Chapter 6: The three sit in Vid's modest apartment, Manuel analyzing game footage on Vid's laptop with surprising intensity. 'See how the keeper shifts his weight here?' Manuel points, his arm brushing Vanja's shoulder. Vid leans forward, nodding eagerly, his earlier shock replaced by rapt attention. Vanja watches them, warmth blooming in her chest at the unexpected connection.
The Porsche ate up the autobahn, the landscape blurring into a green and grey streak outside the window. Vanja watched Manuel’s profile as he drove, his focus absolute, one hand resting lightly on the gearshift. The confidence he exuded was a tangible force, filling the small, leather-scented space.
“He’s going to lose his mind,” she said, a nervous thrill threading through her voice.
Manuel just grinned, not taking his eyes off the road. “Good.”
They pulled up outside Vid’s apartment building, a modern block in a quiet Dortmund suburb. Before they could even get out, the front door flew open and Vid stood there, his mouth agape. He looked from his sister to the man stepping out of the driver’s side, his brain visibly short-circuiting.
“No fucking way,” Vid breathed, his voice cracking. He was all lanky limbs and youthful energy, his hair a darker version of Vanja’s. “Manuel Neuer. In my street.”
Manuel laughed, slamming the car door and extending a hand. “Good to meet you, Vid. Your sister talks about you all the time.”
Vid shook his hand, his own grip probably too tight, his eyes wide with disbelief. “She said… she said she was with you, but I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”
Inside the small, tidy apartment, Vid was practically vibrating. He offered them water, then coffee, then apologized for the state of the place, all in one breathless stream.
“Relax, kid,” Manuel said, easing onto the sofa. “It’s fine.” He looked around, his gaze landing on a pair of cleats by the door, caked in fresh mud. “So. Your coach.”
The energy in the room shifted. Vid slumped into a chair opposite them, the starstruck awe replaced by a weary frustration. “Kovač. He wants a decision. Now. He says the federation is pressing him, and if I’m not committed to Germany, he needs to plan without me.”
“And you want Switzerland?” Manuel asked, his tone neutral, professional.
“It’s… it’s where I feel it,” Vid said, tapping his chest. “It’s not a rejection of Germany. It’s just… my gut.”
Manuel nodded slowly. “Your gut is usually the thing to listen to. But listen, your first touch under pressure, when you’re receiving the ball with your back to goal… you need to cushion it softer. You’re letting it pop up sometimes. At this level, that’s a turnover.”
Vid stared at him, utterly silenced. The best goalkeeper in the world was in his living room, giving him a specific, technical piece of advice. It was more valuable than any pep talk.
“How… how do you know that?”
“I watch football,” Manuel said with a shrug. “I watch everyone. Especially talented kids who might one day be shooting against me.”
Over lunch at a quiet Italian place, Manuel kept the conversation light, asking Vid about his teammates, his fitness regimen, deflecting any more talk of national team drama. He teased Vanja about her struggle with the pretzel, and Vid finally laughed, a real, relaxed sound. The dynamic was effortless. Manuel wasn’t trying to be a mentor; he was just being himself, and in doing so, he was giving Vid a glimpse of a world he desperately wanted to join.
Later, back in the hotel room Manuel had booked for them in the city center, the easy camaraderie of the day dissolved into something more urgent. The moment the door clicked shut, Vanja pushed him against it, her mouth finding his in a hungry, desperate kiss. The emotional whiplash of the day—the tension with her brother, the sheer surrealism of it all—needed a physical release.
“You were amazing with him,” she whispered against his lips, her hands pulling his shirt from his jeans.
“He’s a good kid,” Manuel murmured, his hands already on the button of her jeans. “Now, be quiet.”
He spun her around, bending her over the small, polished desk near the window. The city lights of Dortmund sprawled below them, an indifferent audience. He yanked her jeans and underwear down to her knees in one rough motion. She gasped, her palms flat on the cool wood, arching her back in invitation.
He didn’t wait. He was already hard. He pushed the head of his cock against her, finding her wet and ready, and drove into her with a single, deep, unyielding thrust. The air left her lungs in a shocked, guttural cry.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place as he started to move. It was a brutal, punishing rhythm, each slam of his hips jolting through her entire body. The desk creaked ominously. “This what you needed? After all that family talk? You needed to get fucked hard?”
“Yes!” she cried out, the word tearing from her throat. Her mind was blissfully empty, filled only with the raw, physical reality of him filling her, stretching her, claiming her. “Don’t stop, Manuel. Please.”
He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth near her ear. His pace didn’t falter. “You feel me? You feel how deep I am? I’m in your guts, Vanja.”
She could only moan in response, a continuous, broken sound of pleasure and overwhelm. Her orgasm built quickly, a devastating wave that broke without warning, her inner muscles clamping down on him in violent, rhythmic spasms. She screamed, her body convulsing against the desk.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep, grinding thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and roared, his release hot and seemingly endless inside her. He held himself there, pulsing, for a long moment before his weight settled fully on her, both of them slick with sweat and breathing in ragged, shattered gasps.
He eventually pulled out, and she slumped forward, her legs trembling. He turned her around, his expression shifting from primal intensity to something softer, more scrutinizing. He looked at her—really looked at her—his eyes tracing the lines of her face, the slight tremble in her lower lip.
“You’re not just a model,” he stated, his voice low and certain. It wasn’t a question.
She let out a shaky breath, a weak, defensive laugh. “What else would I be?”
“Don’t,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I saw you today. The way you handled your brother. The way you think. You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into, and you’re fucking terrified someone might notice.”
The air went out of her. The facade she wore so comfortably, the armor of her beauty, felt thin and transparent under his blue-eyed focus. He saw the conflict, the scholar hiding behind the magazine cover. He saw the raw ambition she tried to disguise as casual opportunism.
He didn’t wait for a denial. He scooped her up into his arms, carried her to the bed, and laid her down with a surprising gentleness. He didn’t speak again. Instead, he showed her. His mouth, his hands, his entire body worshipped hers with a slow, deliberate intensity that felt more invasive than the rough fucking against the desk. This was an exploration, a mapping of her secrets. He learned the places that made her gasp, the spots that made her arch off the mattress, the exact pressure that made her whimper his name like a prayer.
When he finally entered her again, it was slow, a deep, reverent possession that made her want to cry. He moved inside her with a devastating patience, his eyes locked on hers, and she felt utterly, terrifyingly seen.
Afterwards, wrapped in the quiet dark, he lay on his back, one arm behind his head. She curled against his side, her head on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.
“Joshua texted again,” he said into the silence, his voice a low rumble under her ear. “He thinks this is a distraction.”
She didn’t move. “Is it?”
He was quiet for a long time. The city hummed outside, a distant, mechanical lullaby.
“No,” he said finally, the single word definitive. His hand found hers on his chest, his fingers lacing through hers. “It’s the opposite.”
The silence that followed his statement was heavier than any confession, thick with unspoken implications that shifted the foundation of everything between them. She fell asleep like that, her ear pressed to the steady rhythm under his ribs, as if listening for the truth of his words in the very machinery of his body.
Morning came too soon, the Dortmund light a pale imitation of the previous day’s intensity. They met Vid for a quick coffee at a stand near his apartment, the air tinged with the melancholy of impending goodbyes. Vid scuffed his shoe against the pavement, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Serbia called again yesterday,” he mumbled, not meeting either of their eyes. “Croatia, too. And the German federation. The Swiss guy said he’d wait, but I could hear he was getting impatient.”
Vanja sipped her coffee, the bitter liquid grounding her. “What about Denmark?” she asked casually.
Manuel lifted an eyebrow, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Oh yes. Them too.”
Vid nodded, a overwhelmed look in his young eyes. Vanja laughed, a soft, reassuring sound, and reached out to pull her brother into a tight hug. “Well, it’s up to you. Whatever you choose, you’ll do great.”
Manuel grinned, leaning against his car. “Pick Germany. We’ll play together.”
Vanja slapped his arm playfully but laughed, the sound mingling with Vid’s embarrassed chuckle. The moment was light, a temporary shield against the weight of the decision looming over her brother.
The Porsche felt like a sealed capsule hurtling back towards reality. The adrenaline of the weekend faded, leaving a bone-deep fatigue in its wake. The gentle hum of the engine and the warmth pouring from the vents were a soporific lure. Vanja’s head, which had been resting against the window, slowly lolled onto Manuel’s shoulder.
He felt the weight settle, a delicate pressure that was somehow more intimate than anything they’d done in the hotel room. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his movements careful so as not to disturb her. The text from Joshua that flashed on the car’s screen felt like a violation of this newfound quiet. He ignored it, his focus narrowing to the road and the woman sleeping against him.
He drove for another hour, the autobahn a grey river flowing south. When he finally needed fuel, he guided the car into a services station with a surgeon’s precision, the gentle deceleration barely stirring her. She sighed in her sleep, nuzzling unconsciously into the wool of his sweater. He sat there for a long moment in the sudden silence, the scent of her hair filling his lungs, before reluctantly extricating himself to pump the gas.
She woke as the car door clicked shut, disoriented and blinking in the flat afternoon light. “Are we back?”
“Not yet.” He stood by the pump, a solid figure against the mundane backdrop of the service station. Vanja stretched in the passenger seat, her muscles aching from the long drive and the memory of his hands on her. The sharp smell of gasoline cut through the air, mingling with the damp earth scent of the nearby fields.
She stepped out to use the restroom, the cold pavement seeping through her thin soles. Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching everything a sickly yellow. She splashed water on her face, watching droplets trace paths through the faint makeup she’d applied yesterday.
When she returned, he was already in the driver’s seat, engine running. “Ready?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. She nodded, sliding in beside him, the leather groaning under her weight. The car pulled back onto the autobahn, swallowing the dotted lines with a relentless purr.
They drove in a comfortable silence, the landscape dissolving into the outskirts of Munich. His phone buzzed insistently in the cup holder, Joshua’s name flashing again. Manuel ignored it, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “He’s persistent,” Vanja remarked, her tone light but probing.
“He thinks he’s protecting the team,” Manuel said, his eyes never leaving the road. “He doesn’t understand that some things are more important than routine.”
The city began to rise around them, familiar buildings casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. Instead of heading towards her apartment, Manuel took a turn towards the Säbener Strasse training ground. “I need to pick up something from the locker room,” he explained. “It’ll only take a minute.”
He pulled into the nearly empty players’ lot, the familiar black gates standing open. The pitch was quiet, the only movement a lone figure practicing free kicks at the far end. The rhythmic thud of ball against net echoed across the manicured grass.
As they walked towards the main building, the figure stopped and turned, jogging towards them. Vanja recognized the purposeful stride and focused intensity immediately. It was Joshua Kimmich.
He approached them, his expression unreadable, his gaze flickering from Manuel to Vanja and back again. He stopped a few feet away, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Manuel,” he said, his voice flat. “We need to talk.”
“Now’s not the time, Josh,” Manuel replied, his tone easy but firm.
Kimmich’s eyes settled on Vanja, assessing her with a cool, analytical precision that felt more invasive than any leer. “So you’re the distraction,” he stated, not a question. The word hung in the air, charged and ugly.
Vanja felt a flush of heat rise up her neck. She met his gaze squarely, her own voice steady despite the sudden tension. “I’m Vanja.” She offered no other explanation, no defense.
A faint, humorless smile touched Kimmich’s lips. “I know who you are. The model. The sister of the Dortmund prospect.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “He doesn’t need complications right now. The season is on a knife’s edge.”
“My life isn’t your business,” Manuel cut in, his posture shifting, becoming broader, more protective.
“It is when it affects my team,” Kimmich shot back, his eyes still locked on Vanja. “When your focus is split, it weakens the entire structure. You were late to training. You’re distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Manuel said, a edge of warning in his voice.
“Are you?” Kimmich’s gaze swept over Vanja once more, a deliberate, dismissive once-over. “She’s pretty. I’ll give you that. But pretty doesn’t win championships.”
Vanja felt the insult like a physical slap, but she held her ground, her chin lifting. “And arrogance doesn’t foster loyalty,” she replied, her words crisp and clear in the quiet air.
Kimmich’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise breaking through his composed mask. He looked at Manuel, then back at her, a new, grudging respect in his expression. “This isn’t over,” he said, though the certainty in his voice had wavered.
He turned and walked back towards the pitch, leaving them standing in the cooling evening air. The encounter had lasted less than a minute, but the atmosphere felt charged, irrevocably changed.
The silence Kimmich left behind was brittle, sharp as broken glass underfoot. Manuel’s hand found the small of Vanja’s back, a firm, grounding pressure as he guided her back towards the car. The engine roared to life, a aggressive sound that severed the lingering tension.
They drove for several blocks, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold against the deepening twilight. Manuel finally broke the quiet, his voice low and contemplative. “I think he likes you.”
Vanja let out a short, incredulous laugh. “What? Yeah, I think he is jealous,” Manuel says.
“That’s ridiculous, he has a girlfriend.” she says... Manuel was quiet for a while, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel. “Yes, but he is my friend and well, I know how he gets. He likes you.”
Vanja shook her head, staring out at the passing buildings. “Nothing to do with it then. He’ll get over it.” Manuel looked at her, his expression softening with a hint of apology. “I’m sorry for…”
“Don’t,” she said, cutting him off. “And besides, I’m flying for the Boss campaign in two days. I’ll be away for four days. He’ll get his peace, you’ll get to train without distractions. Should be good.” He pulled her close, his arm wrapping around her shoulders, drawing her across the seat. “I’ll miss you.” She kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of resolution and the faint, metallic hint of the city air.
He didn’t drive to her apartment. He drove to his, a modern, minimalist space high over the city with floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the night sky. The door hadn’t even clicked shut before he had her pinned against it, his mouth desperate on hers. The encounter with Kimmich had lit a fuse, and now the explosion was inevitable.
“I need to be inside you,” he growled, his hands ripping at the button of her jeans. “Now.” He yanked them down her thighs, the fabric tearing slightly in his haste. She clawed at his shirt, pulling it over his head, her nails scraping down the hard muscles of his back.
He turned her around, bending her over the back of a sleek leather sofa. The cool material shocked her heated skin. He kicked her legs wider, his palm smacking against her ass with a sharp crack that made her gasp. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He guided the thick, leaking head of his cock to her entrance and pushed in with a single, brutal thrust that stole her breath.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips like vices as he set a punishing rhythm. Each slam drove her forward, her cheek pressed against the cool leather. “This is mine. Tell me it’s mine.”
“It’s yours,” she panted, her voice strained, her body yielding to his relentless pace. “Only yours.” He leaned over her, his chest damp with sweat against her back, his mouth at her ear. “I’m going to come so deep inside you, you’ll feel me for days.” The filthy promise sent a fresh wave of heat through her.
Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a violent, screaming climax that made her legs buckle. He held her up, driving into her through the convulsions, his own release following with a guttural roar. He pumped into her, his hips grinding against her ass, filling her with his warmth until he was spent.
He collapsed over her, both of them breathing in ragged, shattered gasps. After a long moment, he pulled out, and she slumped onto the sofa, boneless and utterly ravaged. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and satisfied. “No distraction,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s focus.”
Two days later, he drove her to the airport. The memory of his touch was a phantom brand on her skin, a visceral reminder of his claim. He kissed her hard at the departures gate, a public, possessive act that drew glances. “Four days,” he murmured against her lips. “Then I’m taking you right back to that sofa.”
She smiled, a slow, confident curve of her mouth. “I’ll be waiting.” She turned and walked through security without looking back, the weight of his gaze following her until she disappeared into the crowd. The distance stretched between them, a silent challenge to the peace he was supposed to find.
She took a long drink, the water doing nothing to cool the sudden heat in her cheeks. The photographer called her back, saving her from a response, but she felt Lucas’s gaze on her for the rest of the day, a persistent, unwelcome weight.
Back in Munich, Manuel faced Joshua on the training pitch after everyone else had left, the evening air cool and heavy with the smell of cut grass. “You were right to be concerned,” Manuel began, his voice steady, cutting through the tension that had lingered since their confrontation. “But you’re wrong about her.”
Joshua stopped juggling the ball, letting it drop to the turf with a soft thud. He studied Manuel, his expression unreadable for a moment before a slight nod. “Just don’t let it cost us,” he said finally, the words lacking their earlier edge. “We need you sharp.”
“Sharper than ever,” Manuel countered, a faint smile touching his lips as he picked up the ball. They walked off the pitch together, the silence between them now comfortable, the rift tentatively bridged.
Vanja’s phone buzzed in her hotel room that night, Manuel’s name flashing on the screen. “Vid called,” he said, his voice crackling with excitement she could feel through the line. “He’s chosen Germany. The federation is announcing it tomorrow.”
A wave of relief and pride washed over her, so potent she had to sit on the edge of the bed. “He did it,” she whispered, her throat tight. “You did it, Manuel. Thank you.”
“Get back here,” he commanded, his tone dropping into that familiar, possessive growl that sent a shiver down her spine. “I need to celebrate with you.”
Four days later, she was back in his arms, the door to his apartment barely shut before he had her pressed against it, his mouth devouring hers. The familiar scent of him—clean sweat and his own distinct spice—filled her senses. “Missed this,” he growled against her lips, his hands already tearing at the buttons of her blouse.
He stripped her quickly, his own clothes following in a heap on the floor. He walked her backwards to the bedroom, his eyes dark with intent. “On your knees,” he ordered, his voice rough. She obeyed without hesitation, the cool wood of the floor firm beneath her knees as she watched him shed his boxers, his cock springing free, already fully erect and thick.
He fisted his hand in her hair, not gently, and guided his tip to her lips. “Suck it,” he commanded, and she opened her mouth, taking him in. She worked him with her tongue and lips, her own arousal building as he groaned above her. “That’s it, take it deep,” he grunted, his hips pushing forward until she felt him hit the back of her throat.
After a few minutes, he pulled her up by her hair and turned her around, bending her over the edge of the bed. He entered her from behind in one swift, brutal thrust that stole her breath. “Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he rasped, his hands gripping her hips hard as he set a punishing rhythm. Each slam of his body into hers was a raw, primal reclaiming. “This pussy is mine. Nobody else’s.”
“Yes,” she cried out, her fingers clutching the duvet, her body yielding completely to his possession. He leaned over her, his chest damp against her back, his mouth at her ear. “I’m going to fill you up until you’re dripping with me.” The filthy promise pushed her over the edge, her orgasm crashing through her in violent waves that made her legs tremble.
He followed with a guttural roar, his own release pumping into her in hot, pulsing jets. He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them panting and slick with sweat, before collapsing beside her.
The invitation to dinner at Michel and Monika’s arrived the next day, a casual gathering that felt anything but. The house was warm and inviting, filled with the low hum of conversation and the smell of roasted meat. Manuel’s arm was a solid presence around Vanja’s waist as they moved through the room, greeting teammates and their partners.
Aleksandar Pavlovic raised his glass during a lull in the conversation. “Did you hear? Vid Vr is committing to Germany. That’s a huge get for us.”
Joshua Kimmich, seated next to his girlfriend Lina, nodded thoughtfully. “He’s a good player. Very technical for his age.”
Manuel grinned, squeezing Vanja’s hip. “Vanja knows him.”
Lina’s eyes, sharp and curious, shifted to Vanja. “Oh, she does?” The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken suspicion.
Vanja met her gaze evenly, her voice clear and calm. “Yeah, he is my younger brother. Manuel and I met him two weeks ago.” She paused, letting her words settle. “Neuer here is probably why he’ll play for Germany.”
Manuel’s grin widened, a flash of pure, unadulterated pride. Everyone else at the table fell silent.