Chapter 9: Reunion
The four days were a study in frustration.
Vanja threw herself into her training with a ferocity that made her coach raise an eyebrow. She pounded the track until her lungs burned, lifted weights until her muscles screamed, all in an attempt to exhaust the restless, humming energy that had taken up residence in her body. It was a poor substitute. The emptiness he’d promised she would feel was a physical ache, a hollow between her hips that no amount of exertion could fill. At night, in her bed that still smelled faintly of him, she would lie awake, her own fingers a pathetic imitation of his rough, knowing hands. She never touched herself. It felt like a betrayal of the promise, of the hungry claim he’d stamped onto her skin.
His texts were infrequent, a fleeting connection across time zones.
M: Pitch is shit. Hotel bed is too big.
V: Poor you.
M: You have no idea.
M: Just scored. Thought of you. Celebrated alone.
That one had made her face flush hot. She could picture it, the focused intensity in his eyes shifting for a fraction of a second to something darker, more private.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, her phone buzzed as she was finishing a brutal set of plyometric drills in her living room, the floorboards covered with a thin exercise mat. She was slick with sweat, her dark blonde hair piled in a messy knot, wearing only a black sports bra and tight, high-cut shorts. Her leg muscles trembled with fatigue.
M: Flight landed. Meet me at yours in an hour.
An hour. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but it wasn’t from the workout. She didn’t text back. She just stood there, breathing hard, the silence of the flat suddenly deafening. She considered showering, making herself presentable, but a stubborn, competitive part of her rebelled. Let him see her like this. Let him see the raw work, not the polished result.
She was midway through a set of punishing mountain climbers, her hands planted on the mat, her body a piston of focused energy, when she heard the key in the lock. He’d insisted on keeping a copy. The door swung open.
Mats stood in the frame, his small duffel slung over one shoulder. He wore a simple grey training jacket and dark jeans. He looked tired, a faint shadow under his eyes, but his gaze was electric, scanning the room and landing on her with the force of a physical touch. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say hello.
He dropped his bag. It hit the floor with a soft thud.
Vanja stopped moving, kneeling back on her heels, chest heaving. Sweat traced a path between her breasts, dripped from her temple. She watched him, saying nothing, the air between them crackling.
In three long strides, he crossed the room. His hands were on her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. He turned and set her down hard on the edge of her kitchen counter, the cold granite biting into the backs of her thighs. He stepped between her legs, his hands sliding up her sweat-slick sides, pushing under her sports bra to cup her breasts. His thumbs scraped over her nipples, already hardened from the adrenaline and his sudden presence.
“You’re a mess,” he said, his voice low and rough.
“You’re early.”
He answered by crushing his mouth to hers. The kiss was all possession and pent-up hunger. It tasted of airport coffee and a faint, metallic hint of travel. His tongue claimed hers, demanding, and she met it with equal force, her hands fisting in the fabric of his jacket. She could feel the solid strength of him through the layers, the relentless drive that made him a captain.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, and stared down at her. His eyes were a stormy blue, dark with intent. One hand left her breast, sliding down her quivering stomach, over the damp fabric of her shorts. He didn’t bother with the waistband. His fingers hooked into the leg opening, and with a sharp, brutal tear, the seam gave way. The sound of ripping fabric was obscenely loud.
Cool air hit her exposed skin. His fingers delved into her, two sliding inside her without preamble. She was soaking wet, her body betraying her instantly.
“Fuck,” he growled, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You’re drenched. You’ve been thinking about this.”
“No,” she lied, the word ending in a gasp as his fingers curled, pumping into her. “I’ve been… working.”
“Liar.” He added a third finger, stretching her, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit. The combination was brutal, efficient. “This is for me. This fucking wet, hot cunt is mine. You waited.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. She had waited. She whimpered, her hips bucking against his hand, her head falling back. The counter edge dug into her skin, a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure building under his relentless fingers.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She forced her eyes open, her vision blurry.
“I missed you,” he said, the words raw and guttural, stripped of all polish. “I missed this tight little hole. I missed the sounds you make.” He twisted his fingers, and she cried out, a sharp, broken sound. “Yeah. That one.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on hers. The vulgarity of it sent a fresh jolt of lust straight to her core. He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock, already thick and flushed. He didn’t prepare her further. He just nudged the head against her, the contact making them both shudder.
“Tell me you want it,” he said, his voice a strained wire.
“I want it.” The words were torn from her.
“Tell me you need it.”
“I need it. God, Mats, please…”
He drove into her in one hard, deep thrust, filling the empty ache with a devastating fullness that bordered on pain. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed in the sparse flat. He didn’t pause, didn’t gentle. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into hers, the counter digging into her back with every impact. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place for his onslaught.
“This what you thought about?” he grunted, his breath hot against her neck. “While you were here alone? You thought about my cock splitting you open just like this?”
“Yes!” She was sobbing with the force of it, her nails tearing at the shoulders of his jacket.
“Good.” He bit her shoulder, a sharp, possessive sting. “Now come for me. Come all over my fucking cock. Show me how much you missed it.”
His words, the raw friction, the sheer overwhelming reality of him after the lonely days, pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a vice-like spasm. She threw her head back, a silent scream on her lips.
Feeling her tightness, his own control shattered. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as he emptied himself inside her with a deep, guttural groan. He stayed there, lodged deep, his weight heavy against her, his face buried in the sweat-damp hollow of her neck.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint hum of the city outside. Slowly, the world swam back into focus. The ache in her back. The cool air on her sweat-chilled skin. The warm, satisfied heaviness between her legs where he still rested inside her.
He finally stirred, pulling back to look at her. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled. He gently traced a finger over the mark his teeth had left on her shoulder. “You’re gonna bruise.”
“I know.” Her voice was hoarse.
He carefully lifted her off the counter, his softened cock slipping from her, a trickle of his release following. He held her steady as her trembling legs threatened to buckle. “Shower,” he said, his voice softer now. “Then we have to be somewhere.”
She leaned into him. “Where?”
“Charity gala. For the children’s hospital. I RSVP’d weeks ago. It’s black tie.” He said it like an apology.
An hour later, she stood in a slip of emerald green silk, the dress a stark contrast to the brutal intimacy of the kitchen counter. It was backless, clinging to her curves, a whisper of fabric against her sensitized skin. Mats emerged from her bedroom, adjusting the cufflinks on his tuxedo. He looked like a different man—polished, sharp, the archetype of a sporting aristocrat. His eyes swept over her, a possessive heat still burning beneath the composed surface.
“You look…” He seemed to search for a word, then shook his head. “We’ll be late.”
The gala was a shimmering vortex of light, crystal, and low chatter. It was held in a grand Mayfair hotel, a world away from her flat with its torn shorts and sweat-slicked surfaces. Cameras flashed like distant lightning as they walked the red carpet. Mats’s hand was a firm, guiding pressure on the small of her back. He paused for photographs, his public smile easy and charismatic, fielding questions about the Madrid friendly with practiced grace. When reporters turned to her, asking about her season, her training, he listened intently, his thumb making slow circles on her spine.
Inside, under the glittering chandeliers, they were swallowed by the crowd. Teammates greeted Mats with backslaps and loud laughter. Their eyes lingered on Vanja with a mixture of curiosity and undisguised appreciation. She saw the looks, the subtle shifts in posture. The world-class runner on the arm of the star captain. It was a narrative they were all writing without a word being said.
Mats was pulled into a conversation with a club director. Vanja drifted towards a long table of champagne flutes, suddenly feeling the distance between their two worlds. She sipped the bubbles, watching him. He was in his element here, navigating the politics and pleasantries with an effortless cool he never showed in private. He was Martin here, not Mats.
“He’s different with you, you know.”
She turned. It was Ben White, the defender, holding two glasses of water. He offered her one with a sympathetic smile. “Looks at you like you’re the only trophy in the room.”
She accepted the water. “He just looks bored to me.”
Ben laughed. “That’s his ‘I’m desperately in love’ face. Trust me.” He nodded towards a group of WAGs chatting brightly. “They’ve been trying to decode him for years. You just… showed up and unlocked the vault.”
Before she could reply, Mats was back at her side, his hand finding hers, lacing their fingers together. “Stealing my date, Benny?”
“Just keeping her hydrated, skip. She looks like she could outrun us all.” Ben winked at Vanja and melted back into the crowd.
Mats led her towards a quieter balcony overlooking a lit garden. The noise of the gala softened to a murmur. He leaned against the stone balustrade, studying her in the moonlight.
“What did he say to you?”
“That you look at me like a trophy.”
He snorted, looking out over the garden. “Trophies sit on shelves. You…” He turned back, his gaze intense. “You’re the whole fucking race.”
He pulled her to him then, not for a kiss, but just to hold her, his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her head. They stood like that for a long moment, the night air cool on her skin, the warmth of him solid at her back.
“This is surreal,” she murmured.
“What is?”
“This. You. That room.” She nodded back towards the glittering ballroom. “An hour ago, you had me on my kitchen counter. Now we’re here.”
He turned her in his arms. “That’s the real part. This,” he gestured vaguely at the gala behind them, “is the noise.”
He kissed her then, soft and deep, a world away from the hunger in her flat. It was a claiming of a different kind. When they parted, his expression was stark, stripped of all its earlier polish. The moon cast sharp shadows on his face.
“I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice low.
A thread of anxiety wound through her. “Okay.”
He took a breath, as if steeling himself for a free kick in the 90th minute. “Jeg er forelska i deg.” The Norwegian words were soft, fluid.
She understood. Her breath caught.
He saw her, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m in love with you, Vanja.”
The world narrowed to his face, to the earnest, terrified hope in his blue eyes. The noise of the gala vanished. There was no kitchen counter, no ripped shorts, no sweat. There was just this man, this impossible, focused, complicated man, offering her the most vulnerable part of himself.
She didn’t hesitate. She reached up, her hand cradling his jaw, feeling the faint stubble against her palm. She pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him. It was a kiss of answer, of acceptance, of a promise she hadn’t known she was waiting to make. It held the bruising passion of the kitchen counter and the quiet intimacy of her shower, and something entirely new, a future stretching out before them, terrifying and bright.
When they finally pulled apart, a camera flash went off from a discreet distance, a paparazzo capturing the moment: the captain and the runner, entwined on a moonlit balcony, lost in a world of their own.
Mats didn’t seem to notice. He rested his forehead against hers. “We should go back in.”
“In a minute,” she whispered, and kissed him again, sealing the words between them, making them theirs.
They stayed on the balcony until the chill seeped through the silk of her dress, his body a steadfast barrier against the cold. When they re-entered the ballroom, the atmosphere had shifted. The glances lasted a fraction longer; the smiles from his teammates grew more knowing. A well-meaning club official clapped Mats on the shoulder and murmured, “She’s a stunner, Martin. Good for you.” Vanja felt the words like a brand, reducing the chaos between them to a simple social victory. Mats just nodded, his hand tightening on hers, and led her to the dance floor. He wasn’t a graceful dancer, but he held her close, his movements sure and solid. “They’re all watching,” she said into his shoulder. “Let them,” he replied, his voice a low vibration against her cheek. “They have no idea what they’re seeing.”
Back at her flat, he peeled the emerald dress from her body with a reverence absent earlier. The silk pooled on her bedroom floor like spilled ink. He kissed the newly forming bruise on her shoulder, then pressed her face-first into the mattress. He didn’t undress fully, just freed his cock from his trousers, still hard for her. He used the wetness already between her thighs, pushing into her from behind with a deep, groaning sigh. This fuck was slower, more deliberate than the frantic kitchen counter, a claiming that seeped into her bones. “My love,” he grunted with each measured thrust, the new words a filthy, tender prayer against her skin. She came silently, her body clenching around him in waves, and he followed, his release a hot flood that left them both breathless and sticky.
The morning brought the digital echo. Ben White’s text to Mats buzzed on the nightstand at seven. Skip, you’re trending. Balcony pic is proper romance novel shit. The photo was everywhere. His forehead against hers, her hand on his jaw, moonlight carving them out of the darkness. The caption read: Captain and his Queen? Vanja scrolled through the comments, a knot in her stomach. Power couple. She’s just another WAG. He looks obsessed.
“Fuck them,” Mats said, pouring coffee in her small kitchen, shirtless. He looked utterly unconcerned.
“It’s reductive,” she snapped, the competitive fire flashing. “I’m not a accessory. I have my own lane.”
“I know.” He handed her a mug, his eyes calm. “But they need a simple story. We’re not simple.”
“So what’s our story?” she challenged.
He sipped his coffee, looking at her over the rim. “Ours.”
The next three weeks were a collision of worlds. He had matches; she had qualifying meets in Birmingham and Berlin. They traded airports and hotel rooms, their time together compressed into stolen, intense hours. The sex became a language of reclamation. In a Berlin hotel bathroom still steaming from her shower, he bent her over the sink, her medal from that afternoon’s 400m cool against her chest. He fucked her with a rough, celebratory fervor, his hand fisted in her damp hair. “Nobody runs like you,” he growled, watching her flushed reflection. “Nobody feels like you.” It was a possession of her victory, not a diminishment of it.
The media noise grew into a din. Paps camped outside her training complex. A gossip site ran a speculative timeline of their relationship, calling it a ‘whirlwind.’ Her mother called, her voice laced with concerned questions from Copenhagen. His management team sent cautious emails about ‘optics.’
It all came to a head on a rainy Thursday in London. They were supposed to have a rare, quiet night in her flat. From her window, Vanja saw the familiar cluster of black umbrellas and long lenses on the pavement below. A cold fury settled in her gut. Mats arrived through the service entrance, his jaw tight. “They followed Frank from the training ground,” he said, shrugging off his wet coat. “This is unbearable.”
He paced her small living room, the contained energy of him making the space feel miniature. “They want the story? They want the fairy tale? The wedding, the dress, the fucking royal baby speculation.”
Vanja crossed her arms. “I’m not doing a spread in Hello! magazine, Mats.”
“I know.” He stopped pacing, his eyes alight with a sudden, terrifying clarity. “So we don’t give them anything.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we take the one thing they want to sell and we make it worthless. We make it ours.” He stepped close, cradling her face. His hands were warm. “Marry me. Not in a year. Not with a spectacle. Tonight.”
The world tipped on its axis. “You’re insane. How?”
“Gretna Green. It’s a few hours’ drive. They do ceremonies anytime.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “No one will know. We’ll use Frank’s car. We’ll tell no one.”
It was the most illogical, brilliant play she’d ever heard. It cut through the noise like a blade. It was theirs. A fierce, rebellious joy surged in her chest, matching the fire in his eyes. “Yes.”
They moved with the efficiency of athletes executing a surprise attack. He called Frank, speaking in low, rapid Norwegian. Vanja threw a simple cream silk sheath dress into a bag, the one she’d worn to a sponsor dinner months ago. Mats had no suit, just the dark jeans and a clean white shirt from his duffel. He drove Frank’s unassuming sedan himself, his focus absolute, navigating the rain-slicked motorways north. They didn’t speak much. Her hand rested on his thigh, the tense muscle flexing under her palm. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the downpour. This wasn’t a romantic flight. It was a tactical extraction.
They crossed into Scotland as the sky began to lighten. Gretna Green was quiet in the grey dawn, the famous blacksmith’s shop and anvil just waking up. The registry office opened at eight. They were the first and only couple, their circumstances ordinary on the forms. The registrar, a kind-eyed woman with a soft Scottish lilt, asked for their rings. They hadn’t any. Mats, without hesitation, pulled a thin, woven leather cord from his wrist, the one he wore during matches. He tied it loosely around Vanja’s ring finger, his own hands remarkably steady. “We’ll get proper ones later,” he murmured.
The ceremony was over in minutes. The words were simple, legal, devoid of poetry. When instructed, Mats said “I do” with a gravity that seemed to anchor the entire room. Vanja’s own “I do” echoed, clear and sure. They exchanged the briefest, legally-required kiss. It felt like signing a contract for a secret joint venture, a merger of two sovereign states. The registrar smiled as she handed them the marriage schedule. “You’re very composed for a pair of newlyweds.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. A weak sun struggled through the clouds. They stood on the pavement, the plain document in Mats’s inside pocket. He looked at her, the early light catching the gold in his stubble. A slow, real smile broke over his face, the first unguarded one she’d seen since the balcony.
“Now what, Mrs. Ødegaard?” he asked, the new name sounding strange and thrilling in his Norwegian accent.
She reached for his hand, the leather cord rough against her skin. “We go home,” she said. “And we live our life.”