Chapter 3: Breaking Point
The cool silence of the kitchen shattered the moment Vanja pushed back through the French doors. The wall of sound hit her – raucous laughter, the sizzle and flare of the grill, the relentless thump of turbo-folk music. The smell of roasting meat, sweat, and spilled beer was overwhelming after the sterile air inside. She took a shaky breath, the phantom imprint of Joshua Kimmich’s intense, unreadable gaze still burning on her skin. Her fingers tingled where she'd tapped the tablet. That look… that raw, surprised stillness… it had been worth every second of frustration. A tiny fissure in the glacier.
"Vanja! There you are!" Tom Bischoff's voice, thick with beer and unwanted enthusiasm, boomed across the patio. He detached himself from a group near the cooler, weaving slightly, a half-eaten ćevap in one hand. "Thought you'd escaped! Or maybe found something tastier than my sausage?" He leered, puffing out his chest, entirely oblivious to the collective wince that rippled through the nearby players. He’d been circling her all afternoon with the subtlety of a landslide.
Vanja plastered on a tight smile, trying to edge towards the relative safety of the dessert table. "Just needed a minute, Tom. Air conditioning." She gestured vaguely towards the house.
"Ah, sure, sure," Tom slurred, stepping directly into her path, blocking her retreat. He leaned in, the smell of alcohol and grilled onions potent. "Didn’t think the ice prince had thawed enough for company in there. What were you two whispering about? Tactics? His… formations?" He nudged her arm, his chuckle grating.
Before Vanja could muster a cutting retort, Alex materialized beside her, a smirk playing on his lips. He’d seen Kimmich follow her into the kitchen. He’d seen her emerge flustered, Joshua lingering behind. Alex loved nothing more than prodding a live wire.
"Whispering?" Alex chimed in, his voice light and deliberately carrying. "Nah, Tom, leave her alone. Our Vanja wasn't whispering tactics with Kimmich." He slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her slightly away from Tom’s beer-breath orbit. "She was getting tactical advice from him. About Italians, right Vanny?" He winked, exaggeratedly. "Specifically, a certain beast of a left-back? From… Roma, was it?"
Vanja felt the heat surge up her neck, flooding her cheeks. It was instant, uncontrollable. A fiery blush that clashed violently with the cool blonde streaks in her hair. She’d been caught. Exposed. Not just Alex seeing them together, but him referencing Roma. The very thing that had cracked Kimmich’s facade. Her carefully constructed indifference crumbled under the sheer, unexpected embarrassment of her own visceral reaction. "Alex, shut up," she hissed, trying to pull away, her voice tight.
Leon, leaning against the old oak with a beer, perked up. "What Italian?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Who are we talking about?"
The question snagged the attention of the small group clustered nearby – Lena, Florian, another player’s partner Vanja only vaguely knew. Even Joshua had emerged silently from the kitchen and stood near the doorframe, a dark shape against the bright garden light, his expression inscrutable but undeniably present. Watching. Listening.
Vanja felt every pair of eyes lock onto her burning face. The scent of smoke and grilling meat suddenly felt suffocating. The cheerful music jarring. She wanted to evaporate. "It's nothing," she stammered, the words sounding weak, unconvincing. "Just… just some player. Former player. Calafiori." She mumbled the name, desperate to minimize it. "He's… he's somewhere else now." She waved a hand dismissively, trying for nonchalance, but the furious blush betrayed her completely. "Seriously, it's nothing. Forget it." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.
The awkward silence that followed was worse than Alex’s teasing. Lena’s eyes widened slightly in sympathy mixed with surprise. Florian looked politely baffled. Tom just looked confused, his sausage momentarily forgotten. Leon frowned, trying to piece it together. And Joshua… Joshua remained utterly still by the door, his gaze fixed on Vanja’s flaming cheeks, his own features giving nothing away. The sheer incongruity of Vanja . germany nightlife royalty, visibly flustered over a football player from Roma, hung heavy in the smoky air.
The humiliation was too much. It was one thing to be coolly dismissed by Kimmich. It was another entirely to have her private moment – her one moment of surprising him on his turf – turned into embarrassing garden gossip, especially with Kimmich himself witnessing her discomfort. "I… I need another drink," she muttered, her voice barely audible above the music. "Excuse me." She didn't wait for acknowledgement. She turned abruptly, nearly knocking over a low table with a vase of geraniums, and practically fled back towards the house, the click of her sandals sharp and hurried against the stone path.
As the French door slammed shut behind her, Lena rounded on Alex, her expression thunderous. She smacked his arm, hard. "You asshole!" she snapped. "What the hell was that? Look at her!"
Alex rubbed his arm, genuinely surprised by Lena’s anger and Vanja’s extreme reaction. "Ow! What? It was a joke! Calafiori is a beast! Maybe she can seduce him into signing for us?" He offered his defense with a shrug, failing to grasp why mentioning an Italian footballer had provoked such a nuclear blush.
Lena glared at him, then glanced towards the house, worry replacing anger. "You have the emotional intelligence of a brick, Alex. Just… just go flip your damn ćevapi." She shook her head, turning her back on him to peer at the closed French doors, concern etched on her face.
Behind them, near the old oak, Joshua Kimmich moved. Not towards the house after Vanja, but smoothly, silently, towards the side gate leading to the street. He offered no explanation, no farewell. He simply navigated through the groups of people with the focused efficiency of a player moving off the pitch after a substitution. He was gone before anyone but Lena, still watching the house, even noticed he’d left. The space he vacated felt abruptly colder, a silent counterpoint to Vanja’s fiery escape inside. The game had taken a strange, unexpected turn, leaving confusion and the smell of smoke hanging thick in the lush garden air.
The cool marble countertop pressed against Vanja’s forehead, a temporary anchor against the lingering heat in her cheeks. Outside, the muffled thump of turbo-folk and Tom’s booming laugh felt miles away. She breathed deep, inhaling the sterile scent of cleaning products, willing the blush to fade. Her phone buzzed violently in her hand, startling her. A notification lit the screen: Ricardo Calafiori. Her thumb hovered, pulse quickening. He’d slid into her DMs weeks ago after she’d liked one of his Roma throwback posts, a tentative connection sparked by shared nostalgia for the Giallorossi. Now, the message was stark: Bayern next week. Be good to see you, Vanja. Drinks after?
A week later, the Obsidian’s VIP lounge pulsed with a different energy – anticipation mixed with pre-game camaraderie. Vanja perched stiffly on a chrome barstool, swirling her vodka tonic. The ice clinked loudly. Lena nudged her hard. "Stop looking like you’re facing a firing squad. It’s just the team." Lena scanned the room, her gaze sharp. "Besides, I refuse to be Alex’s third wheel again while he drools over the new physio. You’re coming."
"Lena, I really don’t—" Vanja started, her protest weak.
"No arguments," Lena cut her off, grabbing Vanja’s arm with surprising strength. "Move. Now." She hauled Vanja off the stool towards a cluster of players near a low leather sofa where Alex was holding court. Lena’s voice cut through the lounge’s low hum, sharp and deliberately loud. "Alex! Guess who Ricardo Calafiori slid into the DMs of? Our Vanja! Wants to see her when we play''
Alex’s eyebrows shot up, a wide grin spreading across his face. "No way! The Beast of arsenal himself?" He whistled low. "Vanja international woman of mystery!"
Leon, leaning against the sofa arm, chuckled. "Calafiori? Seriously? That’s… unexpected." He took a swig of his beer, eyes glinting with mischief. "Well, since you’ve got his ear, Vanny, any chance you can find out Bayern’s tactical weaknesses for us? Do us a solid?" He winked.
Vanja felt the familiar, unwelcome heat flood her neck and face again. "Shut up, Leon," she muttered, looking down at her drink, the condensation slick on the glass. The blush felt like a neon sign flashing her discomfort. She wished the plush carpet would swallow her whole.
The low murmur of the lounge shifted subtly. Vanja glanced up, following the slight turn of heads near the entrance. Joshua Kimmich stood there, impeccably dressed in dark jeans and a fitted grey shirt. Beside him stood a woman. She wasn't tall, maybe average height, with neat, shoulder-length brown hair and a pleasant, open face. She smiled warmly at something Joshua murmured, nodding. He inclined his head seriously, his attention fully on her as they moved further into the lounge. He guided her gently by the elbow towards a quieter corner booth. It wasn't overtly romantic, but it was attentive. Focused. Entirely unlike his dismissive coldness towards Vanja.
Vanja’s breath hitched, sharp and painful. The air vanished. Her chest tightened, a sudden, crushing weight pressing down. The vibrant lounge lights seemed to dim, narrowing her vision to that corner booth, to Joshua’s focused profile, to the woman’s easy smile. He doesn’t dislike all females, the bitter thought sliced through her. Just me. The glass felt slippery in her suddenly cold fingers.
Alex, mid-laugh at Leon’s next quip, caught the change instantly. His gaze snapped from Leon to Vanja. He saw the stark pallor replacing her blush, the wide-eyed panic, the way her knuckles whitened around her glass. His grin vanished. "Vanj?" he murmured, leaning closer, his voice low with sudden concern. His eyes darted towards Kimmich’s booth and back to her face. Oh, fuck, his expression screamed silently. This wasn't garden teasing anymore. This was real.
Vanja’s phone, clutched in her other hand, erupted in a shrill, insistent ringtone. The screen flashed: Ricardo Calafiori Video Call. The timing was catastrophic. Alex, reacting purely on instinct, snatched the phone from her frozen grip before she could decline. "Vanja!" he announced loudly, holding the phone up like a trophy, his thumb jabbing the answer button. "It’s Ricardo! Calling you!" He angled the screen towards himself and the group. "Putting you on video, mate!"
Ricardo Calafiori’s face filled the screen, slightly pixelated but undeniably handsome. He was outdoors, sunlight catching the sharp angles of his jaw, dressed casually in a training top. He looked slightly embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah, Vanja? Ciao! Sorry, did I catch you at a bad—"
"Ricardo!" Alex boomed, cutting him off, grinning wildly. He swung the phone around to capture Leon leaning in, Lena looking amused, and Vanja standing rigidly beside him, her face a mask of horrified shock. "We’re all here! Just talking about you! About the game next week!"
Leon leaned closer to the screen. "Yeah, Ricardo! Ready for a proper thrashing? Bayern’s coming for you!" He laughed.
Ricardo chuckled nervously, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces crowding the screen. "Always ready, Leon. Always ready." His gaze flickered, searching. "Vanja? You there?"
Vanja couldn’t speak. She felt pinned, exposed under the dual spotlights of the video call and Joshua Kimmich’s presence across the room. Her eyes, against her will, flicked towards the corner booth. Joshua wasn't looking at his companion now. He was looking directly at the commotion around Alex and the phone. His expression was utterly unreadable, a mask of cool detachment. He took a slow sip from his water glass, his gaze fixed on the screen, on Ricardo’s slightly flustered face, on Vanja’s frozen panic. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched. Silent.