Chapter 5: Chapter 5
The air in Alex’s sprawling garden tasted crisp, cool, carrying the faint, clean scent of pine from the woods bordering the property. String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a soft, golden glow over the long wooden table laden with emptied plates and half-finished bottles of wine. Laughter bubbled up sporadically, softer now, the post-dinner languor settling over the group. Leon leaned back in his chair, arm draped around Mira’s shoulders. Lena was arguing good-naturedly with Alex about dessert. Joshua sat beside Lina, her hand resting lightly on his forearm as she chatted quietly with Mira. He was present, nodding occasionally, his posture relaxed but contained. The disciplined focus of the pitch was banked, replaced by a watchful calm.
Mira glanced around the table, her brow furrowing slightly. "Hey," she asked, her voice cutting through the easy murmur, "where’s Vanja tonight? Thought she’d be here." She looked pointedly at Lena, then Alex.
Lena waved a dismissive hand, reaching for another slice of cheesecake. "Oh, Vanj? Nah. She’s otherwise engaged." A knowing smirk played on her lips. "Ricardo flew in. Just for the day. Apparently." She emphasized the last word, raising her eyebrows meaningfully at Alex.
Alex snorted, swirling the dregs of his red wine. "Just for the day? Right. Romantic bastard, isn’t he? Jetsetting across Europe for a quick… catch-up." He winked broadly. "Good for her, though. Finally wising up."
Joshua didn’t move. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his beer bottle. The cool glass felt suddenly slick. He took a slow, deliberate sip. The beer tasted flat, sour. Ricardo. Calafiori. The image flashed: Vanja at the Obsidian bar, pulled into that easy, possessive hug. Her laughter echoing differently than it ever did around him. The sheer physicality of the man. The shared history etched literally onto their skin – the twin Roma tattoos Alex had crowed about. Lower back. The memory of his own gaze snapping to her neck, assessing the hidden ink at Leon’s villa, felt intrusive now. Unwanted.
Lina squeezed his arm gently. "That’s nice," she murmured, her voice warm and untroubled. "She deserves someone who appreciates her." She smiled at Mira. "Ricardo always seemed very… attentive."
"Attentive?" Alex barked a laugh. "Try obsessed! Always was, even back in Rome days. And let’s be honest," he leaned forward, his gaze sharpening as it landed on Joshua, though his tone remained casual, almost jovial, "why waste time chasing someone who won’t even acknowledge you exist?" He gestured vaguely with his wine glass. "Someone who’s clearly taken? When you can have a certified Italian stallion fly halfway across the continent just to see you for twenty-four hours?" He took a large gulp. "Smart move. Efficient. Gets the point across."
The words landed like stones in a still pond. Waste time. Won’t acknowledge. Taken. Joshua felt each one. He saw Vanja’s face, vivid and close – too close, leaning in at some forgotten moment, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something provocative, her breath warm, her scent – something floral and sharp – enveloping him. Annoying. Persistent. Relentless. A buzzing fly he’d expertly swatted away, frozen out. He’d built walls, disciplined silence, perfected indifference. It had been necessary. Controlled.
Now, the image of her with Calafiori – the easy intimacy, the deliberate, grand gesture – twisted something inside him. A raw, unfamiliar pang. Not jealousy, he told himself fiercely. Irritation. At the disruption. At Alex’s crass commentary. At the sheer… efficiency of Calafiori’s move, as Alex put it. It highlighted the futility of his own rigid stance. He’d ignored her, yes. Frozen her out. Maintained absolute control. But the memory of her lips near his ear, the defiant challenge in her eyes at Obsidian when she’d asked ‘Is that why you never do?’, the brief, startling crack in his own composure he was sure she’d seen… it wasn’t just annoyance. It was a current he’d ruthlessly dammed.
Fuck.
The thought was visceral, unbidden. A crack in the ice. He slammed it shut.
"Oh well," Alex sighed dramatically, leaning back again, oblivious or deliberately prodding. "Her loss, I guess. Or…" He grinned, looking directly at Joshua now, the challenge thinly veiled beneath the alcohol. "Maybe not. Like I said, good for her. Moving on. Healthy."
Joshua placed his beer bottle down on the wooden table with precise, quiet finality. The condensation ring it left was instantly absorbed by the dark grain. He didn’t look at Alex. Didn’t look at anyone. "Excuse me," he said, his voice low, utterly even. "Need some air." He pushed his chair back smoothly.
Lina’s hand slipped from his arm. "Everything okay?" she asked softly, concern touching her eyes.
"Fine," he assured her, offering a brief, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Just need a moment." He walked away from the table, away from the circle of warm light and murmured conversation, towards the deeper shadows at the edge of the lawn where the manicured grass met the dark line of pine trees.
The distant hum of Munich was a low thrum beneath the chirping of crickets. The scent of pine intensified, sharp and clean. He stopped, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring into the impenetrable darkness of the woods. The cool night air did nothing to clear the turmoil Alex’s words had stirred. Vanja’s absence was suddenly a palpable thing. Her defiance, her persistence, her sharp intelligence, the maddening way she pushed… replaced by the image of her wrapped in Calafiori’s arms, celebrating a devotion Joshua had met only with silence and ice. Alex’s voice echoed in his head: Why waste time?
The discipline held. His expression, had anyone been close enough to see in the gloom, remained impassive. A mask carved from granite. But inside, the carefully constructed dam strained against a sudden, unexpected pressure. The silence he’d imposed felt less like control, and more like a vast, echoing emptiness. He stood utterly still, a solitary figure silhouetted against the string lights, the cheerful sounds of the dinner party a world away, the scent of pine and distant city the only companions to the quiet, unsettling shift happening behind his unblinking blue eyes. The victory of his indifference tasted suddenly, profoundly, like ash.
The victory of his indifference tasted suddenly, profoundly, like ash. It coated his tongue, dry and bitter, as Joshua stood frozen at the garden’s dark edge. The cheerful clatter from Alex’s dinner table felt miles away, drowned by the insistent thrumming in his own skull.
Across the city, in the sleek penthouse Vanja favoured for its isolation, the air was thick with a different heat. Ricardo Calafiori filled the space effortlessly, his broad shoulders blocking the city lights as he backed her against the cool glass window. "You think too much, bella," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her skin, his Roman accent wrapping around the words like velvet. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, rough against her cheekbone.
Vanja met his intense dark eyes, a flicker of defiance sparking in her own. "And you think you know what I think?" she challenged, though her breath hitched as his hand slid down her neck.
Ricardo just smiled, a slow, confident curve of his lips that promised everything and demanded surrender. "I know you haven't stopped thinking about him since I got here." His other hand settled possessively on her hip, pulling her flush against him. The heat of his body, the sheer physicality of him, was undeniable. Potent. "But I also know," he dipped his head, his lips brushing the sensitive spot below her ear, making her shiver despite herself, "you invited me."
He was right. She had. After Alex’s call about the dinner, after imagining Joshua sitting there stoic with Lina, the deliberate provocation had felt necessary. Armor. Proof she wasn’t waiting. Ricardo represented escape – passionate, uncomplicated, and utterly devoted. He kissed her then, not gently, but with a consuming intensity that demanded she forget everything else. His mouth was hot, insistent, his hands moving with practiced certainty over the silk of her dress. The familiar scent of his cologne, spicy and warm, enveloped her. For a moment, the sharp ache of Joshua’s dismissal, the sting of Alex’s words ("why waste time?"), blurred. Ricardo’s touch was a drug, a temporary obliteration. She kissed him back, matching his fire, letting the heat between them build.
The Allianz Arena roared, a seething, electric beast. Bayern Munich pressed forward, the Champions League anthem a fading memory replaced by the frantic heartbeat of the match. Joshua Kimmich controlled the midfield with his usual ruthless efficiency, a metronome dictating the tempo. Every pass was precise, every interception calculated. He moved with the contained power of a coiled spring, his expression unreadable beneath the stadium lights. Focus was his fortress. He built it block by disciplined block.
Lina watched from the executive box, pride warming her smile. He was magnificent, utterly in command. Beside her, friends chattered, but her gaze rarely left the pitch, tracing his movements. He was the anchor, the calm center of the storm. A free kick was awarded just outside the box, central, dangerous. A hush fell over the Bayern faithful, anticipation crackling. This was Kimmich territory. Perfection demanded.
He placed the ball with meticulous care, his movements economical, ritualistic. He took five deliberate steps back, his eyes fixed on the wall, the goalkeeper, the angles. The world narrowed to the ball, the goal, the physics of flight and spin. Total silence descended. He inhaled deeply, the smell of damp grass and cold night air sharp in his nostrils. He began his run-up, smooth, powerful, every muscle coordinated.
Vanja’s laugh, bright and sharp as shattered crystal, cut through the expectant silence like a blade. It rang out from the entrance of the executive box, slightly breathless, utterly careless. All heads turned. She stood draped over Ricardo Calafiori’s arm, dazzling in a tight, shimmering dress that caught the floodlights. Her dark blonde hair, streaked red, cascaded over one shoulder. Ricardo looked devastatingly handsome, an arm possessively around her waist, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh again. The picture was vivid, intimate. Arrival as exclamation point.
Joshua’s boot connected with the ball at the precise moment her laughter hit his ears. The connection was pure, clean, technically flawless. The ball rocketed off his laces, a blur of white screaming towards the top corner. It had the perfect trajectory, the perfect power, destined for the netting just inside the far post. The keeper was rooted, helpless.
Then came the sound – not the net rippling, but a sickening, resonant CRACK that echoed around the stunned stadium. The ball slammed full force into the underside of the crossbar, vibrating the entire structure, before rebounding savagely back into the crowded penalty area. Perfection punished. The collective gasp of seventy thousand people sucked the air out of the arena. Disbelief hung thick.
Joshua stood frozen mid-follow-through, his gaze snapping involuntarily towards the source of the laughter. He saw her. Saw them. Vanja, radiant on Ricardo’s arm, looking every inch the woman who had definitively moved on. The fortress of his focus imploded. A single, violent tremor ran through his clenched fists. On the giant screen, his face, usually impassive, showed a flicker of something raw, something shattered, before the disciplined mask slammed back down. He turned away sharply, jaw rigid, ignoring the groans of the crowd, the concerned glances from teammates. His perfect strike, the symbol of his control, lay broken on the turf, and the echo of her laugh still rang in his skull.
The perfect strike, the symbol of his control, lay broken on the turf, and the echo of her laugh still rang in his skull. A raw, unfamiliar heat flared behind Joshua’s ribs, sharp and acidic. He turned sharply, ignoring the groans of the crowd, the concerned look Müller shot him, the ball now a chaotic pinball in the box. His boots crunched on the damp turf towards the center circle, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
Up in the executive box, the moment hung suspended. Vanja’s arrival – radiant, draped over Calafiori like a trophy – had been a lightning strike. The crack of the crossbar, echoing seconds later, felt like thunder. Lina’s smile had frozen mid-way. She watched Joshua, not the chaotic scramble in the box. Saw the infinitesimal hitch in his stride, the way his shoulders tensed under the Bayern red, the rigid set of his neck. Not frustration at the missed shot. Something else. Something colder, deeper. Something she’d never seen fracture his composure, not even during the most brutal tackles or controversial calls. Her gaze flickered to Vanja, now settling into a seat with Calafiori’s hand possessively on her thigh, then back to Joshua, a solitary, coiled figure on the vast green expanse. The connection snapped into place with brutal clarity: Obsidian, Alex’s dinner, the brittle silence… Vanja. This was about Vanja.
The half-time whistle blew, a shrill, welcome reprieve. Joshua didn’t wait. He stalked off the pitch, head down, brushing past teammates with a curt nod, disappearing down the tunnel without a backward glance. The usual focused intensity was replaced by a palpable, vibrating tension. The air around him crackled with contained storm.
Lina pushed back her chair, the scrape loud in the suddenly buzzing box. "Be right back," she murmured, almost to herself, already moving towards the exit. Vanja’s laughter rang out again, bright and sharp, discussing the crossbar with Calafiori. Lina didn’t look back. She navigated the plush corridors quickly, the muffled roar of the stadium fading, replaced by the sterile hum of floodlights and the faint smell of liniment. Security nodded her through; they knew her.
The tunnel was cooler, shadowed. She found him not in the changing room, but leaning heavily against the cold concrete wall just outside, head bowed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Water dripped from his hairline, tracing paths through the sweat and grime on his temple. His breaths were deep, measured, but she could see the tremor in the hand covering his eyes. The disciplined mask was cracked, revealing exhaustion and something raw beneath.
"Joshua?" Her voice was soft, tentative in the echoing space.
He flinched, a tiny, involuntary jerk. Slowly, he lowered his hand, turning his head. His eyes, usually so clear and focused, were shadowed, haunted. He looked at her, but Lina wasn’t sure he truly saw her for a moment. The stark vulnerability in his expression stole her breath. This wasn’t just a missed shot; this was a fracture.
"Hey," she said, stepping closer, her heels clicking softly. "That was… unlucky. The crossbar. Brutal." She kept her tone light, probing gently.
He made a noise, low in his throat. It wasn’t agreement. It was dismissal. Of the shot? Of her? He pushed off the wall, running a hand through his damp hair, refusing to meet her eyes properly. "Yeah. Unlucky." The words were flat, devoid of feeling. Distant. He started walking down the tunnel towards the changing rooms, his stride stiff, deliberate. Putting distance between himself and the pitch, the box, her.
Lina followed him, matching his pace. The sound of their footsteps echoed. "You seem… off," she ventured, a little firmer now. "More than just the miss. Is it…?" She hesitated, then plunged. "Is it her being here? With him?"
Joshua stopped dead. The sudden stillness in the tunnel was absolute. He didn’t turn around. His back was a rigid line under the soaked jersey. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. Seconds stretched, thick with unspoken words, the hum of the stadium a distant thrum. Lina held her breath, watching the tension coil tighter in his shoulders.