Chapter 7: Joshua follows Vanja onto the dimly lit balcony, the crisp night air doing little to cool the heat between them. 'So Vid is your brother,' he states, his voice tight. She turns, leaning against the railing with a smirk. 'Why, did you think he was just another football prospect I fucked?' Joshua's jaw clenches. 'Don't be crude.' She laughs dryly, swirling her wine. 'Don't worry, Kimmich. I don't dwell in U21s. I only fuck living legends.' With a wink, she brushes past him, leaving him gripping th
The balcony’s iron railing was cool against Vanja’s palms. Below, Munich glittered, a tapestry of amber lights and moving cars, the distant peal of church bells a stark contrast to the low thrum of conversation from the party inside. She breathed in the crisp night air, trying to wash away the cloying scent of perfume and the weight of Lina’s suspicious gaze.
The click of the balcony door was soft, but she felt it in her bones. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His presence was a shift in the atmosphere, a sudden density in the air.
“Quite the revelation in there,” Joshua Kimmich said, his voice low and close. He came to stand beside her, not looking at her, his own hands gripping the railing. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Your brother.”
“It’s not a state secret,” Vanja replied, her tone deliberately light. She kept her eyes on the horizon. “It just never came up before.”
“It explains a few things.” He finally turned his head, his gaze a physical weight on her profile. “The access. The sudden… familiarity.”
She met his look then, a slow, deliberate turn of her head. His eyes were dark, intense, the same focus he directed on the pitch now narrowed entirely on her. “Familiarity?” she echoed, a faint, challenging smile playing on her lips. “Is that what this is?”
He didn’t answer. His jaw tightened. The city sounds filled the silence between them—a siren wailing in the distance, the laughter from the apartment.
“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming almost intimate. “Walk in with Neuer on your arm, disrupt the rhythm, and everyone just falls in line.”
“I didn’t realize the team’s rhythm was so fragile.” She leaned back against the railing, fully facing him now, crossing her arms over her chest. The move was defiant, pushing her breasts up, and she saw his eyes flicker down for a fraction of a second before snapping back to hers. “And Manuel doesn’t ‘fall in line.’ He draws his own.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “This isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?” She tilted her head, her smile widening. “It feels like one. All these rules, all this posturing. Who can piss the farthest to mark their territory.” She let her gaze travel over him, from his stern face down the lean, powerful lines of his body. “You’re very good at it, I’ll give you that.”
He took a sudden step forward, closing the small distance until the tips of his shoes almost touched hers. The air crackled. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“Then tell me.” Her voice was a whisper now, a dare. She could smell the clean scent of his soap, see the faint stubble along his jaw. “Enlighten me, Joshua. What am I playing with?”
For a long moment, he just stared at her, his chest rising and falling with a slow, controlled rhythm. The frustration in his eyes was a live wire, sparking with something else, something hotter and far more dangerous. He looked like he wanted to shake her, to shout, to devour her.
He did none of those things.
He let out a short, sharp breath that was almost a laugh, but held no humor. “You’re impossible.”
Then he turned and walked back inside, the balcony door shutting with a firm, final click. Vanja stayed where she was, her heart hammering against her ribs. The space where he’d stood felt charged, empty and yet full of his presence. She had won that exchange, she was sure of it. So why did she feel so utterly, completely unsettled?
Later, in the sterile quiet of his own apartment, Joshua poured a whiskey, the ice cracking in the glass. He drank it in one long swallow, the burn doing nothing to cauterize the image burned behind his eyes: Vanja, leaning against the railing, that infuriating, knowing smile on her face. Her defiance. Her body.
He set the glass down with a hard thud.
He tried to rationalize it. She was a complication. A risk. She was with Manuel, for Christ’s sake. His captain. His friend. It was a line that shouldn’t be crossed, a betrayal of the unspoken code that held their team together.
But his body didn’t care about codes. It remembered the scent of her perfume, the challenge in her gold-green eyes, the curve of her hip in that fucking dress.
He walked into his bedroom, his movements stiff. He stripped off his shirt and threw it on a chair. He stood before the full-length mirror, a footballer’s body—lean, defined, a machine built for precision and endurance. And yet, right now, it felt like a cage for a far more primitive urge.
His hand went to the fly of his trousers, undoing the button and zip with jerky movements. He pushed them down, along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free, already thick and heavy with blood, a blunt betrayal of his anger. He fisted his hand around it, his grip tight, almost punishing.
He looked at his reflection, his own eyes dark with a conflict that felt like a sickness. He thought of her on that balcony, the way she’d looked at him—not with fear or deference, but with a cool, analytical appraisal that saw right through his discipline.
“You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” he muttered to his reflection, echoing his own words to her.
He began to stroke himself, a rough, efficient rhythm. He didn’t think of gentle touches or slow seduction. His mind conjured raw, visceral images. Pinning her against that balcony railing, the city sprawled beneath them. Her dress shoved up around her waist. Her gasp as he entered her from behind, no preliminaries, just taking what he wanted, what she so blatantly offered with every defiant glance.
“Is that what this is?” he grunted, his breath starting to come faster.
He imagined her fighting him at first, that fire in her eyes, and then yielding, her body arching back into his, her moans swallowed by the city’s noise. He thought of biting the smooth skin of her shoulder, leaving his mark. He thought of his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to watch them in the reflection of the glass door.
“This pussy is mine,” he growled, the filthy words torn from him. “Tell me it’s mine.”
In his fantasy, she did. She begged him for it. She called out his name, not Manuel’s. His.
His strokes became frantic, his knuckles white. The pleasure built, a tight, coiling pressure that had nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with conquest and release. It was an exorcism of her from his system, a physical rejection of the hold she already had on him.
With a guttural, choked-off cry, he came, his release streaking across the mirror, obscuring his reflection. He slumped forward, bracing his hands on his knees, his body shuddering with the aftershocks.
He stayed like that for a long time, breathing heavily in the silent room. The act had been empty. A temporary physical relief that had done nothing to quiet the turmoil in his mind. If anything, it had made it worse. It had made her real in a way she hadn’t been before.
He straightened up and looked at the mess on the mirror. He saw his own face, grim and unsatisfied, through the streaks.
She wasn’t a distraction. She was a problem. His problem.
And he had no idea how to solve it.
The city’s nocturnal hum was a distant memory, replaced by the intimate silence of Manuel’s bedroom. Vanja lay tangled in the sheets, the scent of their earlier passion and his expensive cologne clinging to the air. Manuel’s hand traced idle patterns on her bare back.
“So,” he began, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “What did Joshua want on that balcony?” He was teasing, his fingers drifting lower.
Vanja shifted, a faint irritation prickling her skin. “To fight,” she said, her tone dismissive. “But he gave up.”
Manuel chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Hm, I think he wants something else.” His hand cupped her ass, pulling her closer.
“Manu,” she warned, her body already responding to his touch.
“What?” he murmured, his lips finding her neck. “I can’t say I blame him.” His teeth grazed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. “We want the same woman…”
Vanja moaned as his mouth traveled lower, his tongue flicking over her nipple. He sucked hard, and she arched into him. “And fuck, you are so wet,” he growled, his fingers sliding between her legs. “You like it, don’t you?”
He laughed, a dark, knowing sound. “He’s a cold bastard. Hot but cold.” His thumb circled her clit, making her gasp. “And well, I get it…”
She moaned again, her hips moving against his hand. “He’s my best friend, you know.”
“Manuel, can you stop talking about fucking Kimmich?” she breathed, her voice thick with desire.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he positioned himself between her legs and entered her in one smooth, deep thrust. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. “If you want,” he panted, his rhythm already fierce, “we can help him release the tension.”
Vanja ignored him, focusing on the sensation of him filling her. But then she imagined it—Joshua’s intense gaze, his hands on her, his body joining theirs. The thought was illicit, electric.
“Fuck,” Manuel said, his pace quickening. “You are thinking about it.” He drove into her harder, each thrust a punctuation of his claim. “Fuck.”
He fucked her with a raw, possessive intensity that left no room for gentle affection. The bed rocked, their skin slapped together, and the room filled with their ragged breaths and filthy, urging words. She came with a shattered cry, her body convulsing around him, and he followed with a guttural groan, spilling inside her.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her to him, both slick with sweat. “I’m serious,” he said, his breath hot against her hair. “It might help him get off our backs.”
She rolled her eyes, but a sudden, involuntary clench deep in her belly betrayed her. Joshua’s cold grey-blue eyes flashed in her head, unwavering and hungry.
Joshua’s cold grey-blue eyes flashed in her head, unwavering and hungry. Vanja lay still in the tangle of sheets, Manuel’s heavy arm slung across her waist, his breathing deep and regular in sleep. The phantom sensation of that intense stare prickled her skin, a lingering electricity that the sweat and heat of sex had failed to erase.
The phantom sensation of that intense stare prickled her skin, a lingering electricity that the sweat and heat of sex had failed to erase. She carefully extracted herself from Manuel’s sleeping embrace, the sheets whispering against her damp skin as she padded naked to the bathroom. Under the stark, clinical light, she studied her reflection—the flush on her cheeks, the slight redness on her shoulder where his stubble had rubbed—and tried to pinpoint the source of her disquiet.
It wasn’t Manuel. His possession was a familiar, comfortable weight.
It was the other one, the one with the cold, analytical eyes that mirrored her own. Kimmich. He had looked at her on that balcony not as a model or an accessory, but as a complex equation he was determined to solve. And the most unsettling part was the flicker of recognition she’d felt, a silent acknowledgment of a similar, ruthless intelligence behind his own disciplined facade.
The Allianz Arena was a roaring, seething beast of red and white. Vanja sat in the family section, the vibrations from the crowd thrumming through the plastic seat beneath her. On the pitch, Joshua Kimmich was a study in controlled fury, dictating the tempo with sharp, incisive passes, his face a mask of concentration. Every time he won a tackle, his eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly, toward the stands where she sat.
It was a Champions League semi-final against Manchester City, a brutal, physical chess match. The tension was a live wire. In the 88th minute, with the score agonizingly level, City won a corner. The ball arced into the box, a swirling, dangerous thing. Manuel Neuer erupted from his line, a giant of pure, athletic will, punching the ball clear with a thunderous, two-fisted blow that echoed through the stadium.
The final whistle blew. Bedlam.
Vanja was on her feet, swept along in the collective roar of relief and triumph. She saw Manuel, chest heaving, pounding his fists against the Bayern badge on his jersey. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching, and then they locked onto hers.
Without a second thought, she moved, slipping past startled stewards and down toward the pitch-side barrier. He was already striding toward her, mud-streaked and glorious, his focus entirely on her. He didn’t hesitate. He cupped her face in his large, gloved hands and kissed her, deeply and possessively, in front of seventy-five thousand people and the blinding flash of a thousand cameras.
The stadium’s roar intensified, a new note of shock and gossipy delight mixing with the celebratory cheers. When they finally broke apart, breathless, a figure was standing a few feet away, watching them. Joshua. He wasn’t celebrating. He just stood there, his expression unreadable. Then, he gave a single, slow nod, not to Manuel, but to her. It wasn’t a concession. It was an acknowledgment.
Later, in the buzzing, champagne-soaked chaos of the locker room corridor, he found her waiting for Manuel. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, liniment, and victory.
“Vanjа,” Joshua said, his voice low.
She turned, her heart hammering against her ribs. The noise of the celebrating players felt suddenly distant.
He looked directly at her, his gaze stripped of its usual coldness, leaving something raw and surprisingly honest in its place. “On the balcony. I was out of line. I’m sorry.” The apology was blunt, efficient, and felt more genuine for its lack of polish. “It won’t happen again.”
Before she could form a reply, Manuel emerged from the locker room, shirtless, a towel around his neck, beaming. He slung an arm around Vanja, pulling her close, the picture of a conquering hero with his prize. “What’s this? Making peace, Josh?”
Joshua’s eyes met Vanja’s one last time over Manuel’s shoulder. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Something like that,” he said, then turned and melted back into the crowd of his teammates.
The following week, a different kind of notification lit up her phone. It was a link from her brother, Vid. Attached was a single photo: him, beaming with overwhelmed pride, wearing the crisp white jersey of the German national team for the first time. The caption was simple: Debüt. Für Deutschland. Her breath caught. Her little brother. All of it, the modeling, the scrutiny, the complicated games with men like Manuel and Joshua, it all receded for a moment, replaced by a pure, fierce joy that burned brighter than any stadium light.
The joy for her brother was a clean, bright flame, but back in Munich, the old shadows stretched long across the polished floors of Manuel’s apartment. He’d watched the kiss on replay, a possessive gleam in his eyes. “They’re calling it the seal of approval,” he said, pulling her onto his lap on the sofa, his hands already under her shirt. “My good luck charm.”
His mouth was on her neck, his arousal hard against her thigh. “Let’s give them something else to talk about,” he murmured, his fingers deftly unbuttoning her jeans. She felt a familiar detachment, her mind still half with Vid’s triumphant photo, but her body responded to his practiced touch. “You’re thinking too much,” he growled, yanking her jeans down her hips. “I can always tell.”
He didn’t lead her to the bedroom. He turned her over the arm of the sofa, the cool leather a shock against her bare stomach. He pushed her knees apart with his own, his breathing harsh in her ear. “You’re so fucking wet for me already,” he grunted, sliding a hand between her legs. “Aren’t you?”
She nodded, a tight, wordless sound catching in her throat as he pushed two fingers inside her. “Use your words, Vanja.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
He didn’t prepare her further. He freed himself from his trousers, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, blunt and demanding. He entered her with a single, deep thrust that stole her breath, filling her completely. “Fuck,” he hissed, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still. “This is mine. All of this.”
He set a punishing rhythm, each drive of his hips slamming her into the sofa’s arm. The sound was crude, wet, animalistic. She closed her eyes, her fingers clutching at the leather. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. “Imagine if he saw you like this,” Manuel whispered, his voice rough with exertion. “My prick buried deep inside you. Taking it so well.”
The image, illicit and sharp, flashed behind her eyes—Joshua’s cold, analytical gaze watching her being fucked like this. A jolt, hot and shameful, shot through her. Her inner muscles clenched around Manuel involuntarily.
He felt it. “You like that idea,” he panted, pounding into her faster, harder. “You filthy girl. You’d like both of us, wouldn’t you?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t, her moans ripped from her with every thrust. Her orgasm built not from tenderness but from the raw, degrading physics of it, the friction and the force and the dark fantasy he’d spoken into existence. It crashed over her, a wave of shuddering intensity, and she cried out, her body going rigid. He followed with a guttural roar, his own release pumping into her, his full weight collapsing onto her back for a moment before he rolled off.
Six months later, the same sofa felt different beneath her. The party swirled around them, a collection of Bayern’s elite and their partners. Lina, Joshua’s girlfriend, was perched on the armrest beside him, her hand resting on her still-flat stomach. “We’re pregnant,” she announced, her voice ringing with a bright, uncomplicated joy that silenced the room for a beat before the congratulations erupted.
Vanja smiled, the muscles in her face performing the motion perfectly. Inside, she felt a sudden, hollow loss, a silent ‘what if’ echoing in a space she hadn’t known was empty. She shook her head, a tiny, physical negation of the feeling, and turned to Manuel.
He was already looking at her, a different, more determined light in his eyes. He dropped to one knee. The room gasped, a second, more profound silence falling. “Vanja,” he said, a simple black box open in his hand. “Make me the happiest man.”
The hollowness yawned wider. But she looked at the ring, at his expectant face, at the entire room watching. She leaned down and kissed him. “Yes,” she heard herself say.
As he slid the ring onto her finger, he pulled her close, his whisper for her alone. “You’re next,” he breathed, nodding almost imperceptibly toward Lina.
Vanja laughed, the sound brittle to her own ears. “Stop it.”
Her gaze lifted across the room, colliding instantly with a pair of grey eyes. Joshua was watching her, his arm around Lina, his hand splayed protectively over her stomach. But his attention was entirely, devastatingly, on Vanja. He saw it. He saw the pain woven through her happiness, the conflict warring with her smile. And in the stark, unguarded clarity of his own gaze, she saw it reflected back at her—a perfect, parallel understanding of the complicated cage they had both just willingly entered.