Chapter 1: The Unforgotten Spark
The Bayer Leverkusen training complex hummed. Not with noise, exactly, but with an intense, focused energy radiating from the pristine pitches and state-of-the-art buildings. The scent of freshly cut grass, sharp and clean, mingled with the distant, rhythmic thud of boots striking balls and the occasional shouted command. Vanja Vran inhaled deeply, letting the familiar buzz settle her nerves. Professional. Detached. That was the armor she needed today.
She pushed through the glass doors of the main facility building, the cool, conditioned air a shock after the late morning sun. Her heels clicked a precise, confident rhythm on the polished concrete floor. Heads turned. They always did. Tall, with the kind of hourglass figure sculpted by genetics and discipline, she cut an immediate figure in her slate-gray suit. The jacket skimmed her waist, the trousers flowing perfectly over long legs. Her dark blonde hair, thick and glossy, was pulled back in a severe knot that only accentuated her high cheekbones and the startling clarity of her eyes – dark green flecked with gold, like moss on sunlit stone.
Her gaze swept the reception area, landed on a sign pointing towards the players' gym, and she strode purposefully down the corridor. Through a large window overlooking one of the indoor training areas, movement caught her eye.
Granit Xhaka. Alone. He was finishing a brutal-looking set on the leg press machine, his powerful thighs straining, every muscle in his torso and arms corded and defined. Sweat poured down his neck, plastering dark hair to his temples, glistening on the deep tan of his skin. He wore only black training shorts, his athleticism on raw display. Vanja stopped walking. Her breath hitched, just for a second. Time seemed to stutter.
This wasn't the lanky, intense teenager she’d crushed on years ago in Basel. This was a man. A captain. Power and intensity rolled off him in waves, even exhausted. He slammed the weights back onto the rack with a final, echoing clang and slumped forward, chest heaving. He grabbed a towel, wiped his face roughly, then lifted his head as he stood, stretching his spine.
His dark eyes, sharp and assessing even through fatigue, scanned the room and locked directly onto hers through the glass. The air between them crackled, charged with a sudden, unexpected voltage. Vanja felt it like a physical touch, a jolt straight to her core. She held his gaze, refusing to flinch, her own expression coolly professional.
He doesn’t know you, she reminded herself fiercely. He never really saw you then, and he definitely doesn’t see you now.
His gaze didn't flicker away. It swept deliberately down her body – the tailored suit, the impossible curve at her waist, the long line of her legs – then back up, lingering for a heartbeat on the soft, plump curve of her lips before meeting her eyes again. A flicker of something unreadable – curiosity? Appreciation? – crossed his features, quickly replaced by his usual brooding intensity. No spark of recognition. Nothing.
Vanja’s stomach clenched, an old, familiar hurt mixing with a potent surge of irritation. She pushed the door to the gym open, the sound loud in the sudden quiet.
Xhaka watched her approach, toweling the sweat from his hair. His expression was guarded, slightly wary. He clearly wasn’t expecting her. Vanja stopped a respectful distance away, the scent of his exertion – salt, clean sweat, effort – hitting her senses.
“Can I help you, fraulein?” His German was perfect, deep and resonant, carrying the faintest trace of something Balkan beneath the Swiss inflection. He didn’t smile.
Vanja met his eyes squarely, her own German flawless, carrying the light, melodic lilt of Swiss German honed during her Basel years. “Granit Xhaka?” Her tone was neutral, business-like.
“That’s me.” He draped the towel around his neck, crossing powerful arms over his chest. The stance was unconsciously intimidating, but Vanja stood her ground.
“Vanja Vran. From PointGuard PR.” She didn't offer a hand. “I’ve been assigned as your primary liaison for the upcoming Champions League media push. And, as captain, you’re a key focus.” She kept her delivery crisp, efficient.
Xhaka’s dark brows drew together. He looked her up and down again, this time with assessing skepticism. “PointGuard sent you?” He gave a short, derisive huff. “You look a little young to be handling something like this.”
The dismissiveness stung, sharp and familiar. Memories flooded back – him walking past her in Basel’s youth training ground corridors, barely registering the skinny girl with the unnaturally bright red hair and oversized hoodies who blushed whenever he was near. She’d been all awkward angles and desperate hope back then, a world away from the woman standing before him now. The heat of that old, unrequited crush flared, instantly burned away by the cold splash of his current arrogance.
Vanja tilted her head, a cool, challenging light entering her eyes. Her lips curved into a slight, sarcastic smile. “Too young?” She let the words hang for a beat. “Interesting. And how old were you when they gave you the armband? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Weren’t you a little young to be captain?” Her tone remained perfectly polite, almost sweet, but the barb was unmistakable.
Xhaka’s eyes narrowed. The skepticism hardened into something sharper. He clearly wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not by someone he’d instantly dismissed. He took a step closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. “Knowing how to kick a ball is different from navigating international press scrums,” he said, his voice low. “Experience matters. Pressure matters.”
“Absolutely,” Vanja agreed smoothly, refusing to step back. “Which is why PointGuard assigns specialists. My background is in sociology, anthropology, and public relations. I understand people. I understand pressure. And I understand how to craft a narrative that protects our clients while achieving strategic goals.” She emphasized the ‘our’. “Clubs like Bayern Munich and Manchester City seem to find my age irrelevant to my competence.”
His jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t like the mention of rival clubs. Or her calm confidence. His gaze flickered over her face again, a faint crease appearing between his brows. Was there something…? He shook his head minutely, dismissing the thought. “Vran…” he murmured, testing the name. It clearly didn’t ring any bells. “Serbian?”
“Originally,” Vanja confirmed, her expression giving nothing away. She wouldn't make it easy for him. Let him wrestle with the faint echo of familiarity.
Before he could probe further, the gym door swung open again. Xabi Alonso, the manager, walked in, his sharp eyes taking in the scene – the formidable captain glistening with sweat, radiating intensity, and the impeccably dressed, unflinching young woman confronting him.
“Ah, Vanja!” Alonso greeted her warmly in Spanish-accented English, breaking the charged silence. He shook her hand firmly. “Glad you made it. Granit, you’ve met our new PR point person?”
Xhaka’s gaze didn’t leave Vanja’s face. She saw the calculation in his eyes, the reassessment warring with lingering irritation. “We were just… introducing ourselves, coach,” he finally said, his voice carefully neutral now.
“Excellent,” Alonso said, clapping Xhaka on the shoulder. “Vanja, let’s get you settled. Granit, shower. Media briefing in thirty.”
Alonso began guiding Vanja towards the offices, talking about schedules and press packs. Vanja walked beside him, projecting calm professionalism. But as she passed Xhaka, she felt the heat of his stare like a brand on her back.
She didn’t look back. Not until she reached the corridor. Then, a quick glance over her shoulder through the gym window. Xhaka hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where she’d left him, towel still draped around his neck, watching her retreating figure with a dark, unreadable intensity that sent an entirely different kind of shiver down her spine. It wasn’t the crush this time. It was the sharp, unsettling prickle of a challenge accepted. And a sharp, old wound, freshly prodded, that refused to be ignored.
The cool tile of the shower cubicle felt grounding against Granit’s forehead. He braced his hands on the wall, letting the near-scalding water sluice away the gym sweat and… something else. That woman. Vanja Vran. The name rattled around his skull, sharp and unfamiliar, yet the feel of her… the way she’d looked right through his dismissal, the defiant arch of her eyebrow, the impossible curve of her waist under that sharp suit. Professionalism had been his shield, but it hadn't stopped the visceral punch of her presence.
She looks familiar. Sounds familiar.
He scrubbed shampoo into his hair roughly. Basel. It had to be Basel. The lilt in her Swiss German was pure Baselstadt, the kind ingrained after years, not learned. But a face like that? He’d remember. Wouldn’t he?
The water pounded down. He grabbed his towel, wrapping it around his hips as he stepped out, steam swirling. Grabbing his phone from the locker, he scrolled, thumb hovering over his sister’s contact. Agnessa knew everyone. Knew everything.
He hit call, pacing the tiled floor, the damp air clinging. It rang twice.
“Granit? Everything okay? Training done?” Agnessa’s voice, warm with concern, filled the tiny, echoing space.
“Yeah, fine. Just… weird question.” He kept his voice low, conscious of the empty locker room’s acoustics. “Do you remember anyone named Vanja from Basel? Vanja Vran? Tall, Serbian… she said she was originally from Serbia.”
Silence for a beat. Then, a slow, knowing chuckle. “Vanja Vran? Tall, dyed red hair? Like, really red? Always wore black? Looked like a punk rock goddess if you were into that kinda thing? How could you not remember her, Gran? She was a year or two below you at the academy grounds.”
His breath hitched. The image slammed into him, vivid and unexpected: a girl with a shock of bright, almost violent red hair, perpetually hidden beneath hoodies, haunting the periphery of the training pitches. Intense dark green eyes that had sometimes flickered towards him before darting away. A sharp-featured face and yet soft, pale against the unnatural hair. she was funny, had lots of friends and well, was Serbian. And yeah… underneath the defiance and the baggy clothes… hot. A different kind of hot then, raw and untamed. “The redhead,” he muttered, the memory crystallizing. “Serbian redhead. Hot, yes…”
Agnessa’s voice cut in, tinged with amusement and a hint of warning. “…But very forbidden. Especially to you. Dad would’ve skinned you alive if you’d even looked at a Serbian girl back then, let alone one with hair like a warning sign. The politics, Granit. It wasn’t a game.” Her tone sobered. “Why? Did you see her?”
He leaned back against the cold lockers, the metal biting into his shoulder. “She’s my new PR handler. From PointGuard. Assigned to me specifically for the Champions League push.”
Agnessa whistled softly. “No way. That’s… wow. And? Does she remember you? She had the biggest crush on you, you know. Everyone knew. Except you, apparently, too busy being the future captain.”
The revelation landed like a physical blow. She had a crush on him. And he’d been oblivious, wrapped up in his own ambition and the unspoken family rules. Now she was here. Polished. Powerful. Stunning in a way that made the memory of the punk girl seem like a prelude. “She remembers,” he said flatly. “Made sure I knew she remembered Basel. Didn’t appreciate me questioning her age or experience.”
Agnessa laughed again. “Oh, she’d hate that. Good for her. So, what are you gonna do? She’s even hotter now, I bet?”
“Shut up, brat,” Granit grumbled, but there was no heat in it. A reluctant smile touched his lips despite himself. “And yeah. She is. Objectively.” He sighed, the professional reality crashing back. “My career kinda depends on playing nice with her. She handles Bayern, City… she’s the real deal.”
“So play nice, idiot,” Agnessa advised, pragmatic as ever. “Be professional. Cold if you have to, but polite. Don’t be an asshole. You owe her that much for teenage obliviousness, at least.”
“I know, I know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sure, I could ask Alonso for someone else, but then he’d ask why… and I don’t want to go there. Opening that box…” The old tensions, the reasons she’d been ‘forbidden’, felt suddenly heavy, even years and miles away. “Yeah. Professional. Cold. Polite enough. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Agnessa singsonged. “Don’t screw it up. Or do. Could be fun.” She hung up before he could retort.
Granit dressed quickly, the familiar routine of pulling on training gear feeling strangely grounding. Professional. Cold. Polite enough. He could do that. He had to do that. He shoved his phone in his pocket and pushed open the locker room door, heading towards the players' cafeteria for the pre-briefing meal.
The corridor was quiet, the distant thud of a ball and shouted instructions from a far pitch filtering through. As he neared the main office corridor, a sound stopped him: laughter. Rich, warm, and utterly captivating. Vanja’s laughter.
He paused, half-hidden by the angle of the wall. She stood near the office door with Coach Alonso. Xabi was saying something, gesturing emphatically, a rare, open smile on his face. Vanja was laughing, her head tilted back slightly, the severe knot in her hair doing nothing to diminish the brightness in those moss-and-gold eyes. The sound was light, genuine, and transformed her entirely from the cool professional or the remembered punk. It was… disarming.
Granit couldn’t blame him. Anyone would enjoy making her laugh like that.
Alonso leaned in slightly, murmuring something else. Vanja wiped a stray tear of laughter from the corner of her eye, her smile lingering. Then, switching seamlessly to fluent Spanish, her tone still warm but laced with playful warning, she said, “You should not repeat that tomorrow at the press conference, Coach. Not unless you want Bild to have a field day.”
Alonso chuckled, a low rumble. He gave her an easy, conspiratorial wink. “My secret weapon stays secret, Vanja. See you at the briefing.” He turned and strode towards the cafeteria, nodding curtly at Granit as he passed, already shifting back into manager mode.
Granit stayed rooted for a second longer, watching Vanja. The laughter had faded, replaced by a focused intensity as she turned towards the office door, pulling it open. She didn’t glance his way, her expression smoothing back into the serene, unreadable professionalism she’d worn earlier. She disappeared into the main office, the door clicking shut softly behind her, leaving Granit alone in the corridor with the echo of her laughter and the unsettling weight of remembered red hair and the undeniable, inconvenient fact that his carefully planned cold professionalism already felt like a flimsy shield against… whatever this was.
The echo of Vanja’s laughter clung to Granit like sweat as he stalked down the corridor towards the players’ cafeteria. The scent of grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and strong coffee grew stronger, mingling with the low rumble of male voices and clattering cutlery. He pushed through the double doors, the noise swelling instantly. The large, airy room buzzed with the relaxed energy of athletes refueling. Long tables were crowded, plates piled high, water bottles everywhere. Teammates leaned across benches, arguing over Bundesliga results or ribbing each other about training mishaps.At the center of it all, holding court at a corner table, sat Granit. He threw his head back, laughing at something Florian Wirtz said, slapping the table with a broad palm.The sound was deep, infectious. Players nearby grinned, drawn into his orbit.King of the pitch. Just like he’d been king of the campus back in Basel.Effortless. Beloved.
Vanja paused in the doorway beside Xabi Alonso, her stomach performing a sudden, unpleasant lurch. Seeing him like this – relaxed, magnetic, surrounded by admirers – was a physical blow. It hammered home the painful distance between the invisible girl she’d been and the untouchable star he’d always been. And he hadn’t recognized her.Not a flicker. The cool professionalism she’d armored herself with in the gym felt brittle now, threatened by a resurgence of that old, raw ache. She took a steadying breath, the smell of food suddenly overwhelming. Xabi, sensing her hesitation, gave her a reassuring nod.He was kind, a good boss, genuinely invested in his players and staff. She liked him instantly.Liked the focused energy she’d sensed in the team earlier too. But crashing their sacred meal time?Maybe not her brightest idea.
"Alright, listen up!"Xabi’s sharp, accented command cut through the chatter. Conversations died down, heads swiveling towards the entrance. Dozens of pairs of eyes, curious and assessing, landed on Vanja. She felt the weight of their collective gaze, the sudden silence pressing in. Granit’s laughter cut off mid-boom, his dark eyes snapping to her, the easy amusement replaced by watchful intensity.He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed.
"Team," Xabi continued, his voice carrying easily."This is Vanja Vran. She’s joining us from PointGuard PR. She’ll be spearheading our media strategy, particularly Granit’s, heading into the Champions League knockout stages. Vanja comes highly recommended, handles Bayern Munich and Manchester City, among others.You’re in excellent hands."A murmur rippled through the room. Respectful nods.A few players exchanged glances – recognition. Her reputation preceded her.She was damn good at her job, and the football world knew it.
Patrick Schick, seated near Granit, leaned forward, a playful glint in his eye. "You handle Bayern?"he called out, his Czech accent thick."And us too?" He gestured vaguely around the table, encompassing Leverkusen."Bit of a conflict, no?"
Vanja met his challenge with a calm smile, stepping further into the room. The spotlight was uncomfortable, but she’d navigated bigger egos. "Oh, Mister Schick," she replied, her tone light but carrying clearly. "You make it seem as if I’ve been sleeping with the enemy?" She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.Schick grinned, unabashed."Well, have you?"
A beat of silence hung. Then Vanja laughed, a bright, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even her. It softened the sharp lines of her suit, warmed the cool green of her eyes."No," she stated firmly, holding Schick’s gaze. "At least…" she paused for dramatic effect, a tiny, conspiratorial smile playing on her lips, "...not from Bayern."She gave him a deliberate, unmistakable wink.The effect was electric. A collective intake of breath. Then, a wave of raucous laughter erupted, rolling through the cafeteria. Players grinned, nudged each other, pointed at a momentarily speechless Schick who chuckled and shook his head, clearly enjoying the riposte. The tension dissolved into good-natured amusement.
Everywhere, except at Granit’s table.Granit didn’t move.Didn’t smile. His expression remained utterly still, carved from stone. He watched Vanja, standing there amidst the laughter, the center of attention now.Was she flirting?Being funny?It felt… off. Calculated.Wrong.A sharp, unfamiliar pang of irritation pricked him. He didn’t like the easy way she commanded the room. Didn’t like Schick’s appreciative grin.Didn’t like the way the others were looking at her – admiring, amused, intrigued. He especially didn’t like that wink. It felt like a performance, and he was the only one not applauding. The carefully constructed shield of cold professionalism he’d promised himself felt like cheap plastic cracking under a sudden, unexpected heat.