Chapter 4: The Power Play
The shrill ringtone sliced through the lounge’s low thrum like a shard of glass. Ricardo Calafiori’s face, slightly distorted on the screen Alex held aloft, blinked in confusion at the sudden crowd peering back at him. Leon’s grinning face filled half the frame. Alex’s booming voice drowned out Ricardo’s tentative greeting. "Ricardo! We’re all here! Just talking about you!"
Vanja stood frozen beside Alex, a statue carved from pure mortification. The plush carpet beneath her sandals might as well have been quicksand. Her gaze, against her will, flicked sideways. Across the dimly lit expanse of velvet and chrome, Joshua Kimmich sat in his corner booth. Alone now. His companion had vanished towards the restrooms. And he was watching. Not the phone screen, not Alex’s theatrics. He was watching her. His expression was a blank slate, utterly unreadable, but his attention was absolute. A predator observing prey caught in headlights. The crushing weight in her chest tightened, stealing her breath.
"Vanja? You there?" Ricardo’s voice, tinny and concerned, echoed from the speaker.
Something snapped. A brittle, invisible thread holding her composure together. The heat of humiliation curdled into something sharper, hotter. Fury. Directed not just at Alex, but at Joshua’s silent, judging stare. At the entire suffocating charade.
Her hand shot out, fast and decisive. Not a grab, but a swift, forceful wrench. Her fingers closed around the cool metal and glass of her phone, yanking it from Alex’s startled grip. The sudden movement silenced Leon mid-joke and made Alex stumble back a half-step.
"Ricardo," Vanja said, her voice surprisingly steady, cutting through the awkward pause. She angled the phone towards her own face, blocking out the gawking teammates. Her thumb found the mute button. "Sorry, terrible timing. Big crowd. Can I call you back? Five minutes?" Her smile was tight, professional, a mask slammed down over the chaos inside.
On screen, Ricardo looked relieved. "Ah, yes! Of course, Vanja! Five minutes. Ciao!" The call ended. The screen went dark.
Silence descended on their little group, thick and uncomfortable. Alex stared at her, mouth slightly open, the remnants of his grin frozen into something foolish. Lena watched her with wide, worried eyes. Leon just looked baffled.
Vanja didn’t spare them a glance. Her eyes were locked on the corner booth. On Joshua Kimmich, still watching her, still impassive. The vodka tonic she’d abandoned earlier sat sweating on a nearby chrome table. She snatched it up, the ice cubes clinking violently against the glass. Liquid sloshed over the rim, cold against her knuckles. She didn’t wipe it off.
She walked. Not fled, like in the garden. This was deliberate. Purposeful. Each click of her heel on the polished floor echoed in the sudden quiet of their corner. The plush sofas, the low murmur from other VIP groups, the distant thump of bass from below – it all faded into a blur. Her focus narrowed to the man sitting alone in the shadows.
She stopped directly beside his booth. He didn’t look up immediately. He was swirling the ice in his own glass – water, she noted absently. Always water. Discipline incarnate.
"Where is your girlfriend?" Vanja asked. Her voice was low, husky, devoid of its usual playful lilt. It cut through the air between them, sharp as a blade.
Joshua’s hand stilled on the glass. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his gaze. Those intense blue eyes met hers. There was no surprise, no irritation. Just that unnerving, focused stillness. He didn’t answer.
Vanja didn’t wait for one. She slid into the plush velvet seat opposite him, the movement smooth, claiming the space. The scent of his clean, subtle cologne – something woody and expensive – momentarily replaced the cloying perfumes. She set her vodka down hard on the table between them. The sound was loud in the intimate space.
"You know," she continued, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting on the cool tabletop. Her eyes never left his. "Ricardo." She let the name hang. "He’s as obsessed with Roma as I am." A slight, bitter twist touched her lips. "Probably more. He lived it. Every training session, every derby, every whispered secret in the locker room." She paused, letting the implication sink in. "He knows things. More than I ever could from the stands or… social media." She took a deliberate sip of her vodka, the burn sharp on her tongue. "He knows them. Inside out."
Joshua remained motionless. His expression hadn’t changed, but his gaze felt heavier, more penetrating. He was listening. Really listening.
"The message," Vanja said, her voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper meant only for him, "was clear." She held his stare, willing him to understand the unspoken warning. "Don’t use that tactic against arsenal. The one Müller was sketching out earlier. The overload on the left, pushing high, isolating their right-back." She saw the faintest flicker in his eyes – recognition. "Ricardo knows it’s coming. He knows you. He knows how you think. How Bayern thinks. He’ll be waiting. He’ll shred it."
Silence stretched. Thick, charged. The bass from the dance floor below vibrated faintly through the floor. Joshua didn’t look away. He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak. He just… absorbed. His focus was terrifyingly complete.
Vanja leaned back slightly, breaking the intense eye contact for a moment, looking down at her glass. The ice was melting fast. "Does it hurt?" she asked suddenly, her voice regaining a fraction of its usual cadence, but laced with something raw. "Knowing someone knows your moves that well? Knowing they’re watching, anticipating… waiting for you to step exactly where they know you will?"
Joshua finally moved. He lifted his water glass, took a slow, measured sip. His eyes never left her face. When he lowered the glass, his gaze was still locked onto hers. "What?" he asked, his voice low, calm, utterly devoid of inflection.
Vanja met his stare again. A spark of defiance, of challenge, ignited in her own eyes. "Looking at me," she clarified, her voice steady now, holding his gaze without flinching. "Like you do. Like you’re seeing… everything. Every stupid blush, every awkward moment Alex engineers." She gestured vaguely back towards the group, where Alex was now receiving a furious, whispered lecture from Lena. "Is that why you never do?" The question hung in the air, heavy and direct. "Never look? Never react? are you emberessed by me and. my. are you feeling sorry?"
For a heartbeat, maybe two, the impenetrable mask seemed to waver. Something flickered deep within those blue eyes – a flash of surprise? Acknowledgement? It was gone so fast Vanja couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The silence between them became a physical thing, pressing in, charged with unspoken history and the raw nerve she’d just exposed.
He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he placed his water glass down with deliberate precision on the coaster. He slid smoothly out of the booth, his movements economical, unhurried. He stood looking down at her for a moment, his expression once again unreadable, the brief crack in his armor seamlessly repaired. Without a word, without a glance back at Alex’s group or the rest of the lounge, he turned and walked towards the discreet exit leading to the private elevators. His departure was silent, final.
Vanja remained seated, staring at the untouched water glass he’d left behind. The condensation beaded on its surface. The faint imprint of his lips remained on the rim. The vodka burned in her own glass, suddenly tasting like ashes. The victory of delivering her warning felt hollow, swallowed by the chilling silence of his retreat and the echo of her own unanswered, painfully exposed question hanging alone in the plush, perfumed darkness.
The victory of delivering her warning felt hollow, swallowed by the chilling silence of his retreat and the echo of her own unanswered, painfully exposed question hanging alone in the plush, perfumed darkness. Vanja stared at the condensation snaking down Joshua’s abandoned water glass, the imprint of his lips a cruel reminder of his proximity and distance. The bass from the dance floor thumped dully against her ribs, matching the heavy thud of her own disappointment.
Her phone buzzed, insistent against her thigh where she sat frozen. Ricardo. Five minutes were up. Mechanically, she answered, sliding out of the booth. “Ricardo. Hi. Sorry again.”
“Vanja! No problem!” His voice, warm and rich, crackled slightly through the speaker, a welcome contrast to the ice left behind. “Bad timing for them, good timing for me. I’m downstairs. At Obsidian. Just spotted Müller trying to dance – truly a sight not meant for human eyes.” He chuckled, the sound easy and infectious.
She managed a weak laugh, moving towards the sweeping staircase leading down to the main floor, needing air, needing distance from the scene of her latest Joshua-induced defeat. “You’re here? Now?”
“Forget my keys at the bar earlier,” he explained. “Thought I’d grab them, see if the famous Vanja V. was still holding court. Looks like things got… intense upstairs?” There was a knowing lilt in his question.
Vanja descended the stairs, the pounding music growing louder, the heat rising. “Just Alex being Alex.” She scanned the heaving mass of bodies below, the strobe lights cutting through the haze. Then she saw him. Leaning against the far end of the long, gleaming bar, effortlessly commanding the space around him even in the chaos.
Ricardo Calafiori. He’d filled out since his Roma days, the lean frame now layered with powerful muscle honed in the Premier League. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his smile wide and white against tanned skin, eyes crinkling at the corners as he spotted her approach. He looked… more. More vibrant, more confident, more present than the memory she carried. The sheer impact hit her like a physical wave.
He ended the call as she reached him, pushing off the bar. “Ciao bella.” He pulled her into a brief, firm hug, the scent of expensive citrus and warm skin enveloping her. He held her at arm's length, his dark eyes sweeping over her with open appreciation. “Still stopping traffic, I see. Though I hear you won’t be cheering me on this weekend.” He grinned, playful but pointed. “You like Bayern now. Not as much as I liked Roma, obviously.” He winked.
She forced a bright smile, the effort feeling brittle under his appreciative gaze. “Never that much, Ricky. Roma runs deeper than blood.” The familiar banter felt like putting on an old, comfortable shoe, yet it didn't quite fit right tonight.
He laughed, a rich, full sound that cut through the thumping bass. “Ah, loyalty! But you left us, cara. Could’ve been our new Totti. The queen of the Olimpico.” He shook his head in mock sorrow, but his eyes sparkled.
Vanja managed a genuine chuckle this time, the absurdity cutting through her tension. “Oh please. There is only one Francesco. You know that.”
“Right you are,” Ricardo conceded, still smiling, his hand resting lightly on her forearm. “Only one Il Capitano.” His thumb brushed her skin almost absently. “Shame. You’d have looked good in the giallorosso.”
They fell into an easy rhythm then, trading familiar jabs about old matches, mutual acquaintances, the quirks of Munich versus London. He flirted effortlessly, leaning in to be heard, his laughter warm against her ear. She responded on autopilot, the practiced charm rising to the surface – a quip here, a light touch on his arm there, holding his gaze a beat too long. But her focus kept splintering. The velvet softness of the VIP lounge sofa materialized behind her eyelids. The exact, unreadable blue of Joshua’s eyes as he’d stared her down. The chilling silence after her question. Ricardo’s charm, potent and flattering, couldn’t quite drown it out. The laughter felt thin, the flirting an echo of something she couldn’t fully grasp.
Alex materialized beside them, Lena trailing him with an exasperated look. “Calafiori! Good to see you, mate!” Alex boomed, clapping Ricardo on the shoulder, his earlier transgression seemingly forgotten. “Vanja showing you a good time? She’s our resident expert on… everything Italian.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Ricardo laughed politely, extracting himself. “Always a pleasure, Vanja.” He checked his watch, a sleek, expensive piece. “I should find those keys and vanish before Müller attempts round two. Ciao.” He squeezed Vanja’s hand, his gaze lingering for a moment, then melted into the crowd.
Lena immediately rounded on Alex. “You absolute dickhead, Alex! What were you thinking, ambushing her call like that? And then yelling about Ric across the room?” She smacked his arm.
Alex rubbed the spot, feigning hurt. “What? Lighten up! Just creating a little drama. Stirring the pot! Besides,” he turned to Vanja, a speculative glint in his eye as he watched Ricardo disappear. “Looked pretty cozy down here. Maybe he is the key to tempting him back? A little… personal persuasion?” He nudged her.
Vanja took a long sip of the vodka tonic she’d carried down, the ice mostly water now. The warmth from Ricardo’s presence faded, replaced by the familiar, gnawing frustration centered on a certain blonde midfielder. “Oh, shut up, Alex.” Her voice lacked its usual fire.
Lena linked her arm through Vanja’s, steering her slightly away from Alex. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.” She lowered her voice. “Seriously though, Vanj. Kimmich. What is it? I mean… the guy is carved from ice. Maybe…” Lena hesitated, then plunged in, her tone bluntly helpful. “Maybe he just doesn’t want you back? Or… I dunno… maybe he’s gay? Would explain the zero interest despite you basically throwing yourself in his path.” She shrugged. “Or, harsh truth? You’re just not his type. Happens. Even to you.”
Vanja stared into her watered-down drink. Lena’s words, meant to be pragmatic, landed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Gay. Not his type. Each possibility felt like a door slamming shut. She thought of his unwavering focus, the intense scrutiny that promised depth but revealed nothing. The way he’d walked away without a single word. A sharp pang of resigned hurt shot through her, sharpening her voice. “Maybe. Probably. Whatever.” She shrugged, the movement tight. “Nothing to do about it, is there? I won’t chase after him forever.” She said it with finality, trying to convince herself.
Alex, who had edged closer again, snorted. “Right. Sure you won’t.” He grinned, knowing and infuriating. “But you’re not giving up now, are you?” He tilted his head, challenge clear in his eyes. “Not after whatever that was upstairs?”
Vanja met his gaze. The memory of Joshua’s mask slipping, that brief, unguarded flicker in his eyes, surged back. It hadn’t been indifference. It had been… something. Raw. Startling. Proof that beneath the ice, something lived. A spark ignited in her chest, burning away the resignation Lena’s words had tried to instill. A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips, sharp and full of intent. She raised her glass in a mock toast towards the VIP stairs, towards the ghost of his departure. “Not yet.”
The Obsidian’s bass faded to a dull throb as Vanja climbed into the waiting Uber, the city lights streaking past the window like liquid gold. The defiant spark ignited by Alex’s challenge flickered stubbornly against the cold reality Joshua had left behind. Not yet. The words tasted like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. The memory of his eyes – that fleeting crack revealing something raw beneath the ice – was the only fuel she had.
The next week was a masterclass in invisibility. Joshua’s dismissal at the club solidified into an impenetrable wall. Training sessions, team meetings, even casual encounters in the Säbener Straße canteen – she ceased to exist in his world. He moved through spaces she occupied with the focused indifference of a man navigating empty rooms. No glance, no nod, no flicker of acknowledgement. Vanja felt like static on a dead channel, background noise drowned out by the roar of his singular focus. His girlfriend, Lina, a constant, serene presence beside him, seemed equally unaware of Vanja’s existence, her polite smiles never reaching Vanja’s direction. The silence was louder than any insult.
The Emirates clash against Arsenal was a brutal, pulsating affair. Bayern clawed back twice to secure a 2-2 draw, Joshua a relentless engine in midfield, his usual precision honed to a razor’s edge. The tension lingered long after the final whistle, clinging to the players like sweat. Seeking release, Leon, ever the gracious host, invited the core group, Vanja included, back to his sleek, modern villa overlooking the Isar. "Come on, Vanj," he’d insisted, his fiancée, Mira, nodding warmly beside him. "Beer, pizza, unwind. You’ve earned it after putting up with Alex’s tactical ‘insights’ all week." Mira squeezed her arm. "Please, it’ll be fun."
Leon’s spacious living room buzzed with post-match adrenaline loosened by expensive beer. Pizza boxes lay open on the glass coffee table, the scent of pepperoni mingling with the damp-earth smell drifting in from the terrace. Laughter bounced off the minimalist walls. Vanja, perched on a deep leather sofa, tried to relax, nursing a crisp pilsner. Joshua sat diagonally opposite, an island of calm intensity amidst the boisterous energy, Lina tucked close beside him. He hadn’t looked at Vanja once.
The conversation inevitably drifted towards the chaotic Obsidian VIP incident. Alex, already several beers deep, his cheeks flushed, pointed a slice of pizza crust at Vanja. "So, Vanj," he slurred, grinning widely. "Ricardo Calafiori, eh? That was some cozy little chat at the bar. Looked like old times." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Leon chuckled, leaning back in his armchair opposite Vanja. "Cozy? Looked like he was trying to absorb her soul through that hug. The man's still smitten, clearly. Obsidian reunion tour?" Mira playfully nudged Leon, smiling indulgently at Vanja’s faint blush.
Vanja shook her head, forcing a smile. "Shut up, Leon. It was just Ricky being Ricky. We go way back, that’s all." She traced the condensation on her beer bottle.
"Way back?" Alex scoffed, taking another messy bite. "Try forever. Two Roma tragics, united in eternal giallorosso suffering." He gestured expansively, almost knocking over Lena’s drink. "Speaking of eternal bonds…" He paused dramatically, his eyes gleaming with drunken mischief. "Do you guys know they even have the same tattoo?"
The playful teasing halted. Leon lowered his beer, genuinely surprised. "What? Ricardo and Vanja? Same tattoo? Seriously?"
Alex nodded vigorously, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face. "Dead serious! Roma dedication! She’s got hers right here." He tapped the side of his own neck emphatically. "Small, elegant, hidden just under the hairline, right Vanj? The ASR crest with ‘Sempre’ underneath." He leaned forward conspiratorially towards Vanja, his voice dropping to a stage whisper thick with beer. "And he has one too. Identical. So, Vanja…" Alex’s grin turned positively wolfish. "Where exactly does Ricardo sport his little piece of Roma forever? Hmm?"
All eyes locked onto Vanja. Lena groaned, burying her face in her hands. Leon looked fascinated. Mira’s expression was politely curious. Vanja felt the heat explode across her cheeks and neck, a fierce, unmistakable blush. She stared fixedly at the coffee table, the intricate grain of the wood suddenly fascinating. The silence stretched, punctuated only by Alex’s expectant breathing. Joshua hadn’t moved, his posture unchanged, but the air around him felt denser, charged.
"Um," Vanja managed, her voice barely above a murmur. She cleared her throat, trying to regain composure, acutely aware of the scrutiny. "I… I think…" She swallowed. "Lower back?" The words came out as a hesitant question, instantly regretting them. "I think it’s on his lower back."
Alex burst out laughing, a loud, raucous sound that filled the room. "You think?" he crowed, slapping his knee. "Oh, come on Vanj! That’s a pretty specific spot to just think about! You think?" He dissolved into another fit of laughter.
In that split second, Vanja’s gaze, seeking escape from Alex’s drunken teasing, flickered involuntarily across the room. Joshua Kimmich’s eyes met hers. It wasn’t the usual blank stare. His gaze was sharp, focused, travelling deliberately from her flushed face down to the side of her neck, lingering fractionally on the spot Alex had indicated – the hidden tattoo – before snapping back to her eyes. It was a look of swift, intense assessment, devoid of warmth but crackling with a sudden, unnerving attention. Then, as if a switch flipped, his expression shuttered instantly. He looked away, his hand finding Lina’s on the sofa cushion beside him, his focus returning to the middle distance.
The moment shattered as the front door clicked open. Lina stood there, her coat still on, a smile already forming. "Sorry I'm late! Traffic was hellish after the game." She breezed in, the scent of cool night air clinging to her. Joshua stood smoothly, meeting her halfway, his face softening into a welcome that excluded the entire room. He took her coat, murmured something low, his posture shifting subtly to envelop her.
Vanja watched the effortless intimacy, the way Lina’s hand rested lightly on Joshua’s arm. The heat in her cheeks turned cold. The laughter, the teasing, the brief, searing moment of Joshua’s gaze – it all curdled into a hollow ache. She pushed herself up from the sofa, the leather sighing softly. "I should go," she announced, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Early start tomorrow. Thanks for having me, Leon, Mira. Great night." She didn't look at Joshua or Lina, didn't acknowledge Alex's fading chuckle. She just grabbed her bag and walked out into the cool Munich night, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing like a full stop. The city lights blurred as she hailed a cab, the image of Joshua’s assessing stare and Lina’s easy arrival replaying on a loop all the way home to her silent, empty flat.