Chapter 1: The Ice King's Throne
The Obsidian’s VIP lounge was a velvet-lined cocoon, swallowing the main floor’s thumping chaos into a low, expensive hum. Vanja pushed through the heavy door, the bass fading like a retreating tide. Cool, perfume-laden air replaced the sticky heat. Her entrance, practiced and precise, drew the usual flicker of eyes – the discreet glances from suited businessmen, the appreciative stares from athletes lounging on the plush leather sofas. She ignored them all. Tonight was about the booth in the far corner, her booth, a crescent of dark leather offering the perfect vantage point.
She took two steps on the polished marble floor, the red soles of her Louboutins clicking softly. Then she froze.
He was already there.
Joshua Kimmich. Slouched slightly, but with that inherent, contained athleticism even at rest. Blond hair neatly styled, sharp jawline highlighted by the pulsing neon bleeding through the glass wall behind him. He wasn’t scanning the room, wasn’t nursing a drink while pretending not to look. His focus was absolute, locked onto his phone screen, thumb scrolling with quiet intensity. The glow lit his face, making him look carved from marble.
A prickle of annoyance, sharp and unexpected, replaced the usual surge of power she felt upon claiming her space. He hadn’t even looked up. Not when the door opened, not when her sheer red dress – the one that clung like a second skin from shoulder to mid-thigh, leaving precisely nothing to the imagination – moved through the lounge. Nothing. It was as if the carefully curated chaos of the VIP, the low laughter, the clink of ice in heavy crystal, the very air she displaced, simply didn't register.
Vanja forced her hips to sway again, the movement slightly stiffer than intended. She walked towards the booth, the familiar path suddenly feeling longer. Her father’s head of security, a hulking silhouette near the bar, gave her a subtle nod. She didn’t return it. Her focus was laser-like now, fixed on the man occupying her sanctuary.
She stopped directly beside the booth, close enough that the slit in her dress revealed a long, smooth line of thigh. She leaned one hand on the cool leather rim, letting her dark blonde hair with its fiery red streaks cascade over her shoulder. The scent of her perfume – something expensive and deliberately intoxicating – bloomed in the space between them. She waited. The faint click-scroll of his thumb on the screen was the only sound in her immediate universe.
Seconds stretched. Enough for the annoyance to flare into something hotter, prickling her skin. Was he trying to be rude? Or was he genuinely that oblivious? Impossible. She knew her effect. She’d mastered it years ago, navigating the predatory waters of her father’s world, the preening orbit of footballers and their hangers-on. Men looked. They always looked. Especially men like Kimmich, surrounded by eager attention but famously, infuriatingly disciplined.
"Comfy?" Her voice cut through the low hum, sharper than she’d planned. Casual evaporated in the face of his indifference.
Kimmich’s thumb stilled. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his gaze from the phone. Not startled. Not impressed. His eyes, a cool, assessing blue, met hers without a flicker of surprise or appreciation. They scanned her face, then drifted down the length of the red dress with a detached, almost clinical appraisal, before returning to her eyes. It wasn’t leering. It was… noting. Like checking the weather.
"Vanja," he stated, his voice even, uninflected. A simple acknowledgment. His gaze was steady, unnervingly direct. "Booth’s big enough."
Not an invitation. A fact. He shifted slightly, making a fractional amount more space on the leather crescent, but his attention was already drifting back towards his phone.
She didn’t sit. Stood over him, the advantage of height in her heels doing nothing to make her feel powerful. It felt… wrong. An unfamiliar heat climbed her neck. Was he dismissing her? Was this some kind of mind game? She’d heard the whispers – Kimmich, the monk, the machine. Focused. Unflappable. But this? This felt like being wallpaper.
"Big night planned?" she pressed, injecting a lazy confidence she didn’t quite feel into her tone. She gestured vaguely towards the main floor’s intermittent neon flashes illuminating the glass wall. "Or just hiding from your adoring fans?"
Kimmich raised an eyebrow, a minute expression. He didn’t put the phone down. "Reviewing match footage." His thumb resumed its slow scroll. "Quieter here. Better screen."
Match footage. On a Saturday night. In her club. Vanja felt a flash of surreal irritation. She was Vanja V., daughter of z V., and this booth was practically an extension of her living room. Men vied to sit here with her. They didn’t use it as a glorified library carrel.
"Right," she said, the word clipped. She glanced pointedly at the untouched glass of sparkling water on the low table in front of him. "Thrilling." Her own usual vodka soda suddenly felt essential. She caught the eye of the bartender across the lounge. He started moving instantly. Good. Something familiar.
Kimmich said nothing. Just… scrolled. The silence thickened, becoming tangible. Vanja hovered, the vibrant energy that usually radiated from her feeling strangely contained, trapped by his quiet focus. She felt exposed, absurdly, standing there while he ignored her. This wasn’t playing hard to get. This was genuine, unvarnished disinterest.
The bartender arrived swiftly, placing her drink on the table with a soft clink. She took it, the cold glass a minor anchor. She finally sank onto the leather beside Kimmich, leaving a deliberate foot of space. Not too close. Not that he’d notice. She took a slow sip, the vodka sharp on her tongue, watching his profile. The strong line of his nose, the focused set of his mouth. He had the kind of stillness that was unnerving. Like a coiled spring disguised as ice.
"So," she tried again, leaning back, crossing her legs slowly. The slit in her dress fell open further. "Heard Leverkusen gave you a hard time last week." Football. His language. Maybe that would crack the facade.
His eyes flicked from the screen to her, holding her gaze for a beat longer this time. A flicker? Or just processing the question? "They pressed well. We adapted." His voice was calm, analytical. "Second half structure was better." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "You follow the Bundesliga?"
"Obviously," Vanja replied, a touch defensively. "It’s the family business, football and… well." She gestured around the lounge. "This."
Kimmich nodded once, a curt dip of his chin. His eyes were already drifting back to the glowing rectangle in his hand. "Right." The flicker vanished. The analysis was over. Back to the pixels.
Vanja stared at him. The sheer, unmitigated indifference was maddening. And fascinating. Like encountering a force of nature that refused to bend to her gravity. She took another, larger gulp of her drink. The usual strategies – the lingering touch, the suggestive smile, the deliberate proximity – felt suddenly crude, useless against this wall of focused reserve. He wasn't playing chess; he wasn't playing at all. He was just… elsewhere.
She watched the neon lights play across the sharp planes of his face. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance at her legs, inches away. Didn’t try to fill the silence. He just existed, completely contained within himself and the game unfolding silently on his phone. Vanja felt a strange mixture of frustration, intrigue, and a dawning, unfamiliar sensation: invisibility. It was… unsettling. And weirdly electric.
She drained her glass. The vodka warmed her chest but did nothing to melt the icy wall beside her. Standing up abruptly, the movement jarring in the lounge’s subdued atmosphere, she caught another flicker of his gaze – brief, acknowledging her departure, perhaps. Nothing more.
"Don’t let the match analysis keep you up too late," she said, her voice cool, masking the turmoil beneath. She didn’t wait for a response, turning on her heel with a sharp click of her heel. She felt his eyes on her back for a single, fleeting second as she walked away, a phantom pressure before it vanished. He hadn't looked when she arrived, but he watched her leave. The small, bitter victory tasted like ash.
She pushed back through the heavy door into the roar of the main club, the bass hitting her like a physical wave. The noise, the heat, the press of bodies – it was a welcome assault after the sterile silence of the lounge. She needed air, real air, not the filtered, perfume-choked kind. Cutting through the gyrating mass on the dance floor, she aimed for the side exit leading to the staff parking lot, a shortcut she used to avoid the main throng.
Cutting through the gyrating mass on the dance floor, she aimed for the side exit leading to the staff parking lot, a shortcut she used to avoid the main throng. The cool night air hit her face like a slap, a welcome shock after the club’s oppressive heat. Leaning against the rough brick wall, she inhaled deeply, trying to shake off the lingering sting of Kimmich's apathy. So he likes match footage more than a red dress? Fine. Her phone buzzed – a photo from Alex, her brother’s teammate and resident joker, grinning like an idiot in his kit, captioned 'Save us a booth tomorrow? Bring snacks!
A week later, the Allianz Arena pulsed with a different kind of energy. Not the manufactured throb of the club, but the raw, roaring heartbeat of 70,000 fans. Vanja sat sandwiched between Alex’s bubbly girlfriend, Lena, and his sharp-tongued sister, Mira, high up in the family and friends section. Below, the pitch was a blur of red and white, Bayern dominating possession.
"Go on! Schieß!" Lena screamed, bouncing in her seat, nearly spilling her pretzel.
"Calm down, he’s midfield, not striker," Mira chuckled, nudging Vanja. "Although Alex did say he’s working on his long shots. Poorly."
Vanja laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine amidst the roar. It felt good, this uncomplicated excitement. She joined in the chanting, clapping until her palms stung when Joshua delivered a pinpoint cross that led to a goal. For a moment, the sheer spectacle washed over her, the collective euphoria a potent drug. She caught herself scanning the pitch for his number – 6 – tracking his disciplined movements, the way he orchestrated play with quiet authority. Even from here, his focus was palpable, a laser beam cutting through the chaos.
At halftime, they shuffled out for drinks. As Vanja queued for overpriced mineral water, a woman with kind eyes and familiar sharp cheekbones appeared beside her. She wore a simple Bayern scarf and carried an air of calm warmth.
"Excuse me," the woman said, her voice soft but clear over the crowd murmur. "Your hair is absolutely stunning. That blend of dark blonde with the red fire… it’s unique."
Vanja touched a strand self-consciously, surprised. "Oh! Thank you. Vanja."
"Eva Kimmich," the woman smiled, extending a hand. "Joshua’s mother."
Vanja’s pulse did a little stutter-step. His mother. The source of those sharp angles softened by warmth. "Lovely to meet you, Frau Kimmich. Intense game, isn’t it?" She gestured towards the pitch visible through the concourse windows.
Eva nodded, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Always is when Joshua’s playing. He lives every minute of it. Though I sometimes wish he’d remember to smile more out there!" She laughed lightly. "It was the red streaks that caught my eye. Reminded me of my sister when she was young." They chatted easily for a few minutes about the game, Munich, the sheer volume of the crowd. Eva was effortlessly charming, asking Vanja about her life without prying. There was no flicker of recognition regarding her father or the clubs, just genuine interest. It was… nice. Disarmingly so.
Then the teams began emerging from the tunnel for the second half, and the crowd surged back towards the seats. Eva gave Vanja’s arm a friendly pat. "Enjoy the rest of the game, dear. Lovely meeting you."
Vanja returned to her seat, a strange mix of warmth from Eva’s kindness and renewed agitation about Joshua buzzing under her skin.
The final whistle blew, Bayern victorious. The atmosphere was electric. Players eventually began trickling up towards the family section, sweaty, grinning, accepting hugs and congratulations. Alex bounded up, still buzzing, pulling Lena into a sweaty embrace before high-fiving Mira.
He spotted Vanja, his grin widening into something mischievous. He threw an arm around her shoulders, smelling of grass and effort. "Vanny! Saw you yelling your head off. Proud of you. Did you manage to get Kimmich’s autograph during your little halftime chat with his Mutti?" He waggled his eyebrows.
Vanja shoved him playfully. "Shut up, Alex. She complimented my hair. Unlike some people who wouldn't know style if it kicked them in the shins."
Alex laughed, loud and unbothered. "True! But seriously," his tone softened slightly, nudging her with his elbow, "what's the Kimmich fixation? Half the Bundesliga blondes would trip over themselves for you. Hell, all of them usually do. He’s…" Alex gestured vaguely, searching for the right word, "...just not into it. You know? Focused. Like, weirdly focused. On football. Not," he added pointedly, "on you."
The words, delivered with good-natured bluntness, landed like little stones. Vanja forced a smile. "Maybe I just like a challenge, idiot." But the lightness felt brittle. Alex’s observation echoed her own frustration. Why him? The usual allure felt pointless here.
Then he appeared. Joshua Kimmich, making his way up the steps, flanked by a couple of teammates. He’d showered quickly, hair damp, dressed in clean club training gear. He stopped briefly to hug his mother, exchanging a few quiet words, his expression softening in a way Vanja hadn’t seen before. Then Eva gestured towards their little group, saying something Vanja couldn’t catch over the noise.
Joshua’s gaze followed his mother’s indication. It landed on Alex, Lena, Mira… and then slid to Vanja. The softness vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. It wasn’t directed solely at her, more at the entire social obligation, the crowd, the need to perform off the pitch. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He gave a curt, single nod – a bare minimum acknowledgement aimed vaguely in their direction – before turning sharply away, heading towards the exit tunnel with his teammates, his posture radiating a desire to be literally anywhere else.
Vanja felt it like a door slamming shut. The warmth from Eva, the fun of the game, Alex’s teasing – it all receded, leaving behind a cold, sharp residue. Pissed? Absolutely. The casual dismissal, the blatant irritation just for existing in his periphery after a win… it stung. But underneath the anger, a deeper, more unsettling feeling stirred. Sadness? No, not quite. A hollow ache of curiosity, sharpened to a point. She watched his retreating back, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved with that contained energy even when clearly trying to escape.
She didn't just want his attention anymore. She wanted to crack him open. To understand the mechanics behind that impenetrable focus, to see what fuel burned inside that made him so utterly indifferent to everything else – including her. What made Joshua Kimmich tick? The question lodged itself deep, far more dangerous than simple attraction.
The hollow ache bloomed into something sharper, hotter, as the celebrations spilled out of the Allianz Arena and into Munich’s neon-lit night. The chosen venue was Flux, a sleek bar all chrome and low lighting, packed with players, friends, and the inevitable hangers-on buzzing around a Bayern victory. The air thrummed with raucous laughter, clinking glasses, and the self-congratulatory energy of winners. Vanja felt adrift in it.
She perched on a barstool, nursing a vodka soda that tasted like regret. Alex was draped over Lena on a nearby booth, whispering something that made her giggle, her face buried in his shoulder. The picture of cozy coupledom. It was sweet. It was also profoundly isolating.
"Feeling like a spare tire?" Alex called over, catching her eye. His grin was wide, sweat still glistening at his temples. "Come join the love fest!"
Vanja forced a smile that felt brittle. "Nah. Honestly, Alex? I feel like the world's most awkward third wheel parked right here. You two enjoy." She swirled the ice in her glass. "Think I might just head out."
Lena extricated herself slightly, her expression instantly concerned. She knew. Of course she knew. Alex had probably told her about the VIP booth, the stadium encounter, Vanja’s uncharacteristic fixation. "Vanja, no! Stay! It's early. We’re celebrating! Don’t go because of…" She trailed off, glancing subtly across the crowded bar.
Vanja followed her gaze. There he was. Joshua Kimmich. He wasn’t with his mother now. He sat at a large, low table, surrounded by a few teammates and some serious-looking guys in sharp suits – agents, maybe, or sponsors. He held a glass of sparkling water, listening intently as one of the suits spoke, his posture rigid, his expression focused. Utterly absorbed. Utterly ignoring the celebratory chaos swirling around him. Utterly ignoring her.
"Because of Kimmich being a statue?" Lena finished softly, leaning in. "Ignore him. Seriously. His loss. Stay. Have fun with us."
But the sight of him, so completely detached, amplified the hollowness inside Vanja. Fun felt impossible. Before she could formulate another excuse, a figure materialized beside her stool. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable frame of a footballer and a shock of blond hair currently slicked back. Tom Bischoff. Defender. Known for being… enthusiastic.
"Vanja V.," he said, his voice a low rumble, standing a fraction too close. His gaze was intense, unwavering, sweeping from the fiery streaks in her hair down the curve of her neck, lingering on the neckline of her silk top, then slowly tracing back up. It wasn't subtle. It was a full-body appraisal, heavy and appreciative.
She shifted slightly, the discomfort prickling. Okay, she knew she looked good. She’d made sure of it, a futile armor against Kimmich’s indifference. But this? This felt like being inspected under a very hot, very direct lamp.
"Tom," she acknowledged, her tone flat.
He didn't seem to notice. He just kept looking, his eyes wide, almost stunned. The silence stretched, thick with his blatant admiration. It wasn't flattering. It was oppressive. A nervous laugh escaped her, sharp and brittle in the din.
"Tom? Seriously. What? Is there something on my face?" she asked, a hint of forced amusement masking her irritation. "Ketchup from the post-match currywurst? A stray eyelash the size of a small bird?"
He blinked, finally snapping his gaze fully back to her eyes. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. "Yeah," he said, his voice dropping lower, thick with sincerity. Or what passed for it after a few beers. "Beauty."
Vanja just stared at him, momentarily speechless. It was such a cheesy, over-the-top line, delivered with such earnestness, it almost looped back around to being ridiculous. Almost.
Then she heard it. A distinct, sharp snort of derision. It cut through the background noise like a knife. Instinctively, her head whipped towards the source.
Joshua Kimmich. Sitting at his table. He wasn't looking at her. Not directly. His gaze was fixed somewhere near his water glass, but a faint, sardonic twist played at the corner of his lips. The snort hadn't been loud, but in that instant, it felt like the loudest sound in the room, aimed squarely at Tom’s declaration. Or perhaps at her, caught in its awkward spotlight.
Vanja felt a hot flush climb her neck, a mixture of embarrassment and fury. "Something funny, Kimmich?" she called out, her voice carrying more than she’d intended. A few heads nearby turned.
Joshua finally lifted his gaze. Met hers across the crowded bar. His expression was cool, unreadable, that earlier flicker of annoyance completely gone. He didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just held her gaze for a beat, long enough for the heat in her face to intensify, then gave a single, minimal shake of his head. Nothing. He turned back to the man speaking beside him, leaning in slightly, the picture of focused attention once more. Dismissed.
The dismissal was absolute. Final. It stripped away the last shred of her composure. The hollowness was replaced by a raw, stinging ache. She turned back to Tom, who was still watching her, oblivious to the silent exchange, his expression hopeful.
"You're sweet, Tom," she said, her voice suddenly thick. She slid off the stool, grabbing her small clutch. "Truly. But I need to go. Congrats on the win." She didn't wait for a response. Didn't look at Alex or Lena. Didn't dare glance back at the low table in the corner.
She pushed through the crowd, the laughter and music now grating, assaultive. The cool night air outside Flux was a relief, but it did nothing to soothe the burning humiliation inside her. She hailed a cab, the city lights blurring past the window into streaks of meaningless color.
Her apartment, when she finally unlocked the door, felt cavernous and cold. The silence was deafening after the roar of the bar. She kicked off her heels, the sound echoing sharply. Leaning back against the cool wood of the door, she slid down until she was sitting on the floor, the expensive silk of her trousers bunching beneath her.
The tears came then. Hot, angry, stupid tears. They streamed down her face, smudging her meticulously applied makeup. She hugged her knees to her chest, a sob wrenching itself free.
"Stupid," she choked out, her voice raw against the quiet. "Stupid fucking crush." The words tasted like ash. It wasn't just the crush. It was the rejection. The humiliation. The sheer, infuriating power of his indifference. The way he could demolish her with a single, silent snort. The way he occupied space in her head, relentless and unwanted, while she occupied precisely none in his.
She buried her face in her knees, the muffled sound of her own crying the only thing filling the vast, empty apartment.Stupid. So stupid.