Chapter 5: Collision Course
The rain lashed against Vanja’s apartment window, a relentless drumming that mirrored the ache behind her ribs. She sat curled on the worn velvet armchair, knees drawn tight to her chest, staring blankly at the muted glow of her laptop screen. Sociology journals blurred into meaningless shapes. The tears had finally stopped, leaving her eyes raw and gritty, her throat scraped thin. Outside, Munich was a smear of wet neon under a bruised sky. Bayern played tomorrow. Dortmund at home. A crucial match. He’d be asleep by now. Or lying awake, coolly compartmentalizing, shutting her out like a faulty training drill. The thought twisted like a knife. Quit. The word echoed in the hollow space he’d left inside her. After the match. She’d hand in her notice. Clean break. Disappear. Serie A. La Liga. Anywhere far from his dismissive blue eyes and the phantom scent of his sweat mixed with locker room disinfectant.
Her phone buzzed violently on the coffee table, shattering the suffocating quiet. Aleks’s name flashed. She almost ignored it. But the vibration felt like a lifeline thrown into the dark water she was drowning in. She swiped accept, her voice thick. "Aleks?"
"Vanja! Hey!" Aleks’s grinning face filled the screen, pixelated but warm. Behind him, crammed onto what looked like a hotel sofa, Thomas Müller’s unmistakable features appeared, followed by Manuel Neuer’s calm, towering presence leaning into frame. "Quarantine crew reporting in!" Aleks announced cheerfully. "Caught the sniffles, Müller’s got the plague, Neuer’s just babysitting."
"Fuck off, Pavlović," Müller retorted, though his eyes crinkled. "It’s a mild head cold. Unlike Kimmich’s permanent mood." He leaned closer to the camera. "Seriously, Vanja, you alright? You look… tired."
Vanja forced a weak smile, swiping hastily at her damp cheeks. "Just PhD stuff. Mountains of reading. You know." She avoided Müller’s perceptive gaze. "Shouldn’t you lot be asleep? Early training tomorrow."
Neuer nodded sagely. "Exactly what I told them. Hi, Vanja."
"Hi, Manu," she managed, her voice catching slightly. Seeing their familiar faces, the easy camaraderie she was about to sever, threatened to unleash the tears again.
"Sleep?" Aleks scoffed. "Impossible with Müller’s snoring. Sounds like a chainsaw wrestling a walrus." He dodged a playful swipe from Müller. "We needed cheering up. Hence Operation Distract Vanja With Terrible Jokes. Thomas, hit her with the goalkeeper one."
Müller cleared his throat dramatically. "Why did the goalkeeper bring string to the match?" He paused for effect. "So he could tie the score!" He beamed.
Vanja choked out a watery laugh. It sounded pathetic, even to her. "Oh god, Thomas. That’s… impressively bad."
"See?" Aleks crowed. "Distraction achieved! My turn! What do you call a midfielder who can’t pass?" He paused, grinning. "Lost!" He dissolved into laughter.
Neuer rolled his eyes fondly. "As always, adds Manuel Neuer," he deadpanned, earning a chuckle from Vanja. It felt brittle, but genuine.
"Heard Kimmich’s been stomping around like someone pissed in his protein shake," Müller remarked casually, picking at the label on a water bottle. "Locked himself in his room after dinner. Moody bastard. As always."
Vanja’s breath hitched. She stared fixedly at a loose thread on the armchair. "Yeah," she murmured, the word barely audible. "As always." The confirmation stung. He wasn’t lying awake conflicted. He was just… Joshua. Dismissive. Closed off. Her decision solidified, cold and hard.
"You really should sleep," she insisted, her voice firmer now, needing them gone before she broke. "All of you. Big match tomorrow. Don’t let Captain Intensity down." The name tasted like ash.
Groans echoed through the speaker. "Alright, Mum," Aleks teased, but his eyes held concern. "Take care of yourself, Van. Seriously."
"We’ll see you soon," Neuer added calmly.
"Try to get some rest," Müller said, his usual levity replaced by a softer tone. "Night, Vanja."
"Night," she whispered. The screen went black, plunging her back into the rain-lashed silence. The brief warmth evaporated, leaving her colder than before. She hugged herself tighter, the emptiness vast and echoing. Quit. After the match. Just get through tomorrow.
A sharp, urgent rapping shattered the quiet. Not the buzzer. Directly on her apartment door. Hard. Insistent. Vanja froze, heart hammering against her ribs. Who…? It was late. Too late. The knocking came again, louder, more frantic. "Vanja!" A voice, rough-edged, strained. His voice.
Every nerve ending screamed. Fear, anger, and a treacherous flicker of hope warred within her. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
"Vanja! Open the fucking door!" Joshua’s voice, raw with something she’d never heard before – desperation? Fury? "I know you’re in there! Open it!"
Slowly, mechanically, she uncurled herself. Her legs felt like lead as she walked to the door. She peered through the peephole. He stood there, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his jacket. His face was pale, eyes wild, haunted. He looked… wrecked. Nothing like the controlled Captain Intensity.
Her hand trembled as she turned the deadbolt, then the latch. She pulled the door open a crack, the chain still engaged. The smell of rain and cold night air rushed in. "What?" Her voice was flat, lifeless.
His eyes locked onto hers through the gap, blazing blue. "Let me in." It wasn’t a request. It was a demand, ragged and urgent.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because I heard you!" The words burst from him, harsh and loud in the hallway. "In the corridor! With Pavlović! You’re leaving? Because of me?" His hand slammed against the doorframe beside her head, making her flinch. "Let me in, Vanja. Now."
The raw pain in his voice, the sheer disbelief, cracked her resolve. Her fingers fumbled with the chain. It slid free. She stepped back.
He surged inside, dripping water onto her rug, shutting the door behind him with a heavy thud. The small apartment felt instantly smaller, charged with his frantic energy and the damp chill clinging to him. He stood dripping, breathing hard, staring at her as if he’d run miles through the storm. Rainwater traced paths down his sharp cheekbones.
"You heard," she stated, her voice numb. She wrapped her arms around herself again, a flimsy shield.
"Leaving Bayern?" he rasped, stepping closer. The scent of wet leather and something fiercely masculine cut through the stale apartment air. "Germany? Because… because of what happened? Because of me?" He sounded utterly bewildered, horrified.
"What did you expect, Joshua?" The numbness cracked, revealing the jagged hurt beneath. "You fuck me against lockers like I’m nothing, then bolt like I’m diseased. You ignore me. You dismiss me. You think I’m just some… groupie distraction. And then I hear you think I’m stupid?" Her voice rose, trembling. "Stupid for thinking you might actually…" She couldn’t finish. The tears threatened again, hot and humiliating.
"I never said you were stupid!" he protested vehemently, taking another step. He was close now, too close. The heat radiating from his soaked body was palpable. "When did I ever call you stupid?"
"To Aleks!" she shot back, the memory sharp. "In the corridor! ‘I was so fucking stupid. I actually thought he might like me.’ And you agreed! ‘Yeah. I’m sure.’" She threw his overheard words back at him, her voice cracking.
His eyes widened, genuine shock flashing across his face. "No! Vanja, no! That ‘yeah’… fuck!" He dragged a hand through his wet hair. "That ‘yeah’ wasn’t agreeing you were stupid! It was agreeing that I was the stupid one! Stupid for pushing you away! Stupid for being scared! Stupid for not realizing…" He stopped, chest heaving, his gaze locked on hers with terrifying intensity. "Not realizing what you mean."
The air crackled. The confession hung between them, raw and unexpected. Vanja stared at him, the hurt warring violently with a terrifying surge of hope. "What?" she breathed.
He didn’t answer with words. He moved. One stride closed the distance. His hands, cold from the rain but burning with urgency, framed her face. His eyes, desperate and blue, searched hers. "Don’t go," he rasped, the command stripped bare to a plea. "Please. Don’t leave."
Then his mouth was on hers. Not like the locker room – not a battle, not a conquest. It was a claiming, yes, but fueled by a frantic, drowning need. Deep, searching, desperate. His tongue plunged into her mouth, hot and demanding, tasting the salt of her earlier tears. A low groan vibrated from his chest into hers. Vanja gasped against his lips, her hands flying up, not to push him away, but to clutch the soaked fabric of his jacket, anchoring herself as the world tilted.
He kissed her like a man starved, like he was trying to fuse them together. His hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders, pulling her hard against his drenched body. She could feel the rigid outline of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing insistently into her belly even through the layers of wet clothing. The heat, the sheer want radiating from him was overwhelming, erasing thought, erasing the hurt, flooding her with a primal response.
"Joshua," she moaned into his mouth, her body arching instinctively against his.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. His eyes were dark pools of hunger and something else – a vulnerability she’d never seen. "Need you," he growled, the sound rough, guttural. "Now. Fuck, Vanja, I need you."
His hands were already moving, yanking her oversized sleep shirt up over her head in one rough motion. The cool air hit her bare skin, pebbling her nipples instantly. He didn’t pause, fingers fumbling with the button of her soft cotton pajama pants, shoving them down her hips along with her underwear. They pooled around her ankles. He kicked them aside.
Vanja stood naked before him, shivering slightly, aroused beyond reason, her skin humming. He stepped back slightly, his gaze raking over her – her full breasts, the curve of her waist, the dark blonde triangle at the apex of her thighs. His expression was pure, unadulterated lust. "So fucking beautiful," he breathed, his voice thick. He tore at his own clothes – the soaked jacket flung aside, the t-shirt ripped over his head, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen, glistening with rain and sweat. He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one frantic movement, his cock springing free, thick, hard, and already leaking.
He closed the distance again, his hot, naked skin pressing against hers. One arm banded around her waist, lifting her effortlessly off her feet. The other hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her slick folds instantly. "Fuck, you're soaked," he groaned, his fingers sliding easily through her wetness, circling her clit with rough, urgent strokes. "Is this for me? This hot, tight little cunt?"
"Yes!" Vanja cried out, her legs wrapping instinctively around his hips as he carried her towards the large plush couch. "Joshua, yes! Please!"
He didn't make it to the couch. Halfway there, near the cluttered coffee table littered with her books and laptop, the urgency overwhelmed him. He sank to his knees on the rug, lowering her with him, her back pressing against the worn velvet of the armchair she’d been crying in earlier. He knelt between her thighs, spreading them wide, his gaze fixed on her glistening pussy.
"No foreplay," he growled, his voice ragged with need. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in. "Need to be inside you. Now." He positioned himself, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against her entrance, slick with her arousal. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want my cock buried deep in this perfect fucking cunt."
"I want it!" Vanja gasped, arching her hips up, offering herself. "Fuck me, Joshua! Hard! Like you mean it!"
With a guttural groan, he thrust forward. Not the brutal slam of the locker room, but a powerful, deep, claiming drive that stretched her deliciously, filling her completely in one smooth, relentless motion. She cried out, her inner walls clenching fiercely around the sudden, glorious invasion. "Fuck! Yes! So deep!"
He pulled back almost to the tip, then surged forward again, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm. His hips pistoned against hers, the wet slap of skin echoing in the small room, mingling with their ragged breaths. He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the armchair beside her head, his other hand sliding down to grip her ass cheek, pulling her harder onto his driving cock with every thrust.
"Whose cunt is this?" he demanded, his breath hot on her neck, his cock hitting her deepest spot with punishing accuracy, making her see stars.
"Yours!" she screamed, her nails raking down his back. "Yours, Joshua! Fuck! Right there!"
"Gonna fuck you so good," he promised, his voice thick with exertion and lust. "Gonna make you forget everything but my cock. Forget leaving. Forget everything." His thrusts became harder, faster, losing rhythm, driven by pure, desperate need. "Feel how deep I am? Feel how much I fucking need you?" He slammed into her, grinding his pelvis against her clit. "Come for me, Vanja. Come on my cock. Milk me dry."
The command, the raw friction, the sheer intensity of him pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm detonated, a white-hot explosion that ripped through her core, muscles convulsing violently around his thick shaft, pulling a ragged shout from him. "FUCK! VANJA! YES!"
Her climax triggered his own. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking, cock pulsing as hot jets of come flooded her depths. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the armchair, his forehead resting against her shoulder, both of them gasping, shuddering, slick with sweat and the mingled scent of sex and rain.
The only sounds were their harsh, slowing breaths and the relentless drumming of rain against the window. His cock still pulsed weakly inside her, softening but still intimately lodged. Vanja’s legs trembled where they were hooked loosely over his hips. The emptiness from earlier was gone, replaced by a profound, trembling exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure. And confusion. So much confusion.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes, when they met hers, were no longer wild, but dark, intense, searching. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, his touch unexpectedly gentle. "Don't go," he whispered again, his voice rough but softer now. "Please."
His whispered plea hung in the air, thick as the scent of their sweat and sex. Rain still pelted the window, a frantic counterpoint to their slowing breaths. He shifted, his softening cock slipping wetly from her, leaving her feeling hollowed out and exposed on the rug. The velvet armchair pressed cold against her back.
He didn’t move far. Just rolled slightly onto his side beside her, propped on an elbow. Water dripped from his hair onto her bare shoulder. She shivered, suddenly aware of the chill, the tacky mess between her legs, the sheer absurdity of their nakedness tangled on her living room floor amidst scattered books. She closed her eyes, too drained, too raw, to process the storm he’d dragged in with him. Sleep, thick and dark, pulled her under almost instantly, a merciful escape from the chaos.
HE WATCHES HER.
He didn’t sleep. His gaze traced the faint tracks dried on her cheeks – the salt of her earlier despair. The vulnerable curve of her throat. The way her dark blonde lashes fanned against skin still faintly flushed from exertion. He watched the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her full lips parted slightly as she sank deeper. The fierce intelligence usually crackling in her eyes was hidden, leaving only delicate exhaustion. She looked impossibly young. Fragile. Beautiful. A stark contrast to the fiery debater online, the woman who’d challenged him against the lockers, or the defiant PhD student he’d so carelessly dismissed. He saw the shadow beneath her eyes, the tension not fully erased even in sleep. Because of me. The thought was a physical ache, sharper than any tackle. He’d done this. Reduced her to this raw, broken creature seeking oblivion on the rug. His jaw tightened. He’d called her a distraction, assumed she craved proximity to fame. Stupid. He was the stupid one. The image of her, overhearing his clipped ‘yeah’ to Aleks, believing he’d confirmed her worst fears… it scraped him raw. She’d been crying. All night. Planning to leave. Because he was a coward. Because he couldn’t face what she made him feel – the unsettling intensity, the dangerous vulnerability sparked by jaka95’s sharp mind long before he knew who she was. He reached out slowly, his calloused fingertip tracing the faint pink marks his stubble had left on her collarbone. Possessive. Regretful. Mine. Don’t go. The words echoed silently in the rain-tapped dark.
A phone buzzed, harsh and insistent. Hers. On the coffee table, screen lighting up the discarded sociology texts. Joshua stiffened. Vanja stirred, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she surfaced from unconsciousness. Her dark green eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then snapped wide as they found him watching her. Naked. On her floor. Memory flooded back – the desperate knocking, the raw sex, his ragged plea. Confusion warred with a fresh wave of hurt on her face. He saw the shutters start to come down, the protective wall she’d need against him, against this mess. The phone kept buzzing. Manuel Neuer’s name glared from the screen. Morning check-in. Reality slammed back.
"Shit," Joshua muttered, pushing himself up. He moved with surprising gentleness despite his urgency. He grabbed her discarded sleep shirt from the floor and carefully pulled it over her head, covering her. Then her pajama pants, easing them up her legs. The intimacy of the act – dressing her while she lay dazed – was profound and unsettling. "Stay put," he ordered, his voice low but firm, startlingly different from the desperate growl or the cold dismissiveness. He stood, naked and magnificently unselfconscious in the dim light, water still gleaming on his defined muscles. He snatched his own jeans, yanking them on without underwear, the denim clinging damply. He grabbed her phone just as it stopped ringing. "Neuer," he said, thumb hovering. "Probably wondering where you are for pre-match prep." His eyes locked back on hers, intense, demanding a response beyond the physical wreckage surrounding them. The weight of the looming match, his responsibility, pressed in. But his focus remained entirely on her, on the fragile truce hanging by a thread in her rain-lashed apartment. "Vanja." Her name was a command, a question, another plea bundled into one. The phone screen went dark, plunging them back into the grey, waiting silence.
The phone screen went dark, plunging them back into the grey, waiting silence. Vanja stared up at him, the sleep shirt soft against her skin but doing nothing to shield her raw nerves. Joshua’s face, etched with exhaustion and a startling intensity, held hers captive. Rainwater still clung to his jawline. "Neuer," she rasped, the name scraping her throat. "They think you're at the team hotel." The implications crashed over her – pre-match routines disrupted, questions asked. "If you’re not there…"
"Shit," he hissed, the sound sharp in the room. His gaze flicked to the rain-streaked window, then back to her, fierce and unwavering. He didn’t move towards his discarded clothes immediately. Instead, he dropped back down to his knees beside her on the rug, the damp denim of his jeans rough against her thigh. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the tender skin under her eye where tears had dried. "Look at me." His voice was low, urgent. "This isn't fucking over, Vanja. Understand?" His blue eyes bored into her dark green ones, demanding acknowledgment, refusing the vulnerability sleep had shown him. "Not by a long shot." He leaned in, closing the scant distance. His kiss wasn't desperate like before, but firm, possessive, a brand seared onto her lips. Hot. Insistent. Insisting on the connection, on the chaos they’d ignited. "See you tonight," he breathed against her mouth, the promise thick and loaded. "After I tear Dortmund apart."
He pulled away abruptly, the warmth of his hand leaving her skin cold. In seconds, he was yanking his damp t-shirt over his head, shoving his arms into his jacket, ignoring the soaked state of his boxers abandoned on her floor. He scooped up his keys, phone already buzzing again – probably Müller this time. He paused at the door, one last look thrown over his shoulder. His eyes raked over her curled form on the rug, surrounded by the debris of their collision – her discarded pajama pants, scattered books, the lingering scent of sex and rain. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone with the echo of his command and the frantic drumming of her own heart against her ribs.
The silence rushed back in, oppressive now. Vanja shivered, pulling the sleep shirt tighter. Quit? The thought felt distant, hollowed out by the visceral imprint of his body, his words, his mouth. ‘This isn’t fucking over.’ Where did that leave her? Naked, aching, confused on her living room floor while he raced towards a stadium packed with seventy thousand screaming fans. The absurdity was staggering. She pushed herself up, her muscles protesting. A different kind of emptiness yawned inside her, not the cold desolation of before, but a raw, trembling uncertainty. What had just happened? She stumbled towards the shower, needing the scalding water to wash away the stickiness between her thighs, the scent of him, the phantom pressure of his hands. The hot spray stung her skin, but couldn’t cleanse the memory of his eyes in the grey dawn light, demanding she stay. See you tonight. The promise throbbed, a counterpoint to the ache deep within her. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting the water sluice over her. Tonight felt like a chasm she wasn’t sure she could cross.
The sleek black Audi screeched to a halt outside Säbener Straße, tires spraying gravel. Joshua cut the engine, already unbuckling. Dawn had broken, pale and watery, illuminating the sprawling complex. He grabbed his kit bag from the passenger seat, ignoring the persistent ache in his muscles – a pleasant reminder, an anchor. He slammed the car door and strode towards the main training building, the familiar scents of grass and liniment hitting him, sharp and clean. He pushed through the doors, the lights harsh after the dim morning.
Inside the vast, echoing gym, the rhythmic thud of a ball against a rebounder greeted him. Thomas Müller, already in training gear, was methodically volleying. Manuel Neuer leaned against a weight machine nearby, sipping water. Both looked up as Joshua entered, surprise etching their faces.
"Kimmich?" Müller called out, lowering his foot. "Thought you were still warming your bed at the hotel. Or brooding." He nudged Neuer. "We were getting worried. Or, you know, hopefully not needing to send a search party."
Joshua dropped his bag near the wall, a ghost of a smile touching his lips as he started pulling off his jacket. The restless energy that had churned inside him since leaving Vanja’s apartment was channeling now, focusing into a sharp, anticipatory hum. "Figured I'd get an early start," he said, his voice steady. He toed off his shoes, already reaching for his training top.
Müller exchanged a look with Neuer, a slow grin spreading across his face. He leaned towards the goalkeeper, speaking in an exaggerated stage whisper. "Hmm. Not looking quite so thundercloud-ish this morning, Manuel. Interesting." He winked broadly. "Maybe… something did happen."
Joshua ignored the jibe, stripping off his jeans and hoodie, revealing his training gear beneath. He grabbed a ball from the rack. The cool leather felt right in his hands. Solid. Real. He dribbled it effortlessly between his feet, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoing in the space. He didn't smile back at Müller, but the grim tension that had clamped his jaw for weeks was gone. Replaced by a fierce, bright intensity. He looked towards the pitch doors, anticipation coiling tight. "Just felt like running," he stated, his focus already shifting to the green expanse beyond the glass. "Lots of running." He launched the ball towards the rebounder with a powerful, precise strike. It slammed back at him; he controlled it instantly, already moving. The game couldn't start soon enough. He knew she'd be watching.
The roar of the of the Allianz Arena was a physical force, a seventy-thousand-strong tsunami of sound that vibrated through the concrete tunnel walls. Vanja stood slightly apart from the main PR team scrum, her clipboard clutched tight, knuckles white. She tried to focus on post-match notes – social media angles, player soundbites – but her eyes kept darting to the pitch entrance. The cacophony was deafening, a wall of pure energy celebrating him. Joshua Kimmich. He’d been… transcendent. A force of nature unleashed. Every tackle razor-sharp, every pass a laser-guided missile. The opening goal, a thunderous volley from the edge of the box that nearly ripped the net. Two assists – one a delicate, defence-splitting through-ball, the other a whipped cross met perfectly by a teammate’s head. He’d owned every blade of grass, a relentless, intelligent engine driving Bayern’s demolition of Dortmund. 3-0. A statement. And she’d watched every electrifying second, her body humming with a strange cocktail of professional pride and deeply personal, unsettling heat.
The final whistle had blown minutes ago. Players were starting to trickle down the tunnel now, flushed with victory, slapping hands, shouting over the din. Vanja pressed back against the cool concrete, trying to become part of the wall. Her heart hammered against her ribs. See you tonight. The memory of his voice in her ear, rough with promise, sent a fresh shiver down her spine. Then he was there. Emerging from the glare of the pitch lights into the relative gloom of the tunnel. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, his cheeks flushed, chest heaving beneath the damp Bayern jersey. His eyes scanned the tunnel, dismissing the celebrating players, the staff, instantly locking onto her. That fierce, possessive focus pinned her in place. He didn't break stride. Ignoring the shouts of "Kimmich! Unreal!" from Müller, he walked straight towards her. The crowd noise surged again – his name being chanted, a rhythmic thunder. He reached her.
No words. He didn't pause. His hand, still encased in a damp glove, shot out and grasped hers. Hard. A shock of heat and strength. Her clipboard clattered forgotten to the tunnel floor. He didn't look down, didn't stop. He simply pulled. Vanja stumbled half a step before finding her footing, dragged in his wake as he powered down the tunnel, away from the locker room celebrations, towards the players' parking exit. His grip was iron, unyielding. Staffers pressed against the walls to let them pass, wide-eyed. Vanja’s breath came in short gasps. "Joshua!" she hissed, trying to dig her heels in on the smooth concrete. "Stop! What are you— You need to shower! The press! The team debrief—"
He ignored her, shoving open the heavy fire door that led directly to the secure parking area. The roar of the crowd dimmed to a muffled throb. Cool night air hit their faces. His Audi was parked close, sleek and black under the harsh security lights. He clicked the fob, the lights flashing, the locks thunking open. He yanked open the passenger door. "Get in," he ordered, his voice a gravelly rasp thick with exertion and adrenaline. He didn't wait for compliance, practically lifting her off her feet to maneuver her into the seat. Before she could protest further, he slammed the door. He rounded the hood, his movements sharp, purposeful, stripping off his gloves and tossing them onto the back seat as he slid into the driver’s side. The engine roared to life.
Vanja stared at him, her heart pounding against her sternum. He reeked of sweat, deep heat, grass, and raw, untamed victory. His intensity was terrifying, magnetic. She clutched the edges of the leather seat. "Joshua, seriously," she managed, her voice tight with disbelief and a flicker of fear beneath the unwelcome thrill. "You need to shower. You need to talk to the press. We need to talk! This is insane—"
He turned his head, his blue eyes blazing in the dim light of the car. Sweat tracked down his temple. "Fuck that," he growled, the sound low, primal, vibrating through the small space. He leaned across the console, invading her space, the scent of him overwhelming. His hand, large and hot, clamped possessively onto her knee, his fingers digging in slightly through the fabric of her trousers. "What I need," he stated, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then back to her eyes, stripping her bare, "is right here. With me." He leaned closer still, his breath warm against her lips. "I need you. Now." The claim was absolute. Before she could form a coherent thought, before she could protest the insanity, the smell of the pitch, the sweat, the sheer audacity, his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't gentle. It was a claiming. Hot, demanding, tasting of salt and victory and a hunger that hadn't been sated hours ago on her rug. His tongue plunged into her mouth, mimicking the deep, possessive thrust she remembered. A groan tore from his throat into hers. His hand slid higher up her thigh, bunching the fabric. Vanja’s resistance dissolved in a flood of heat. Her hands flew up, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, pulling him closer. The adrenaline of the match, the roar of the crowd, the sheer force of him – it short-circuited reason. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, biting his lower lip, earning a sharp, approving grunt. He broke the kiss abruptly, breathing ragged. He shoved the gearshift into drive. "Come," he commanded, his voice thick. The Audi peeled out of the parking space, tires squealing on the concrete.
He drove with the same focused intensity he played with. Fast. Precise. Aggressive. His right hand remained possessively on her knee, his thumb rubbing small, maddening circles on the sensitive inner skin just above her stocking. The contact burned through the fabric, a constant, heated reminder. He didn't speak. The only sounds were the powerful engine, the rush of wind, and Vanja’s uneven breaths. Neon lights streaked past the windows. She watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw clenched, the intensity simmering just below the surface. The taste of him lingered on her lips. Where was he taking her? His place? The thought sent a jolt through her system. Away from the stadium, away from the world that knew him as Captain Kimmich. Towards… what? The uncertainty was terrifying. Exhilarating.
They pulled into the underground garage of a sleek, modern apartment complex. Security gates slid shut behind them. He parked in a designated spot marked simply "KIMMICH". Silence descended, thick and expectant. He killed the engine, released her knee, and got out. Vanja sat frozen for a second, the sudden stillness amplifying the frantic beat of her heart. He opened her door. "Come," he said again, extending his hand. It wasn't a request. She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, warm. He pulled her out, her legs unsteady. He didn't let go, leading her towards a private elevator, swiping a key fob. The doors slid open silently. Inside the mirrored cube, he pressed her against the cool surface, his body crowding hers. He kissed her again, deep and demanding, his hand sliding down to cup her ass through her trousers, pulling her hard against the unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against his shorts. The elevator hummed upwards. Vanja gasped into his mouth, her body responding instantly, arching into him. The mirrored walls reflected their tangled forms – him in his sweaty kit, her in her crumpled work clothes. The doors pinged open on a high floor. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, eyes dark with intent. He pulled her down a short, plushly carpeted hallway to a heavy wooden door. Another swipe of the fob. It clicked open.
He ushered her inside. His apartment was a stark contrast to her cozy clutter. Minimalist. Expensive. All cool greys, polished concrete, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering panorama of Munich at night. Spotless. Barely lived-in. The air smelled faintly of leather and cleaning products. He locked the door behind them, the click echoing in the spacious silence. He turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her, lingering on her kiss-swollen lips. His own kit was plastered to his skin with sweat, his hair wild. He gestured vaguely towards the sleek, open-plan kitchen. "I'll shower," he stated, his voice rough, stripping off his captain's armband and tossing it onto a pristine white countertop. He started unzipping his jersey. "Please," he added, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, almost hesitant. "Eat something. There's fruit." He nodded towards a bowl of perfectly arranged apples and grapes on the counter. "Some snacks." He peeled the damp jersey off over his head, revealing the defined planes of his torso glistening with sweat. He didn't wait for her response. Crossing the space in a few strides, he stopped before her. His hand came up, cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. His eyes held hers, the intensity momentarily softened by something else – a flicker of uncertainty beneath the raw want? He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was surprisingly brief, surprisingly tender amidst the storm. "Be right back," he murmured against her mouth. Then he turned and walked towards what she assumed was the bedroom, already unbuttoning his shorts. Vanja stood rooted in the middle of his immaculate apartment, the taste of victory and Joshua Kimmich on her lips, the roar of the crowd replaced by the deafening silence of his domain and the distant sound of a shower starting. The bowl of fruit sat untouched. Her skin still burned where his hand had been.