Chapter 1: The Wrong Choice in the VIP Lounge
The air in the hidden lounge was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, chilled vodka, and ambition. It was a velvet-draped cave, all low amber lighting and gilded mirrors that reflected the glittering, carefully curated versions of the people inside. The thrum of the main gala was a distant pulse here, muted by plush carpets and the weight of secrets.
Vanja leaned against the bar, the cool marble seeping through the silk of her dress. It was a daring thing, slate grey and cut with a geometric precision that left one long, toned leg bare from thigh to ankle. She knew what it did. She’d chosen it for that.
“Two o’clock,” Dino murmured, his Swedish accent softening the edges of his German. He didn’t look at her, just swirled the ice in his glass. “Centre-back for Inter. Can’t keep his eyes off you. Or, more specifically, off the side of your dress.”
Vanja followed his subtle glance. The man was older, established, his stare a physical weight. She watched him for a second, her expression neutral, then turned back to her cousin with a grimace. “At least they’re being discreet about it tonight.”
Dino chuckled. “For him, that is discreet. He’s usually less… subtle.”
But her eyes were already sliding away, past the clusters of laughing WAGs and agents, past the veteran striker holding court, to the quieter corner near the floor-to-ceiling window.
Martin Ødegaard stood with a teammate, his back mostly to the room. He was nodding at something being said, a water glass in his hand. The soft light caught the blond of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. He hadn’t looked at her once. Not when she’d entered, not when she’d laughed a little too loudly at a joke, not even when she’d deliberately crossed his sightline on her way to the bar.
It was infuriating.
“And Ødegaard is still ignoring me,” she said, the words tasting tart on her tongue.
Dino sighed, finally turning to face her. At twenty-two, with a jawline that seemed carved from granite and the easy grace of a top-tier athlete, he commanded his own share of attention, but right now his focus was solely on her. “Vanja. Listen to me. That’s his entire thing. He’s not like these others.” He gestured vaguely at the room. “He doesn’t play the game. Not this one, anyway.”
“Everyone plays a game,” she countered, her golden-green eyes narrowing slightly.
“Not him. He’s in his own world. Training, matches, recovery. That’s it. I’ve played against him. You don’t get that good, that consistent, without a kind of… tunnel vision.” He took a sip. “You’re only interested because he’s the one shiny toy in the room you can’t immediately grab.”
She bristled. “It’s not about grabbing.”
“Isn’t it?” He raised a brow. “Come on. You’re used to turning heads. You walk into a stadium, a party, a lecture hall, and necks snap. It’s a fact. And now you’ve found the one guy in a fifty-meter radius who hasn’t bothered to glance over, and it’s short-circuiting your competitive wiring. This isn’t attraction, sötnos. It’s a challenge you’ve invented.”
Vanja swallowed the rest of her champagne, the bubbles feeling suddenly aggressive. He was right, and that was the most annoying part. Her whole life was built on measurable challenges: shaving milliseconds off a personal best, beating the woman in the next lane, pushing past the burn in her lungs. This was unquantifiable. Unbeatable. How do you defeat indifference?
“Maybe I just want to know what he’s thinking,” she said, her voice quieter.
“He’s probably thinking about tomorrow’s training session. Or his passing accuracy. Or the Norwegian weather. I’m telling you, it’s not personal. Which is why you should leave it.”
Across the room, Ødegaard’s teammate clapped him on the shoulder and wandered off towards the bar, leaving him momentarily alone. He glanced at his phone, his brow furrowing slightly. It was the most expression she’d seen on his face all night.
It was now or never.
“Or,” Vanja said, setting her empty flute down with a decisive click, “I make it personal.”
Dino reached for her arm but she was already moving, a sleek blur of grey silk and determined energy. She navigated the room not with a model’s self-conscious stroll, but with an athlete’s directness. A few heads turned. The Inter centre-back watched her go, a slight frown on his face.
She stopped beside Ødegaard, close enough that he’d have to acknowledge her, not so close as to be intrusive. He was taller than she’d realized.
“Water?” she said, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around them. “At an open bar? That’s either incredibly disciplined or tragically dull.”
He looked up from his phone. His eyes were a cool, clear blue. They scanned her face, then flickered down her dress for a half-second before returning to her eyes. No approval, no surprise. Just assessment.
“It’s practical,” he said. His voice was calm, softer than she expected, with the rounded vowels of his Norwegian accent. “Champagne gives me a headache.”
“A headache, or an excuse to leave early?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re the runner.”
It wasn’t a question. He knew who she was. The revelation sent a sudden, unwarranted thrill through her, which she immediately suppressed.
“Vanja Jakobsen. And you’re the one ignoring the free champagne. And, apparently, everyone in the room.”
Ødegaard tilted his head slightly. “I’m not ignoring anyone. I’m just… here.” He put his phone in his pocket. “Congratulations on your season. The 400m record in Berlin was impressive.”
He’d seen it. He knew her event. The thrill was back, stronger now. “Thank you. Congratulations on yours. That title chase went down to the wire.”
He gave a small, acknowledging nod. “It did.” He looked past her then, towards the door, his focus shifting. “It was nice to meet you, Vanja.”
And just like that, the dismissal was clear. Polite, utterly firm. The conversation was over. He’d given her thirty seconds of his attention, registered her existence and her profession, and was now moving on. The tunnel vision Dino described slammed back into place.
Before she could muster a retort, a club official was at his elbow, speaking in low, urgent tones. Ødegaard’s posture changed immediately, the relaxed slope of his shoulders squaring up into captain’s stance. He listened, nodded, and without another glance in her direction, followed the man out of the lounge through a discreet service door.
Vanja stood rooted to the spot, the sounds of the lounge rushing back in a wave. She felt heat climb her neck. He hadn’t been rude. He’d been… efficient. He’d processed her and filed her away.
Dino appeared at her side, handing her a fresh glass of champagne. “See?”
She took the glass, her grip tight. “He knew who I was. He’d seen my race.”
“Of course he did. He’s a professional athlete. He probably has the sports news on a feed. That doesn’t mean anything.”
But it did. It meant the indifference wasn’t because she was a nobody. It was deliberate. A choice. She watched the service door swing shut, cutting off her view of his retreating back.
“He just left,” she said, more to herself than to Dino.
“Probably a sponsor thing. Or he’s bored. Like I said, this isn’t his scene.”
Vanja finally took a long drink, the champagne bitter now. The challenge was no longer invented. It was concrete. It had blue eyes, a soft voice, and a total, devastating lack of interest. And as the door clicked shut, all her competitive instincts, every stubborn, headstrong fibre of her, ignited.
Fine, she thought. Let’s play a different game.
The drive back to her flat was a silent, smoldering thing. Dino, wise enough to let her stew, kept his eyes on the Berlin streets glowing under the streetlights. Vanja stared out the window, seeing not the city but the clean, uninterested line of Ødegaard’s profile as he turned away.
Inside her minimalist apartment, she kicked off her heels, the thud satisfying against the polished concrete floor. She poured a glass of water, not champagne, and slumped onto her sofa, scrolling through her phone. The usual post-gala social media storm was already brewing—filtered group shots, coy captions, the performative glamour of it all. It felt hollow.
Her thumb paused. A post from the official Arsenal account, a generic thank you for the charity support. Martin Ødegaard was tagged. She clicked through to his profile. It was exactly as Dino had described: a tunnel. Training shots. Match-day photos. The occasional artistically blurry picture of a fjord. No party scenes. No cleavage-baring influencers clinging to his arm. It was a feed of pure, unadulterated focus.
And then she saw it. Three days ago. A simple story, just a video of a young kid, maybe ten, executing a perfect, silky touch and pass against a garden wall. The caption was in Norwegian. This was me. Keep working. That was all.
Something in her chest tightened. Not a thirst trap, not a boast. Just a quiet, perfect piece of motivation. A reference to his own prodigy past, used to push the next generation. Vanja liked the story. Then, impulsively, she liked the post too. It was a faint digital pulse, sent directly into his curated world. A flag planted in his digital soil. I am here.
A week dissolved into the brutal, familiar rhythm of training—the burn of lactic acid, the sting of the track under her spikes, the dizzying clarity of pushing her body to its absolute limit. Then came the national training camp in Oslo, a gathering of Scandinavia’s athletic elite across disciplines, a cross-pollination of sports science and competitive spirit.
The facility was a maze of glass and steel, echoing with the sounds of weights clanging and instructions barked in a dozen languages. Martin was there with a few of the Norwegian football contingent, a low-profile conditioning session woven into his offseason. He was stretching in a quiet corner of a mixed-use gym when he heard her voice.
It was distinctive—lower than he expected, laced with a melodic Danish lilt but carrying a firm, confident weight. She was speaking Danish, leaning against a rack of kettlebells, her phone propped up. On the screen was Julian Rayerson’s grinning face.
“Julian, I’m serious, what is that?” Vanja was saying, a laugh playing on her full mouth. “It looks like a frightened pine marten decided to nest on your head. Did you lose a bet?”
Rayerson’s laugh crackled through the speaker. “It’s style, Vanja. You wouldn’t understand. You only know how to make hair look windblown from running too fast.”
“Windblown is better than rodent-infested. Shave it. Start over. I’m doing you a favor.”
Erling Haaland, passing by with a medicine ball, leaned into the frame. “She’s right, Jul. It’s terrible. Looks like you got in a fight with a lawnmower.”
Julian rolled his eyes so hard his whole head moved. “Oh, not you too. Why is everyone bullying me? Vanja I can't believe you, we are friends for over a decade. Since when are you brutally honest?”
“It’s a public service,” Vanja said, her golden-green eyes crinkling.
Martin finished his stretch, his expression neutral. He had heard right at the gala. Confident. Aggressive, even in her teasing. Maybe that was just her. Or maybe it was him, reading directness as a challenge. He watched for a second longer as she effortlessly held the banter with two of Europe’s most formidable strikers. She moved in their world with an easy ownership. Kai Harvetz's words echoed: She has her fair share of athletes to choose from.
He raised an eyebrow, a private, internal notation, and moved on to his next drill.
3 days Later, in the quiet of his hotel room, the Oslo night dark outside his window, he scrolled through the day’s sports highlights. Track and field from Tokyo. The 100-meter final.
The video loaded. The shot was of the blocks, the athletes a coiled symphony of tension. The gun cracked. The movement was a violent, beautiful explosion. And there she was. Faster than anyone. SO fast. A powerful, driving force, her form impeccable, her stride devouring the track. Tall, strong, every muscle firing in synchronized perfection. The commentator’s voice rose to a shriek as she broke the tape, the new time flashing on the screen: 9.30. A new world record.
The camera closed in on her as she straightened, chest heaving, hands on her hips. The slate-grey racing suit was cut high on the legs, clinging to a figure that was all powerful curves—a potent, athletic femininity that the tabloids would inevitably and crudely dissect. She was beautiful, in a way that felt almost inconvenient, a distraction from the sheer magnitude of the performance. She had soft curves and tight muscles; it was a lot.
But Martin kept watching past the finish, past the initial celebration. The broadcast cut to the sidelines minutes later. She was drenched in sweat, her hair escaping its tight ponytail, clearly exhausted, her body starting to stiffen in the cool-down. Yet she stood by the barrier, signing autographs on shirts, programs, bare arms. A young girl was crying, and Vanja bent down, her tired face softening into a genuine, patient smile as she posed for a photo, an arm around the kid’s shoulders. She signed one more, then another, until a team official gently guided her away.
She was tired. He could see the fatigue in the slight droop of her shoulders as she finally turned to leave. But she had stayed. She had been kind.
He closed the app. The silent hotel room felt very quiet. He thought of the gala, her challenging tone. He thought of the liked post on his feed. He thought of the laugh in the gym and the exhausted smile under the Tokyo lights. A complicated profile was assembling itself in his mind, piece by contradictory piece. He didn’t open his phone again. He just sat in the dark for a while, the ghost of a world-record run playing behind his eyes.