Chapter 2: The Dressing Room Incident
The door clicked shut, muffling the distant orchestral hum of the gala into a dull, champagne-throated pulse. The backstage dressing room was an island of quiet opulence, all soft light and velvet shadows, smelling of powdery perfume and someone else’s forgotten cigarettes.
Vanja leaned back against the edge of a lit vanity, the shattered mirror at her back now nothing but cold plaster. The hulking Swedish hockey player was a forgotten thought, dismissed with a flick of her wrist and a too-sweet smile moments before Amanda had steered her here. Now, it was just the two of them. The air felt charged, thin.
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Vanja said, her voice deliberately casual, a contrast to the hammering behind her ribs. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture she immediately regretted. It made her feel young.
Amanda didn’t move from the door. Her blue eyes were Arctic stones. “That dress is ruined. They’ll be talking about your stumble all night. The golden girl, tripped up by her own vanity.” She spoke flatly, but a vein ticked in her temple. “I thought you’d want to fix it.”
“I don’t need fixing.”
A cold, slow smile touched Amanda’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes. “No. You don’t.” She pushed off the door and walked forward, each step deliberate on the plush carpet. She stopped a foot away, well into Vanja’s space. The scent of her, clean linen and something sharper, like winter pine, washed over Vanja. “You need something else.”
Vanja’s chin lifted. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
In one swift, brutal motion, Amanda’s hand shot out. Not to slap, but to grasp. Her fingers tangled in the dark blonde waves at the nape of Vanja’s neck, fisting tightly. She used the grip to spin Vanja around and shove her forward, face-first towards the large, intact mirror on the adjacent wall.
Vanja’s palms slapped against the cold glass to stop her fall, her breath fogging a small circle on the surface. The reflection showed her wide, golden-green eyes, her flushed cheeks, and behind her, Amanda’s impassive face, a blond ghost.
“You need to be taken down a peg,” Amanda whispered, her mouth close to Vanja’s ear. Her other hand slid from Vanja’s shoulder, down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her hip. The fabric of the torn dress whispered in protest.
Vanja tried to twist, to say something scathing, but Amanda’s grip in her hair tightened, a sharp, beautiful pain that rooted her to the spot. “Stop—”
“You don’t want me to stop.” Amanda’s voice was a low rasp. Her manicured nails traced the newly exposed line of Vanja’s thigh, where the split in the gown had ripped further. The touch was glacial, clinical, until it wasn’t. Her fingers dipped higher, under the ragged edge of the fabric, into the heated dark. “Look at yourself.”
Vanja’s gaze, defiant for a second, dropped to their reflection. She saw the flush spreading down her chest, saw the way her own lips were slightly parted. She saw Amanda watching her, watching her watch.
Then Amanda’s fingers found the damp lace of her underwear and pushed it aside. Vanja gasped, her forehead dropping against the cool mirror with a soft thud. Two of Amanda’s fingers slid into her without preamble, a smooth, shocking invasion.
“Fuck,” Vanja choked out, her hips jerking forward against the glass.
Amanda’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You’re fucking dripping for me already.” Her fingers curled, a brutal, knowing twist. “All that smug confidence on the red carpet, and you’re just a wet little handball slut for the ice queen you pretend to hate.”
The obscenity, delivered in that cool, composed tone, sent a violent shudder through Vanja. She was tight around Amanda’s fingers, achingly so, and every slow, deliberate thrust was a revelation of a humiliating, desperate need. She pushed back, meeting the rhythm, a silent admission.
Amanda’s breath hitched, the first crack in her icy veneer. She bit down on the tendon of Vanja’s neck, not hard enough to mark, but enough to make Vanja cry out. The sound was swallowed by the thick, silent room.
“You like that,” Amanda stated, her fingers working faster, deeper. The slick, filthy sound of it filled the space between them. “You like being used. Being put in your place.”
Vanja couldn’t form words. Her world had narrowed to the pressure inside her, the sharp pain in her scalp, the cold glass against her cheek. Her own pleasure coiled, low and dangerous. She was close, so close, teetering on an edge she hadn’t known was there.
Abruptly, Amanda withdrew her fingers.
A sob of frustration tore from Vanja’s throat. She was empty, throbbing. “Don’t you fucking dare—”
Amanda spun her around again, this time using her own body to pin Vanja against the mirror. She kissed her, a hard, biting collision of lips and teeth. It tasted like salt and champagne and fury. Vanja kissed back, her hands coming up to claw at Amanda’s sleek dress, digging into the fabric over her shoulders.
Breaking the kiss, Amanda stared at her, chest heaving. Her composure was in tatters, her pupils blown wide. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” Vanja snarled, the words ripped from her.
“Want what?”
“You. Fuck me. Now.”
With a grunt, Amanda’s hands went to Vanja’s hips, hoisting her up with a footballer’s strength until her ass rested on the narrow ledge of the vanity. Vials of perfume clattered to the floor. Amanda shoved the ruined gown and the lace underwear down Vanja’s legs, leaving them in a puddle at her ankles.
Then she dropped to her knees.
Vanja looked down, stunned, as Amanda’s hands hooked under her thighs, spreading her wide open to the cool, conditioned air and the warm, seeking mouth that followed.
There was no finesse. Amanda ate her out like it was a punishment, like she was starving. A rough, flat tongue licked a broad stripe through her soaking folds before zeroing in on her clit, sucking it hard into her mouth. Vanja’s head slammed back against the mirror, a dull crack echoing. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the smooth wood of the vanity.
“Jesus, Amanda—right there, oh fuck, right there—”
Amanda growled against her, the vibration pushing Vanja closer to the brink. One hand came up to palm Vanja’s breast, thumb rubbing a rough circle over her nipple through the dress fabric. The other hand returned to between her legs, two fingers plunging back inside her, curling relentlessly.
It was too much, a sensory overload of rough hands, hungry mouth, and the degrading, glorious truth of it all. Vanja came with a shattered cry, her body buckling, her vision whiting out at the edges. Waves of pleasure, sharp and convulsing, tore through her. Amanda didn’t let up, drinking her in, fucking her through it until Vanja was gasping, shoving weakly at her head.
Only then did Amanda pull back, rising to her feet. Her mouth glistened in the soft light. She looked at Vanja, who was slumped against the mirror, spent and trembling, her dress around her waist, her skin gleaming with sweat.
For a long moment, they just breathed. The noise of the gala outside seeped back in, a distant reminder of a world that continued.
Amanda reached out, not with cruelty, but with a strange, almost tender abruptness. She used her thumb to wipe a stray smudge of lipstick from Vanja’s cheekbone. Her expression was unreadable, a storm of something that looked like regret, triumph, and raw hunger all at once.
Then she turned, walked to a sleek leather couch on the other side of the room, and sat down. She pulled a small compact from her clutch and began calmly reapplying her lipstick in the mirror, as if she were alone.
Vanja, her legs shaking, slowly slid from the vanity. She gathered her dress, pulling it back up, the torn fabric feeling like a battle flag. Her eyes never left Amanda’s reflection in the compact mirror.
The silence was no longer charged. It was vast, and deep, and waiting for one of them to break it. Vanja’s mind, usually so quick with a retort, a flirtation, a philosophical pivot, was utterly blank. She had been unraveled, and the woman who had done it was now just fixing her makeup.
It was the most terrifying thing Vanja had ever seen. And the most exhilarating.
She took a shaky step forward. “So,” she said, her voice hoarse but steadying. “Is that how you treat all the rookies?”
Amanda’s eyes flicked up from the compact mirror, meeting Vanja’s reflected gaze. The click of the compact closing was a sharp period in the heavy silence.
“Only the arrogant ones,” Amanda said, her voice flat again, a practiced sheet of ice over a deep lake. She stood, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her gown. “Can you walk, or did I break you?”
Vanja pushed off the vanity, her legs holding, fueled by a surge of defiant pride. “You wish.” She took a step, the ruined silk of her dress whispering around her ankles. “That was just warm-up.”
A slow, cold smile spread on Amanda’s lips. It was predatory, calculating. “Warm-up.” She repeated the word as if tasting it. She took two steps forward, closing the distance. Her hand came up, not to strike, but to trace the line where her teeth had pressed into Vanja’s neck. “You’re still shaking.”
“Adrenaline,” Vanja lied, her pulse jumping under Amanda’s fingertips.
“Liar.” Amanda’s thumb pressed down on Vanja’s lower lip, pulling it slightly. “Your mouth says one thing. Your fucking cunt said another. It was screaming my name.”
Vanja sucked in a sharp breath, the crude word landing with a thrill. She caught Amanda’s wrist, pulling her hand away but not letting go. “You’re obsessed.”
“I’m observant.” Amanda’s other hand slid around Vanja’s waist, pulling her flush against her body. The hard planes of Amanda’s torso met Vanja’s soft curves. “You’re still wet. I can feel the heat through my dress.”
Before Vanja could form a retort, Amanda kissed her. This kiss was different, not a battle, but a claiming. Deep, thorough, and devastatingly competent. Vanja melted into it, her fingers tightening on Amanda’s wrist, her other hand fisting in the slick fabric at the small of Amanda’s back. The taste of herself on Amanda’s tongue was darkly, profoundly erotic.
Amanda broke the kiss, her breathing slightly ragged. “This room has a lock.”
“So lock it.”
Amanda moved, a blur of purposeful motion. The solid thunk of the deadbolt engaging was the most erotic sound Vanja had ever heard. When Amanda turned back, her cool composure was fully shed. Something hungrier, more feral, looked out from behind her blue eyes.
“Against the mirror,” Amanda commanded, her voice low. “I want to watch you fall apart again.”
Vanja obeyed, walking backward until her shoulder blades met the cool glass. Amanda followed, dropping to her knees once more on the plush carpet. This time, her hands pushed Vanja’s thighs apart with an ownership that made Vanja’s stomach clench.
Amanda didn’t use her mouth. She looked up, holding eye contact as she slid two fingers back inside Vanja with no preamble. Vanja’s head thumped back against the mirror. “Fuck!”
“That’s the idea.” Amanda’s fingers curled, a brutal, perfect corkscrew motion. Her thumb found Vanja’s clit, applying a steady, ruthless pressure. “Look at me.”
Vanja forced her eyes down. Seeing Amanda Nilsen, the icy footballer, on her knees with her hand buried in her was an image that would be seared into her brain forever. Amanda’s lips were parted, her gaze unwavering. She worked Vanja with a relentless, athletic rhythm, the muscles in her forearm flexing.
“You’re gonna come,” Amanda stated, her voice rough. “And you’re gonna say ‘please’.”
“Go to hell,” Vanja gasped, her hips pushing down onto Amanda’s hand, chasing the feeling. The coil inside her tightened impossibly.
Amanda slowed her pace, her thumb circling lazily. “Say it.”
The denial caught in Vanja’s throat. The pleasure was a rising tide, and Amanda was holding her under. She was so close, trembling on the edge, denied the fall. A broken sound escaped her. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, make me come.” The words were a humiliation and a liberation.
Amanda surged upward, capturing Vanja’s mouth in a kiss as her fingers plunged deep, thumb grinding hard. The orgasm ripped through Vanja violently, a silent scream against Amanda’s mouth. Her body convulsed, her knees buckling. Amanda held her up, pinned between her body and the mirror, fucking her through the pulsating waves until Vanja sagged, spent.
Amanda slowly withdrew her fingers. She held them up, glistening in the low light, then deliberately sucked them clean, her eyes locked on Vanja’s. “You taste better than any trophy.”
Vanja could only breathe, her vision still speckled. Amanda stepped back, retrieving a towel from a nearby shelf. She tossed it to Vanja. “Clean up. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Vanja caught the towel, her mind foggy. “The awards—”
“Are boring.” Amanda straightened her own dress, a picture of pure composure once more. “I have a car. My hotel is closer.”
Vanja wiped herself, the coarse fabric a stark contrast to the sensitivity between her legs. “You’re presumptuous.”
“You’re still dripping down your thigh.” Amanda’s voice was matter-of-fact. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened it a crack, checking the corridor. “You can stay here and get interviewed about your torn dress. Or you can come with me and get fucked properly.” She glanced back over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Your choice, rookie.”
The challenge hung in the perfumed air. Vanja looked at the puddle of her ruined gown, at her own flushed reflection in the mirror. She thought of the sterile after-party chatter, the hollow congratulations. Then she looked at Amanda’s impatient silhouette in the doorway.
She dropped the towel.
Walking forward on still-unsteady legs, she gathered the torn silk of her dress to keep from tripping. She stopped inches from Amanda, close enough to see the faint pulse in her throat.
“Your hotel had better have a big bed,” Vanja said, her voice regaining some of its old steadiness. “I’m not done with you either.”
Amanda’s lips curved into a slow, genuine smile. It transformed her face, making her look younger, dangerous, and utterly captivating. She reached out, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from Vanja’s cheek with a touch that was almost tender.
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured. Then she pushed the door fully open, offering her arm with a formality that was both ridiculous and electrifying. “Shall we?”
Vanja stared at the proffered arm, then back at Amanda’s waiting, confident face.
Amanda smirks.
Amanda smirks. She lowers her arm, the gesture dismissed, and turns into the corridor. Her heels click a swift, decisive rhythm on the polished concrete. Vanja watches her go, the straight line of her spine, the sway of her hips beneath the sleek fabric.
Then she moves, her own steps silent on the plush runner carpet. She follows silently. The hallway stretches, a blur of abstract art and muted sconces. Amanda doesn't look back. She knows.
The service elevator doors slid open at their approach. Amanda stepped inside, holding a hand to keep them from closing. Vanja entered the sterile, steel box. The doors shut, sealing them in a sudden, intimate silence broken only by the mechanical hum of descent. Amanda stared ahead at the numbered panel, her reflection a pale ghost in the polished metal.
Vanja leaned against the opposite wall. The cool surface seeped through her torn dress. “No penthouse suite?”
“Privacy is better than prestige.” Amanda’s voice was flat. The elevator slowed. “This isn’t a date.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
The doors opened to an underground garage. The air was cold and smelled of oil and damp concrete. Amanda led the way to a black SUV, its lights flashing once as she unlocked it with a remote click. Vanja climbed into the passenger seat. The leather was cold.
They drove in silence through the glittering city. Streetlights painted stripes across Amanda’s concentrated face. Vanja watched her, the sharp cut of her jaw, the way her hands rested light but sure on the wheel. Her own body still hummed from the dressing room, a live wire of spent sensation and simmering anticipation.
The hotel was discreet, modern. Amanda bypassed the glittering lobby, leading them through a side entrance into a private elevator. This one ascended smoothly. The digital display climbed. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.
The elevator opened directly into a suite. It was all cool tones and minimalist furniture, a wall of windows showcasing the city’s necklace of lights. It felt sterile, like a showroom. Amanda tossed her clutch onto a low sofa. She turned, facing Vanja in the vast, quiet space.
“Well?” she said.
Vanja let her own tiny purse drop to the floor. It was a soft sound, but in the quiet it felt like a declaration. “Well what?”
Amanda crossed the room in four long strides. She didn’t kiss her. She grabbed a handful of Vanja’s hair again, gentler this time, and pulled her head back to expose her throat. Her other hand splayed on Vanja’s lower back, pulling their bodies flush. Vanja could feel the entire length of her, hard and soft in all the right places.
“You’re still playing,” Amanda murmured into her skin. Her teeth scraped Vanja’s pulse point.
“You started the game.” Vanja’s hands came up, fingers digging into the hard muscle of Amanda’s shoulders.
“I’m ending it.” Amanda released her hair, her hands moving to the straps of Vanja’s dress. With a firm tug, the delicate fabric tore at the shoulders. The dress pooled at Vanja’s feet, leaving her in only her heels. The cool air pebbled her skin. Amanda’s gaze was a physical touch, roaming over her breasts, her waist, the damp that still gleamed on her inner thighs.
Vanja didn’t cover herself. She stood there, letting herself be seen. The vulnerability was its own kind of power. She saw Amanda’s throat move as she swallowed.
“On the bed.” It wasn’t a request.
Vanja walked backwards, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. She stopped when her calves hit the edge of the vast platform bed. She reclined, propping herself on her elbows. The pose arched her back, thrust her breasts forward. Amanda watched, her expression unreadable. She began to undress herself, methodically. The dress, the delicate underwear. It was not a striptease. It was a dismantling.
Naked, Amanda was a sculpture. Lean muscle carved from years of pitch-running, small perfect breasts, a flat stomach. The soft blonde hair between her legs was neat, trimmed. She approached the bed, her blue eyes dark. Vanja’s mouth went dry.
Amanda climbed over her, caging her with arms and legs. Her knee pressed insistently against Vanja’s center. The contact made Vanja gasp. “You talked a big game backstage,” Amanda said, her voice low. “All that ‘warm-up’ shit.”
She rocked her knee, a slow, grinding pressure. Vanja’s hips jerked upward, seeking more. “Prove me wrong, then,” Vanja breathed, her defiance fraying into want.
Amanda shifted, lowering her mouth to Vanja’s breast. She took the nipple in, sucking hard, her tongue flicking. Her hand slid between Vanja’s legs, fingers sliding through the wetness there with a crude, slick sound. “So fucking wet. Still.” She pressed two fingers inside, deeper than before, her palm grinding against Vanja’s clit.
Vanja cried out, her back bowing off the bed. Amanda fucked her with her hand, a relentless, piston-drive rhythm. It was overwhelming, devoid of gentle pretense. It was about friction, about claiming. Vanja’s nails scraped down Amanda’s back, leaving faint red trails.
“Come on,” Amanda gritted out, her breath hot against Vanja’s throat. “Come for me again. Show me what you’ve got, rookie.”
The pressure built, coiling impossibly tight. Vanja’s world narrowed to the push and pull inside her, the bite of Amanda’s teeth on her shoulder, the raw, filthy encouragement in her ear. She came with a shattered gasp, a violent clamp of muscles around Amanda’s fingers, her vision dissolving into white sparks.
Amanda rode her through it, her movements unyielding until Vanja went limp, boneless against the sheets. Only then did she withdraw her hand. She brought her glistening fingers to Vanja’s mouth.
“Taste,” she commanded.
Vanja, her mind hazy with endorphins, obeyed. She closed her lips around Amanda’s fingers, sucking them clean, her tongue swirling over the salt and tang of her own pleasure. The act was submissive, deeply so, and it sent a fresh, shocking jolt of desire through her exhausted system.
Amanda’s composure cracked. A low groan escaped her. She surged forward, kissing Vanja hard, tasting herself on Vanja’s tongue. The dynamic shifted. Vanja felt the iron control slipping, replaced by a hungry urgency. She rolled them over, reversing their positions. She straddled Amanda’s hips, pinning her wrists to the bed.
For a moment, Amanda looked up, stunned. A flash of real vulnerability crossed her features.
Vanja leaned down, her hair a curtain around them. “My turn,” she said, her voice rough. She released Amanda’s wrists and slid down her body, her mouth leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses. She nipped at the sharp hip bones, licked the tight plane of her stomach.
When she reached the junction of Amanda’s thighs, she didn’t hesitate. She buried her face there, inhaling the musky, clean scent. She licked a broad stripe through her folds, then focused on her clit, sucking the hard bud into her mouth. Amanda’s whole body jerked. A string of curses fell from her lips, Danish, raw and guttural.
Vanja worshipped her with a fierce, attentive focus she usually saved for the court. She listened to every hitch of breath, every muffled groan. She used her hands to spread Amanda wider, to tease her opening, to feel her hips buck uncontrollably. Amanda’s hands fisted in Vanja’s hair, not to guide, but to cling.
When Amanda came, it was silent at first, a tensing of every muscle, a shudder that seemed to start in her core and radiate outward. Then a broken, hoarse cry tore from her throat. Vanja drank her in, gentling her tongue until the tremors subsided.
She crawled back up Amanda’s body, finding her lips slack, her eyes closed. Vanja kissed her, soft this time. They lay there, skin slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The city lights painted moving patterns on the ceiling.
Amanda opened her eyes. They were clear, blue, stripped of their usual ice. She looked at Vanja, really looked at her. She traced the line of Vanja’s cheekbone with a fingertip, a gesture so tender it hurt.
“That…” Amanda started, then stopped. She shook her head slightly, the mask trying to slip back into place. “You should go.”
Vanja studied her face—the slight tremble in her lower lip, the flutter of a pulse in her neck. The cold football star was gone. In her place was someone naked in every sense. Vanja rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. “No.”
Amanda blinked. “What?”
“I said no.” Vanja reached out, brushing a strand of damp blonde hair from Amanda’s forehead. “You don’t get to be the ice queen who fucks the rookie and sends her home in a cab.” She let her fingers trail down to Amanda’s jaw. “Not after that.”
Amanda swallowed. She looked away, toward the window. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Vanja’s voice was quiet, sure. “You’re scared.”
That got her attention. Amanda’s eyes snapped back, fiery. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“You’re scared of this.” Vanja gestured between them, at the tangled sheets, the intimate space their bodies shared. “Of wanting it. Of me seeing you.”
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. The hum of the city was a distant soundtrack. Amanda’s defenses were visibly warring—the practiced frost against the raw, exposed nerve Vanja had uncovered.
Finally, Amanda let out a long, shaky breath. The fight seemed to leave her shoulders. She turned onto her side, facing Vanja. An arm slipped around Vanja’s waist, pulling her closer. It was an answer, simple and wordless.
Vanja shifted, fitting herself against Amanda’s body, her head finding a space on her shoulder. The skin was warm, real. They lay like that, two rival athletes entwined in a silent hotel room, the gala and its cameras a world away. The complexity of what had just begun settled over them, a weight both terrifying and exhilarating.
Amanda’s breathing evened out into sleep first. Vanja listened to it, feeling the rise and fall of her chest. Outside, a siren wailed, a lonely sound in the night. She closed her eyes.
She followed silently, into the unknown territory of sleep, of whatever this was, her body molded to the woman she was supposed to hate.