Chapter 13: Claiming the Sidelines
The antiseptic scent of the physio room was usually calming, a clean counterpoint to the sweat and effort of the training pitches beyond. Today, it did nothing for the roiling nausea clawing at Vanja’s throat. She stared at the spreadsheet glowing on her laptop, the numbers blurring into meaningless grey blobs. Bayern’s preseason tour logistics. Manchester City’s sponsorship proposal. Her master’s thesis outline on athlete mental health in the digital age. All demanding focus she simply didn’t have.
She swallowed hard, pressing a hand against her stomach. Just stress. Post-twin sleep deprivation. Too much coffee. But the relentless fatigue dragging at her bones, the sudden, intense aversion to the protein shake she’d forced down hours ago, the dizzy spells… they were all horribly, terrifyingly familiar. A cold dread, sharper than any Qatar desert night, began to seep into her veins.
The door clicked open. Aleksandar Pavlović limped in, grimacing, favouring his left ankle. "Hey, Vran. Doc free?" He leaned heavily on a treatment table.
Vanja snapped her laptop shut, the sound louder than intended in the quiet room. "Should be back soon. Take a seat." Her voice sounded thin, strained. She busied herself unnecessarily with sterilizing a set of electrodes, avoiding his gaze.
Aleks frowned, dropping onto the padded bench with a groan. "You look like shit. Worse than after Qatar. Twins still running you ragged?" He gestured vaguely towards the outside world.
"Something like that," she muttered, the nausea surging again. She took a deep breath, the sterile air doing nothing. "Just… tired."
Aleks gave her a long, assessing look, the easy camaraderie replaced by quiet concern. "Seriously, Vanja. You're pale. More than usual." He shifted, wincing. "Not like you. You're the machine who juggled finals and Champions League PR disasters without blinking."
His words were a gut punch. He was right. This wasn't just new-mom exhaustion. This was the bone-deep weariness, the specific, unwelcome queasiness she’d known only once before. No. Impossible. They were careful. Mostly. After the twins… God, the twins were only six months old.
"Need some air," she blurted, pushing past him towards the door before he could respond. She practically ran down the sterile corridor, past startled staff, bursting out into the grey Munich morning. The cool air hit her face, but it wasn't enough. She spotted the small pharmacy across the street from the training complex entrance. A beacon. Or a gallows.
Ten agonizing minutes later, clutching a small paper bag like it contained radioactive material, Vanja locked herself in the immaculate, tiled women's restroom near the admin offices. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the pregnancy test box. Ridiculous. Paranoid. Just because your period’s late… because you feel like death warmed over… because Thomas Müller exists…
She followed the instructions with robotic precision, her heart hammering against her ribs. Placed the stick on the edge of the sink. Turned away. Counted the sixty seconds on her vibrating phone timer, each tick echoing in the silent room.
She couldn’t look. Couldn’t. Leaned her forehead against the cool tile wall, eyes squeezed shut. The phantom scent of grass and sweat and Thomas enveloped her, transporting her back to the hushed aftermath of his birthday party three months ago. The intensity of him in the sudden quiet after their friends left. The way he’d looked at her across the mess of wrapping paper. The raw, possessive need in his touch as he’d closed the distance. "Now that the audience is gone… how about my real present?" They hadn't been reckless. But Thomas Müller, it seemed, operated on a different biological frequency.
Beep.
Her eyes snapped open. Slowly, dread warring with a sickening sense of inevitability, she turned.
Two lines.
Dark. Unmistakable.
A choked sound escaped her, half-sob, half-gasp. She stared, frozen. Six months. Her body barely felt like her own again. Leo and Leni needed her constantly. Her career demanded focus. Thomas was gearing up for a grueling season. Twins. The memory of their frantic NICU vigil slammed into her. The terror, the fragility. Not again. Please, not again. Not so soon.
Panic, raw and primal, surged. It obliterated thought, replacing it with a white-hot fury. Blindly, she snatched the test, shoved it into her pocket, and wrenched open the restroom door. She stormed back through the complex corridors, oblivious to curious glances, a woman possessed. The sterile calm of the physio room felt suffocating now. She needed space. Air. To scream.
She slammed through the double doors leading out to Pitch 1. The sharp scent of freshly cut grass hit her, mingling with the distant shouts of players. Training was winding down. Players were jogging laps, stretching, clustered in small groups. Her eyes scanned the field, landing instantly on the familiar figure in the red training bib. Thomas Müller, dribbling lazily around cones, laughing at something Kimmich shouted. Completely at ease. Oblivious.
The sight of him, healthy, powerful, carefree, while her world tilted violently on its axis, ignited the fury into an inferno. All the exhaustion, the fear, the sheer overwhelming impossibility of it erupted.
"THOMAS MÜLLER!"
Her voice, amplified by rage and the acoustics of the open pitch, cut through the field noise like a scythe. Every player froze mid-motion. Heads snapped towards her. Thomas stopped dribbling, the ball rolling away, his head turning in surprise.
Vanja strode towards him, her tall frame rigid with fury, her golden eyes blazing. She didn't stop until she was right in front of him on the touchline, the manicured grass at her feet.
"You!" she hissed, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. She thrust her hand into her pocket and yanked out the plastic stick, shoving it towards his face. "Look! Just LOOK at it!"
Thomas blinked, momentarily confused, then his gaze focused on the test in her shaking hand. His eyes widened. Comprehension dawned, swift and unmistakable. Shock flickered across his face, replaced instantly by something else. Something warm. Triumphant. Utterly, infuriatingly smug. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Pure, unadulterated joy radiated from him.
Vanja saw it. Saw the arrogance, the sheer masculine satisfaction in that grin. It tipped her over the edge.
"FUCK YOU, THOMAS MÜLLER!" she screamed, the words raw, echoing across the suddenly silent pitch. "YOU AND YOUR FUCKING SUPER SPERM!"
She whipped the pregnancy test away from his face, her chest heaving. Tears of rage, frustration, and sheer hormonal overwhelm blurred her vision. "Do you have ANY idea? ANY? The twins are SIX MONTHS OLD! SIX! My body hasn't recovered! I haven't slept through a night since QATAR! My thesis is drowning! And now this?"
Thomas didn't flinch. He just kept grinning, his eyes locked on hers, shining with an emotion that only infuriated her more. He took a step closer, his voice low, meant only for her, but carrying perfectly in the stunned silence. "Vanja… sweetheart…"
"DON'T YOU 'SWEETHEART' ME, YOU SMUG, ARROGANT BASTARD!" She was vaguely aware of the entire Bayern first team, coaches, and staff frozen in place, staring. Kimmich's mouth hung open. Leroy Sané looked like he was trying to disappear into the grass. Manuel Neuer leaned against a goalpost, arms crossed, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
Kimmich finally found his voice, his tone bewildered. "Uh… Thomas? Vanja? What… what happened?"
Neuer’s deep, dry voice cut through the tension, laced with unmistakable amusement. "What happened, Joshua?" He pushed off the goalpost, his smirk widening into a full grin as he looked between the furious Vanja and the beaming Thomas. "Looks like Müller impregnated Vanja again."
A collective intake of breath. A few stifled coughs. Someone whistled low.
Thomas finally tore his gaze from Vanja’s furious face to glance at Neuer, his own grin turning positively wolfish. He looked back at Vanja, his expression shifting from smug triumph to something deeper, softer, but no less intense. He reached out slowly, deliberately, ignoring her flinch, and gently pried the pregnancy test from her tightly clenched fist. He looked down at the two bold lines, then back up at her, his eyes holding hers with a fierce tenderness that momentarily stole her breath.
"Oh," he breathed, the word thick with emotion. His thumb brushed over the plastic casing, a gesture almost reverent. The grin softened, tempered by awe. "Vanja…"
All the fight suddenly drained out of her. The rage evaporated, leaving behind a trembling, bone-deep exhaustion and a terrifying wave of vulnerability. The enormity of it crashed over her – two lines, two tiny lives already demanding space, two infants still needing her every moment. The fear, the uncertainty, the sheer logistical nightmare. She swayed slightly on her feet.
Thomas saw it instantly. The grin vanished, replaced by pure concern. He dropped the test into his own pocket and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her tightly, anchoring her trembling body against him. He smelled of sweat, grass, and that uniquely Thomas scent that usually calmed her, but today felt like a reproach. She didn't hug him back. She stood rigid within the circle of his arms, her face buried against the damp fabric of his training top, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
He held her, murmuring low words against her hair – "Shh, I've got you," "It's okay," "We've got this" – promises that felt both desperately needed and utterly impossible. Over her head, he locked eyes with Neuer, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Understanding passed between them.
Vanja finally pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes wide with a fear that mirrored his own in Qatar, but magnified by the chaos already surrounding them. The fury was gone, replaced by a hollow terror.
"Thomas," her voice was a broken whisper, barely audible over the distant traffic hum and the suddenly resumed, hushed conversations of the players attempting to pretend they weren't witnessing the epicentre of a seismic shift. "What… what are we going to do?"
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away tears, his own eyes suspiciously bright. He didn't offer platitudes. Didn't crack a joke. His gaze held hers, steady, grounded, accepting the terrifying reality head-on. He leaned his forehead against hers, the gesture intimate even amidst the public arena.
"We," he murmured, the word a vow against her skin, "are going to figure it out. Together." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then pulled back slightly, his hand drifting instinctively, protectively, to rest low on her stomach. The gesture, so familiar yet charged with terrifying new meaning, made her breath catch. His lips curved into a small, shaky, but utterly sincere smile. "Looks like we’re building a starting eleven after all."
The collective snort of stifled laughter from the pitch was almost as jarring as the scent of wet grass and sweat. Vanja sagged against Thomas, the initial fury replaced by bone-aching fatigue and the dawning horror of reality. "It's not funny," she mumbled into his damp shirt, her voice thick with unshed tears and sheer disbelief.
"Never said it was," Thomas murmured, his arms tightening around her, his hand still resting protectively on her still-flat stomach. The pitch slowly resumed its normal hum – hesitant cleats on grass, low murmurs, someone discreetly retrieving the abandoned ball. "Come on," he said softly, steering her away from the gawking players and back towards the sterile corridors. "Let's get you home." Neuer gave him a silent thumbs-up as they passed, his smirk now replaced by genuine warmth.
The next months were a blur of exhaustion and adaptation. Vanja navigated morning sickness while coordinating Leo and Leni’s chaotic feeding schedules, her laptop perpetually open on breastfeeding research papers. Thomas juggled relentless training and matches with midnight diaper changes, his eyes often shadowed but determined. His mother, Helga, became a fixture, her calm pragmatism a lifeline. "Two under one and another on the way? Mein Gott, Thomas," she’d sighed, rolling up her sleeves. "Pass me that baby." She moved in, her presence turning potential chaos into manageable, if noisy, routine.
Vanja wrote her PhD dissertation in stolen hours – during naps, late at night, dictating sections into her phone while pushing a double stroller through the Englischer Garten. The final submission felt like crossing a marathon finish line while carrying sacks of bricks. Her defense, conducted via video call with a sleeping Max strapped to her chest, was a triumph of academic rigor and maternal multitasking. Meanwhile, Thomas led Bayern through a grueling season. The roar of the Allianz Arena reached Vanja even in their apartment when he lifted the Bundesliga shield, then echoed even louder weeks later in Istanbul as he hoisted the Champions League trophy, his triumphant scream drowned by the crowd.
Back in Munich, the celebrations spilled into their home, teammates spilling beer and laughter onto the expensive rug. The twins, now sturdy three-year-olds, chased a football around the legs of giants, Leo determinedly trying to kick it through Kimmich. Max, a sturdy, happy toddler with his father’s grin and his mother’s green-gold eyes, banged a wooden spoon on a pot, adding to the cacophony. Later, when the chaos finally subsided and the last guest stumbled out, Thomas pulled Vanja into the quiet kitchen. He spun her gently, the glint of his winner's medal catching the low light, his eyes dark with fatigue and triumph and desire. "Told you we'd figure it out," he grinned, leaning in.
His lips met hers, tasting of beer and victory. Vanja kissed him back, the warmth of the moment washing over her, the sheer improbable reality of their life – the degrees, the trophies, the kids finally asleep down the hall. Then, as his hands slid lower, possessively familiar, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes locking onto his with sudden, sharp clarity amidst the lingering euphoria. She pressed a firm hand against his chest, stopping his advance. "No," she stated, her voice low but carrying absolute finality. Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards the hallway where their children slept, then back to him, a dangerous spark in her green-gold eyes. "Use a fucking condom, Müller, or help you God."
He stared at her for a breathless second, the grin slowly spreading across his face again, wider than when he’d lifted the trophy – pure, unrepentant amusement and affection. His hands came up to frame her face, calloused thumbs brushing her cheekbones. He didn't argue, didn't deflect. He just leaned in again, his lips brushing hers, a low chuckle vibrating against her mouth. "Understood, Professor."
The scent of disinfectant in the ultrasound suite was a sharp, unwelcome memory. Vanja lay back, the crinkly paper sheet rustling beneath her, the cold gel on her belly an unwelcome shock. Thomas hovered, a solid, slightly nervous presence beside the examination table, his hand finding hers. "Relax," he murmured, squeezing her fingers. His thumb rubbed circles on her knuckles, a gesture meant to soothe, but Vanja felt only the familiar churn of dread and disbelief.
The sonographer moved the wand, the grainy image swirling on the screen. Silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic whoosh-whoosh of Vanja’s own heartbeat amplified through the machine. Her gaze was fixed on the shifting grey shapes, searching for the singular sac she both hoped for and feared would condemn her to sleepless nights. Thomas leaned closer, his breath warm on her temple. "See anything?"
"Just establishing orientation," the sonographer said calmly, her eyes intent on the screen. She shifted the probe slightly, angling it lower. "There's the amniotic sac..." A pause. Another slight adjustment. The wand pressed deeper. Vanja held her breath. The sonographer’s cursor flashed, placing a crosshair. Then she moved the probe again, just a fraction. Another crosshair appeared. Separate. Distinct.
Vanja’s stomach dropped. "No," she whispered, the word scraping her throat raw. "No, no, no."
Thomas squeezed her hand harder. "What? What is it?"
The sonographer pointed with the cursor tip. "See this? That's one gestational sac. And this…" She traced the screen. "That's another. Congratulations. You're having twins again."
The room tilted. The whooshing sound became a roar in Vanja’s ears. Twins. Again. Images flashed: two tiny incubators, endless feeds, the bone-deep exhaustion that felt like drowning. Six months. Her body hadn’t even begun to recover. Leo and Leni were barely toddlers. Max was a whirlwind. Five children. Five. She was twenty-eight. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.
The cold air of the underground car park hit Vanja like a physical blow as they walked to the car, the scan printout clutched like an indictment in her hand. Thomas tried to take her arm. She jerked away. "Don't." Her voice was brittle ice. She unlocked the sleek black SUV they’d upgraded to after Max, the beep echoing harshly in the concrete cavern. Thomas slid into the passenger seat, uncharacteristically silent, watching her.
Vanja gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring straight ahead at the grey concrete wall. The silence inside the car was suffocating, thick with the echo of the sonographer’s words and the memory of her own frantic calculations. Five kids. Five. The fury, simmering since the test, boiled over, scalding and unstoppable. She whirled towards Thomas, the scan crumpling slightly in her fist. "UGH! That night! After you won the fucking Bundes! The champagne! The stupid grin!" Her voice climbed, sharp and accusing. "You didn't use a condom! Admit it!"
Thomas flinched, then met her blazing gaze. His own expression was a mix of contrition and something else… a flicker of that familiar, infuriating pride. "I did," he insisted, his voice low but firm. "The… the first three times." A faint, sheepish blush touched his cheeks beneath the stadium lights tan line.
"FUCK YOU, MÜLLER!" Vanja exploded, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. The horn blared, a harsh, discordant shriek that bounced off the concrete pillars. She saw it then, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth despite his attempt at seriousness. The sheer, unmitigated gall. "You smug, arrogant…" she sputtered, the words failing her. But then, against every screaming nerve in her body, the corners of her own lips twitched. It was insane. It was impossible. It was Thomas bloody Müller. A choked, humorless sound escaped her, halfway between a sob and a laugh. "God, you already fucking did."
Thomas reached out slowly, tentatively covering her white-knuckled hand on the wheel. His touch was warm, grounding. His thumb stroked her skin. "I wonder," Vanja murmured, the fight momentarily draining out of her, replaced by a wave of dizzying exhaustion and surreal acceptance. She looked down at her stomach, hidden by her oversized sweater. "I wonder if it's twins again." The statement hung in the air, heavy with the terrifying probability.
Thomas’s grin broke through fully then, wide and unrepentant, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Pure, unadulterated Müller. He squeezed her hand, his voice dropping to a low rumble of absolute certainty. "It is." He paused, letting the confirmation sink in, his gaze holding hers with unwavering intensity. "A girl. And a boy."
Vanja stared at him. The scan crumpled completely in her grip. The concrete walls seemed to press closer. "Thomas," her voice was a thin thread of sound, stripped bare. "I'm twenty-eight." She shook her head slowly, the sheer numerical insanity washing over her. "How… how do I have five kids?" The question wasn't rhetorical. It was a plea for some kind of cosmic explanation.
He just grinned, that same impossible, life-affirming, utterly infuriating grin. He leaned across the console, ignoring the gearstick digging into his ribs. His free hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her gently towards him. "Practice?" he whispered, his breath warm against her lips a heartbeat before they met hers in a kiss that tasted of apology, defiance, and a terrifying, exhilarating promise of chaos yet to come.