food, the ghost of her presence upstairs. "Who's getting humiliated first? Serge, you in?"
Serge laughed, grabbing a controller. "Bring it on, boss. Though after smelling that sarma, I might need a nap halfway through."
The buzz of controllers syncing filled the space. Joshua sank onto the far end of the deep sofa, his profile sharp against the city lights bleeding through the window. He stared fixedly at the FIFA loading screen, the vibrant colours reflecting in his grey eyes. Every muscle felt coiled, wired, the image of the laden table – her table – burned onto his retinas.
Then, a sound from the stairs. Soft, bare feet on wood.
Tonk. Tonk. Tonk.
Joshua’s head snapped up, an involuntary reflex he couldn’t stifle. His eyes tracked Vanja as she descended the stairs. She wore nothing but Aleksandar’s oversized AS Roma shirt, the deep maroon and gold swallowing her frame, stopping high on her toned, bare thighs. Her long legs moved with unconscious grace, pale against the dark wood. Her dark blonde hair was mussed from lying down, framing a face that looked tired, vulnerable.
When their gazes locked, the air crackled, thick enough to choke on. Her startling dark green eyes held his, wide, uncertain, a flicker of something raw – hurt, defiance, exhaustion. It lasted only a heartbeat.
Until Joshua deliberately, pointedly, turned away.
His jaw tightened visibly, a hard line in the dim light reflecting off the screen. He focused with unnatural intensity on the pixelated players lining up for kick-off, his knuckles white on the controller. He saw nothing. Everything narrowed to the screen, the escape it offered, the sharp, acidic taste in his mouth.
"Damn, Vanja," Tom whistled low, momentarily distracted from the game. "Legs for days. That shirt swallowing you whole?"
Aleksandar shot him a warning look sharp enough to cut glass. "Shut it, Bischoff. Grab a plate before Neuer eats everything." He moved subtly towards the stairs, positioning himself between Vanja and the living area bustling with his teammates.
Vanja didn't react to Tom's comment. She barely seemed to breathe. The connection broken, the deliberate dismissal radiating from Joshua’s rigid back hit her like a physical blow. The brief, painful hope that flickered when their eyes met extinguished instantly, leaving ashes. A flush crept up her neck, hot and humiliating.
"Just grabbing water," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the sudden roar from the TV as Serge scored an early goal. She padded silently towards the kitchen island, her bare feet making no sound on the polished concrete. She felt every eye, real or imagined, on her exposed skin, on the shirt that wasn't hers. Manuel offered a small, neutral nod as she passed, his expression unreadable.
She didn't look back towards the sofa. Didn't look at Joshua. The controller felt like a weapon in his hands, the digital crowd noise a mocking soundtrack. He executed a perfect slide tackle on screen, brutal and precise. Vanja filled a glass from the tap, the cold water doing nothing to ease the tightness in her throat. The sarma, her comfort food, now smelled cloying, heavy with regret. She took a slow sip, the condensation chilling her fingers, bracing herself to climb back up into the quiet, lonely space above.
The icy water hit her throat like swallowed glass, doing nothing to wash away the bitter sting of Joshua’s dismissal. Vanja placed the glass down hard on the cool granite countertop, the sharp clink echoing in the sudden lull between game roars. She could feel the weight of eyes – Aleksandar’s protective concern, Manuel’s quiet assessment, Tom’s lingering appreciation of her legs, and, most painfully, the rigid wall of Joshua’s back radiating pure, cold avoidance. He didn’t even acknowledge my existence. The thought scraped raw. Without a word, she turned, the oversized Roma shirt swirling around her thighs, and climbed the stairs, each step heavy with the suffocating weight of humiliation and the ghost of Max’s possessive hands, a confusing counterpoint to this new, cutting rejection.
The quiet of the guest room enveloped her, thick and isolating after the chaotic energy downstairs. It was a stark, modern space, impersonal despite the borrowed Roma scarf thrown over a chair. Leaning against the closed door, she closed her eyes, trying to banish the image: Joshua’s grey eyes locking onto hers for that split second, recognition flaring, then instantly shuttered. Dismissed. Like a training cone. Again. A ragged breath escaped her. The vibrant, dangerous pull of Max felt like a fever dream now, replaced by this hollow ache. She shoved off the door, grabbed the thick political theory tome she’d been wrestling with before cooking, and flopped onto the bed, the crisp linen cool against her skin. The dense academic prose swam before her green eyes, meaningless symbols dancing against the vivid replay of Joshua's deliberate, devastating turn away. She traced the outline of the club crest on the borrowed shirt sleeve, lost in the echo of his silence.
Downstairs, the FIFA tournament raged. Controllers clicked furiously, voices rose in triumphant shouts and groans of despair – Serge crowing over a last-minute equalizer, Tom swearing at a dubious offside call. The rich aroma of sarma and ajvar still hung in the air, a taunting reminder of her futile attempt at normalcy. Joshua played with cold efficiency, his movements on the screen precise, aggressive. He tackled hard, passed sharply, his focus unnervingly absolute, a stark contrast to Serge’s expressive play beside him. He hadn’t looked towards the stairs again. Not once. His jaw remained clenched, the only sign of the storm beneath the surface, the image of Vanja in Aleksandar’s shirt, looking so vulnerable, so there, burning behind his disciplined facade. Focus on the game. Only the game.
Two hours crawled by. Vanja had managed about half a page of dense theory, rereading the same paragraph three times before tossing the book aside. She stared at the ceiling, the muffled bursts of noise from below a constant, grating reminder of the world carrying on without her. The quiet gnawed at her nerves. Why am I hiding? She kicked the duvet in frustration. Just then, a sharp, authoritative knock rattled the door. Before she could answer, it swung open. Manuel Neuer filled the doorway, his imposing frame outlined by the hallway light, his blue eyes sharp and focused.
"We need another player," he announced, his voice a low rumble cutting through her brooding silence. "Tournament downstairs. Serge pulled a muscle celebrating his imaginary worldie, the idiot. We’re short one." He scanned the room, taking in the discarded book, the rumpled bed, her tense posture clad only in the oversized shirt. "You’re drafted."
Vanja blinked, pushing herself up on her elbows. She stared at him as if he’d suggested juggling chainsaws. "FIFA? Now? With you lot?" Her voice was dry, laced with disbelief. "Manuel, have you lost your fucking mind completely? It’s nearly midnight."
He shrugged, unfazed, a faint smile touching his lips. "Game’s on. We need a fourth. You know the rules. You’ve played Aleks enough times. Unless you’re scared?" His gaze held hers, challenging but not unkind.
A spark of defiance flickered in her tired green eyes, momentarily eclipsing the hurt. The sheer absurdity of it, Manuel Neuer himself recruiting her for a FIFA emergency, cut through the gloom. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor. "Fine," she said, a hint of her old sarcasm creeping back. "But I warn you, Neuer, I will absolutely kick your ass. And everyone else’s."
Manuel threw his head back and laughed, a warm, genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Nahh," he countered, the informal dismissal light and easy. He jerked his head towards the stairs, those blue eyes locking onto hers, unexpectedly warm. "You're on my team. Let’s go." He turned, expecting her to follow.
Vanja hesitated for only a second, the tension from Joshua’s dismissal still a live wire under her skin. But the challenge, the sheer normalcy of a stupid FIFA game, was a lifeline thrown into her sinking mood. A slow, determined grin spread across her face, the first real one in days. "Alright, kapetan," she conceded, pushing herself fully upright. "But if we lose, it’s your legendary defending that’s to blame." She padded to the doorway, pausing as she saw Manuel waiting at the top of the stairs. The noise from below surged – laughter, a controller clattering, Joshua’s curt voice calling, "Reset it, Serge!" Vanja took a breath, squared her shoulders beneath the borrowed shirt, and followed Manuel down towards the fray, the scent of paprika and pixelated competition rising to meet her.