Chapter 5: Van Kong
The alarm on Martin’s phone blared at 5:45 AM, a harsh, digital screech in the dark, silent room. Vanja stirred against him, a soft, protesting murmur escaping her lips. Her back was pressed to his chest, his arm curled around her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach. In sleep, she seemed younger, the fierce competitiveness softened. He watched the grey dawn light begin to outline the curve of her shoulder, the fall of her hair across his pillow.
He had stayed.
The thought was a quiet shock in his system. He never stayed. It was an unspoken rule, a necessary barrier for a life that required absolute control. Yet here he was, in a runner’s bed in London, his body aching in the best way, smelling like her skin and sex.
Carefully, he extracted his arm. She shifted, turning onto her back, the sheet falling to her waist. The sight of her bare breasts in the weak light, the faint bruises from his mouth and hands on her skin, sent a fresh, possessive jolt through him. He leaned over and pressed his lips to the mark on her collarbone, a silent, stupid apology and claim all at once.
She opened her eyes. Golden-green and sleep-hazy, they focused on him. A slow, smug smile touched her mouth. “Still here.”
“I am.”
“Training at seven?”
“Yes.”
She stretched, a languid, cat-like movement that made the muscles in her abdomen tighten and her breasts shift. “Better get going then, Captain.”
He didn’t move. He kissed her instead, a deep, slow, morning kiss that tasted of sleep and her. Her hands came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. He could feel himself hardening against her thigh, the addicting pull of her beginning all over again.
With a groan of pure frustration, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t.”
“That’s your problem,” she whispered, but she released him, pushing lightly at his chest. “Go. Be brilliant.”
Getting dressed in the half-light felt surreal. Pulling on the clothes from last night, smelling of party and her, in the quiet of her bedroom. She watched him from the bed, the sheet pulled up, her eyes tracking his every move. He found his phone, his wallet. At the door, he looked back.
“Vanja.”
“Martin.”
He had no words for this. He gave a short, sharp nod and left, closing the door softly behind him.
The apartment was a disaster zone of empty bottles and abandoned glasses, the air stale. He moved through it like a ghost, letting himself out into the crisp morning air. The Uber ride to the training ground was a blur. His body felt used, satisfied, but his mind was racing. Complications.
The Cobham training ground was a cathedral of routine, a place where every minute was accounted for. Today, Martin felt like an interloper in his own life.
“You look like shit, Kaptein,” Gökçe said cheerfully, falling into step beside him as they headed for the physio room. “Big night?”
Martin grunted, adjusting his training bag on his shoulder.
Riccardo materialized on his other side, a knowing grin plastered on his face. “Oh, he had a big night. A very specific, Danish-German-Serbo-Croatian shaped night.”
Martin kept walking, his expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit,” Gökçe laughed. “Julian was texting everyone. Said the great Martin Ødegaard got ‘suddenly ill’ and needed private nursing. All night.”
Riccardo slung an arm around Martin’s shoulders, ignoring his stiffening posture. “Come on. Details. How was the legendary Vanja Jakobsen? Is she as… competitive in bed as she is on the track?”
Martin shook him off, a flash of genuine anger cutting through the fatigue. “Shut up, Ric.”
“Whoa, touchy!” Riccardo held up his hands, but the grin didn’t fade. “Must have been good. You’re practically glowing. Or is that just sleep deprivation?”
In the dressing room, the teasing became a chorus. A few of the younger players glanced over with a mixture of awe and amusement. Martin focused on lacing his boots, the leather familiar and grounding.
“Alright, children,” the assistant coach barked, clapping his hands. “Focus. Drills in five.”
As they filed out onto the pristine pitch, Riccardo leaned in one last time, his voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Seriously, though. Well done. She’s been ignoring every forward in Europe for two years. You just talked to her, and she lets you disappear into her bedroom all night. What’s your secret? The Norwegian charm?”
Martin stopped and turned, facing him fully. The pale morning sun was in his eyes. “We just talked, Riccardo. That’s all.”
Riccardo’s eyebrows shot up. He barked a laugh, clapping Martin on the back so hard it stung. “Right. And I just ‘talk’ to models. You’re a terrible liar, Kaptein. But your secret is safe with me.” He winked, a gesture so obnoxious Martin almost smiled despite himself.
The training session was a study in distraction. His first touch was off, a simple pass rolling just past Gökçe’s foot. During a high-intensity pressing drill, he was a half-second slow to react, earning a sharp, “Wake up, Martin!” from the coach. His mind kept looping back to the feel of her under him, over him, the sounds she made, the devastating honesty in her eyes after. Complications.
During a water break, leaning against the goalpost, he pulled his phone from his training bib. He opened their message thread. The last words were from him, sent in the Uber: Made it.
He typed slowly, his thumbs feeling clumsy. They teased me about you.
The three dots appeared almost instantly. He could picture her, maybe back in bed, maybe already on a treadmill somewhere, phone in hand.
Did you mind?
He watched the ball being pinged across the pitch, the rhythmic thud of boots on grass. He thought of Riccardo’s grin, the envy in the younger lads’ eyes. He thought of her saying Just me in the dark.
No, he typed. I did not.
Her reply was swift. Good.
One word. It felt like a reward. A challenge. An acknowledgment. He put the phone away, a strange, new energy coursing through him. For the rest of the session, his passes were razor-sharp, his movements precise. He scored a volley from the edge of the box that ripped the net. Gökçe whistled. “Looks like someone got their second wind!”
Vanja spent the day in a state of agitated motion. She cleaned the apocalyptic mess of her apartment with a ferocious speed, the physical labor a poor substitute for the track. She did a punishing core workout in her home gym, the burn in her muscles a welcome distraction from the memory of his hands on her. She tried to read a chapter for her sociology seminar, but the words blurred.
Her phone was a live wire in her pocket. His Good had felt monumental. She found herself watching highlights of Arsenal’s last match, studying the way he moved, the economy of his motion, the quiet authority. She saw the focus, the aloofness that had first drawn her in. She had breached that. She had seen it shatter.
The need to see him again was a physical ache, a thirst. It wasn’t just the sex, though her body throbbed at the memory. It was the unraveling. She had gotten under the armor of the most unattainable man she’d ever met, and she wanted to go deeper.
That evening, restless, she turned on the TV. A sports channel was showing a live press conference. Arsenal’s manager was at the podium, discussing an upcoming Champions League fixture. And there, in the background of the shot, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, was Martin.
He wore a club suit, crisp and dark. His hair was neat, his expression the familiar, polite mask of detached focus. He was listening, but his gaze was distant, trained on nothing. He looked every inch the pristine captain, the boy wonder grown into a leader. The contrast with the man who had growled filthy things into her skin twelve hours earlier was so extreme it stole her breath.
Without thinking, she grabbed her phone and called him.
On screen, she saw him start, a minute jerk of his shoulders. He discreetly slipped a hand into his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his mask fractured completely. For a nanosecond, his eyes widened, his lips parted. He looked almost… guilty. He silenced the call, but his detached composure was gone. He shifted his weight, ran a hand through his hair, his attention forcibly returning to his manager.
Vanja ended the call, a fierce satisfaction warming her. She waited.
Ten minutes later, her phone buzzed with a text. In a press conference.
She typed back. I saw. You look very serious. Very captain-like.
It’s my job.
What’s your job tonight?
The dots bounced. Stopped. Started again. Flying to Lisbon in three hours. Pre-match isolation tomorrow.
Disappointment, sharp and acidic, flooded her. Then his next message came through.
Hotel until then. The Langham. Room 814.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Is that an invitation?
It’s a fact. The invitation is implied.
She was already moving, heading for her closet. Give me forty minutes.
Make it thirty.
She took thirty-five, barely. The Langham was grand, opulent, hushed. She felt eyes on her as she crossed the marble lobby, but she kept her gaze forward, heading straight for the elevators. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her throat.
Room 814. She knocked, once, firm.
The door opened instantly. He was still in the suit, but the tie was gone, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked wired, the focused intensity from the press conference now channeled entirely at her. He didn’t speak. He pulled her inside by her wrist, kicked the door shut, and backed her against it.
His mouth crashed down on hers. This kiss was different—frantic, starved. It tasted of coffee and tension. His hands were everywhere, pushing her coat off her shoulders, dragging her sweater up. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he muttered between desperate kisses, his voice ragged. “All day. During drills. In that fucking press room. It’s a problem.”
“Good,” she gasped, arching into him, her fingers working his belt buckle. “Be distracted.”
He ripped her sweater over her head, his mouth dropping to her breast, sucking the tight peak through the lace of her bra. She cried out, the sensation sharp and electric. His belt clattered to the floor. She shoved his suit jacket and shirt off his shoulders, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. He made a rough sound and undid her jeans, yanking them and her underwear down her legs in one violent motion. She kicked them aside, bare now except for her bra.
“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice dark.
She obeyed, facing the door, her hands braced against the cool wood. He pressed against her, his clothed body against her naked skin, his cock, hard and insistent, pushing against the cleft of her ass through his trousers. One hand wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant claim that made her whimper. The other hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her wet and swollen.
“Fuck, you’re ready,” he breathed into her ear.
“Just do it,” she begged, pushing back against him.
He fumbled with his fly, freeing himself. He rubbed the broad head of his cock through her slickness, teasing them both. Then, without warning, he drove into her, a single, deep, stretching thrust that filled her completely.
She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder. He didn’t move, just let her feel the full, shocking length of him buried inside her. “This,” he said, his voice a raw scrape against her ear. “This is all I thought about.”
Then he began to fuck her. Hard, fast, relentless. Each powerful thrust slammed her against the door, the impact shuddering through her. His grip on her throat tightened a fraction, just enough to remind her who was in control. The pace was brutal, athletic, a driven piston of need. The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin, their ragged breaths, the soft thud of her body against wood.
“You feel… too good,” he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second as he fought for control. “Can’t think… when I’m in you.”
“Then don’t think,” she managed, meeting every thrust. “Just fuck me.”
He lost it. His careful control shattered. His movements became erratic, desperate. He pounded into her, chasing his release, his fingers biting into her hip. The coil in her own core wound impossibly tight, fed by the sheer animalistic force of him.
“I’m coming,” she warned, her vision spotting.
“Come,” he snarled. “Now.”
The command, the feel of him hitting her deepest point, tipped her over. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, her inner muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses. A broken sob tore from her throat.
The feeling of her tightening around him was his end. With a guttural, choked-off cry, he thrust once, twice more, deep and final, and spilled inside her, his whole body shuddering against her back, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.
They stayed like that, locked together, braced against the door, breathing in ragged unison. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. A hot trickle followed. He turned her around, his hands cradling her face. His expression was ravaged, awe-struck, terrified.
“Vanja,” he whispered.
She kissed him, a slow, deep, tasting kiss. She could feel him shaking.
Behind him, on the pristine bed, his open suitcase lay neatly packed. A club blazer was laid out. A reminder of the real world, of the plane waiting, of the isolation and the match and the millions watching.
He followed her gaze. His jaw tightened. The spell broke.
“I have to go,” he said, but he didn’t let her go.
“I know.”
He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. “This is… more than I meant it to be.”
She said nothing. There was nothing to say. He kissed her once more, softly, a ghost of the frenzy from moments before. Then he stepped back, adjusting his clothes, becoming the captain again before her eyes.
She dressed in silence, the scent of him and sex clinging to her skin. At the door, she looked back. He stood by his suitcase, a statue of conflicted purpose.
“Good luck in Lisbon,” she said.
He nodded, his eyes holding hers. “I’ll text you.”
It wasn’t a promise. It was a plea.
She left, closing the door on the image of him alone in the quiet hotel room, the chaos they made together still humming in the air between them, and the rigid structure of his life waiting to claim him back.
The silence of her apartment after the Langham felt like a physical void. Vanja stood in the center of her clean living room, the city lights blurred beyond the glass, and felt utterly, stupidly alone. His scent was still on her skin, a taunt. She showered, scrubbing until the water ran cold, but it didn’t help. He was in her system.
Two days later, she sat cross-legged on her sofa, laptop open to a stream of the Champions League match. Lisbon’s stadium was a roaring, sun-drenched bowl of noise. When the camera found him during the anthem, his face was a mask of glacial concentration. She remembered that look from the gala. It felt like a lifetime ago.
The whistle blew. Arsenal possessed, lost, pressed. Martin was everywhere. A drop of the shoulder, a feint, a pass sliced through three defenders that seemed to bend time. He played with a quiet, furious elegance that made the complicated look simple. Vanja, who understood the physics of peak performance down to the molecule, leaned forward, her coffee forgotten. He was breathtaking.
In the 38th minute, he received a ball with his back to goal, a defender breathing down his neck. A single, fluid touch spun him away. The space that opened was his creation alone. He drove forward, drew two more players, and slipped a no-look pass into the path of his sprinting winger. Assist. Pure genius.
She grabbed her phone. That pass was filthy. Good luck.
She didn’t expect a reply. He was in the heart of the storm. But at halftime, her phone lit up. A photo. Him in the dressing room, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed. A faint, triumphant smirk played on his lips. The caption: 3-0.
Her heart kicked. Show off, she typed.
We land tomorrow at 1. Lunch?
She smiled, a real one, felt it stretch her face. I know a place. Best potato pancakes in London. You’ll hate it. It’s a dump.
Can’t wait, he replied, almost instantly.
She shook her head, a flutter in her chest. She recorded a quick video, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly at the camera, and sent it. His response was a single emoji: a laughing face. The second half was a formality. He controlled the tempo, a conductor managing a riot. The final whistle blew. 4-1. He’d been sublime.
That night, her phone rang late. His voice was a rough, tired scrape in her ear, layered with the muffled sounds of a team bus. “Hey.”
“Hey, Captain. Good flight?”
“Long. Everyone’s exhausted. Gökçe is snoring like a tractor.” A pause. A rustle, like he was shifting, seeking privacy. “What are you wearing?”
The question, so blunt, so unlike his usual measured tone, sent a direct current to her core. “Sweats. Why?”
“Just wanted a picture in my head. Are they United sweats?”
She glanced down at the faded red shirt. She’d pulled it on for a joke, for herself. “Yeah. So?”
“So it’s offensive.” His voice dropped, lower. “You know it is.”
“You never offered me one of yours.” She could hear his breathing, slightly heavier now. “Are you… on the bus? With everyone?”
“Back of the bus. It’s dark.” His words were quiet, deliberate. “And I’m hard. Thinking about you in a United shirt. Thinking about against the door.”
Her own breath hitched. She slid a hand under the waistband of her sweats. “Yeah?”
“Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m touching myself.” She was, her fingers circling slowly, already slick. “Thinking about you fucking me in that hotel. How you lost control.”
A low groan came down the line, barely audible over the rumble of the engine. “Fuck, Vanja.”
“Are you touching yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I want to hear it. I want to hear you come for me.” Her own movements became more deliberate, a firm, steady pressure. “Tell me.”
His breathing grew ragged, a harsh, open-mouthed rhythm. She could picture him, trying to stay quiet, jaw clenched, hand moving in his lap under a jacket. “Your mouth,” he gritted out. “That first time. You swallowed me like you were starving.”
“I was.” She was climbing fast, his voice, the image, the risk of it all driving her. “Come on, Martin. Let me hear you.”
A sharp, choked-off gasp. A string of Norwegian, raw and guttural, spilled into her ear. Then a long, shuddering exhalation. “Vanja.”
She followed, biting her lip to stifle her own cry, her body arching off the sofa as the wave crashed through her. Silence, then, filled only by the sound of them trying to catch their breath, a thousand miles and yet no distance at all.
“Tomorrow,” he finally said, his voice wrecked and soft. “Potato pancakes.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
The call ended. She lay in the dark, the hum of the city a distant echo. The structured man, the captain, had just come apart for her over the phone from a team bus. The complication was now a live wire, sparking and dangerous, and she had never wanted anything more.