Chapter 2: The Confrontation
The laughter died down to a warm hum. Vanja felt the lingering energy of the room, the players now regarding her with open curiosity rather than wary assessment. Good. Rapport established. But her skin still prickled under the weight of one specific stare. Granit. He hadn't joined the laughter. He sat impossibly still at his corner table, his dark eyes fixed on her like twin gun muzzles. The easy charisma he’d exhibited moments before had vanished, replaced by that familiar, intimidating brood.
She noticed him. Always did. Even in a room vibrating with elite athletes, he pulled her focus like a magnet. Back in Basel, it had been a desperate, fluttering thing, a teenage crush fueled by stolen glances at his effortless confidence on the pitch. He’d been everything she wanted – strong, talented, radiating a quiet intensity – and everything utterly, painfully inaccessible. The invisible Serbian girl with the stupidly bright red hair? She hadn't even registered on his horizon. And now? Now, despite the tailored suit and the sharp reputation, that old pull was still there, a treacherous undercurrent beneath the professional ice. He doesn’t want you, she reminded herself sharply, the memory of his dismissive "You look a little young" echoing in her ears. Never did. Move on.
Steeling herself, she turned her attention to the young prodigy seated nearby. Florian Wirtz. Nineteen, maybe twenty, with an open, intelligent face and eyes that held a spark of mischief. He’d laughed the loudest at her comeback to Schick. He represented Leverkusen’s exciting future. And futures, in football, were notoriously fluid.
"Florian," Vanja said, her voice warm but professional, cutting through the residual chuckles. She took a step closer to his table, deliberately angling her body away from Granit’s burning gaze. "Impressive work against Frankfurt last week. That pass for the second goal? Surgical." She flashed him a genuine, appreciative smile.
Wirtz beamed, a flush creeping up his neck. "Ah, thanks, Frau Vran! Just saw the run." He shrugged, trying for modesty, but the pride was evident. Good. Confidence was key.
"Vision like that is rare," Vanja continued smoothly, leaning a hand lightly on the back of an empty chair. She kept her tone casual, conversational. "Creates options. Opens doors." She paused, letting the implication hang in the air for a fraction of a second. Then, her gaze meeting his directly, she asked the question that was absolutely part of her remit, the question agents, scouts, and rival clubs whispered constantly: "Speaking of options… any thoughts forming yet about where you see yourself playing in, say, two years? Leverkusen building something special, sure. But ambition has its own gravity, no?"
The air around their little corner seemed to still. Wirtz’s smile faltered slightly, replaced by surprise and a flicker of calculation. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deflect, perhaps to answer honestly. Before he could, a shadow fell over them.
Granit stood directly behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint, clean scent of his shower gel beneath the lingering cafeteria aromas. His presence was immense, blocking the light. He didn’t look at Wirtz. His eyes, dark and furious, were locked onto Vanja.
"Zajebi ovo," he growled, the Serbian curse low, guttural, and laced with venom. "Enough."
Vanja didn’t jump, but her spine stiffened. She slowly turned to face him, her professional mask snapping firmly back into place, though her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Excuse me?" Her voice was cool, level, cutting through his aggression.
Granit’s jaw clenched. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper meant only for her, though Wirtz was frozen, wide-eyed, witnessing the storm. "You. Questioning my players about leaving? Minutes after you waltz in here?" He jabbed a finger towards the door. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Vanja met his glare head-on, refusing to flinch. The old hurt – the invisibility, the dismissal – flared into white-hot anger. This was her domain now. "I know exactly who I am, Herr Xhaka," she retorted, her Swiss German precise and icy. "I am the person PointGuard assigned to manage your media profile. And part of that management involves understanding the narratives surrounding all key assets." She gestured towards Wirtz, who looked like he wished the floor would swallow him. "Potential transfer speculation? It exists. Ignoring it is naïve. My job is to anticipate, strategize, mitigate. Not to stick my head in the sand because it makes the captain uncomfortable."
His eyes narrowed to slits. "Your job is to spin stories, Frau Vran. Not to put ideas in players' heads. Not to poach for your other clients." He spat the last word. "Bayern. City. You think I don't know how this works?"
The accusation, so blatant and wrong, ignited her. "Poach?" Vanja laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "You think I need to poach? Wirtz's talent speaks for itself. Every scout on the continent knows it. Asking him about his aspirations isn't poaching, it's professionalism. It's understanding the landscape so I can protect this club's interests when the vultures do inevitably circle. Which," she added, her voice dropping to match his conspiratorial level but laced with sarcasm, "will happen whether you intimidate the PR staff or not."
A muscle ticked violently in Granit’s jaw. He looked like he wanted to shatter something. The tension crackled between them, thick and dangerous. The rest of the cafeteria had fallen silent again, players pretending not to watch but utterly transfixed. Alonso stood near the entrance, his expression unreadable, making no move to intervene.
Vanja held Granit’s furious stare. She wouldn’t back down. Not this time. Not ever again. The awkward redhead was gone. She was Vanja Vran, and she was damn good at her job.
"Protect the club?" Granit finally ground out, his voice thick with disdain. "With your… methods? Flirting with Schick? Whispering sweet nothings about ambition to teenagers?" He took another half-step closer, invading her space entirely. "You think that's protection? It looks like provocation."
The implication hit her like a physical blow. Flirting?Provocation? Rage, cold and clean, washed over her, burning away the last flicker of that stupid, inconvenient attraction. "My methods," she said, enunciating every syllable with icy precision, "include building rapport with stakeholders, understanding player psychology, and anticipating media pressure. Precisely why Alonso and PointGuard hired me. Unlike some," she let her gaze sweep over him dismissively, "I don't confuse leadership with bullying."
A collective gasp whispered through the room. Granit recoiled as if struck, fury and something else – shock? – flashing across his face. Before he could unleash whatever volcanic retort was brewing, Vanja spun on her heel. She didn’t look at Wirtz, didn’t acknowledge Alonso, didn’t give Granit another second of her time.
Her heels clicked a sharp, rapid staccato on the polished floor as she strode towards the exit. She felt the weight of dozens of stares, felt the heat of Granit’s fury burning into her back. But she kept her head high, her back straight, the picture of controlled outrage. She pushed through the double doors, the noise of the cafeteria cutting off abruptly behind her.
Alone in the quiet corridor, the scent of grass now mingling with industrial cleaner, she stopped. Leaned against the cool wall for just a second. Closed her eyes. Her hands, she realized, were trembling. She curled them into fists.
That had been… nuclear. Necessary, but nuclear. She’d drawn a line in the turf. Professionally, personally. He wanted a war? Fine.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she pushed off the wall. She had work to do. Media briefings. Strategy documents. Damage control for a conflict she hadn't started but had just spectacularly escalated. And a captain she needed to manage, whether he liked it or not.
She started walking towards the offices, the echo of her own footsteps the only sound. Behind her, in the silent cafeteria, Granit Xhaka stood rooted to the spot, watching the space where she’d vanished, the imprint of her defiance and the sting of her words settling over him like ash.
The silence in the cafeteria pressed in, thick and suffocating. Granit Xhaka remained frozen, the echo of Vanja’s sharp heels fading down the corridor outside. Her final words – bullying – reverberated inside his skull, a brutal counterpoint to the stunned quiet of his teammates. He saw Florian Wirtz staring at his untouched plate, Schick shifting uncomfortably, Alonso’s impassive gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. Shame, hot and unwelcome, prickled beneath his simmering rage. He’d lost control. Publicly. Spectacularly. Because of her.
He couldn’t stay here. The weight of their stares felt like physical pressure. Without a word, ignoring Alonso’s lifted eyebrow, Granit shoved his chair back with a harsh scrape and stalked towards the doors Vanja had vanished through moments before. The cool air of the corridor hit him, smelling faintly of chlorine from the nearby hydrotherapy pools and the ubiquitous cut grass. He spotted her instantly, halfway down the long, glass-walled passageway towards the admin offices, walking fast, her posture rigid. Fury, sharpened by humiliation, propelled him forward.
"Vran!" His voice cracked like a whip in the sterile quiet. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. Granit lengthened his stride, closing the distance rapidly. "Hey! Stop!"
Vanja halted. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to face him. Her expression was a mask of icy professionalism, but her dark green-gold eyes burned. "What now, Captain?" Her voice was dangerously calm, devoid of the earlier heat. "Need to clarify your definition of leadership further? Or perhaps you’d like to critique my footwear?"
He stopped a pace away, towering over her, the heat radiating off him palpable. "I don’t like the way you’re talking to me," he growled, the words low and rough. "In there. Out here. That tone."
Vanja tilted her head, a flicker of incredulous amusement touching her lips. "Oh, the tone?" She took a half-step closer, refusing to be cowed by his proximity. "You don’t like it when I talk back, Granit. That’s the real issue. You bark orders, expect silence. Well, newsflash: I don’t work for you."
His jaw tightened. Her defiance, the sheer gall of it, scraped against his raw nerves. "Don’t act like you know me," he snapped, the accusation sharp. "Don’t pretend you understand how this team works, what I do."
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "No," Granit countered, his dark eyes boring into hers, a sudden, unnerving intensity replacing the anger. "But you sure know me, don’t you, Vanja Vran?"
The name, her real name, spoken with deliberate emphasis, hung in the air like a detonation. Vanja froze. Utterly. Completely. The icy mask shattered, replaced by pure, unguarded shock. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, the green and gold swirling with sudden, deep hurt – a vulnerability so raw it was painful to witness. It lasted only a split second, a fleeting glimpse beneath the armor before her expression slammed shut again, harder than before.
Fuck. The curse exploded silently in Granit’s head. He hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that. Not ever. It was a cheap shot, dredged up from a past he’d deliberately buried. He saw the humiliation flood her features, replacing the hurt, turning her pale skin stark white against the dark blonde of her hair.
Vanja didn’t speak. Not a word. She just looked at him, that devastating mixture of pain and utter contempt freezing him where he stood. Then, without breaking eye contact, she turned sharply on her heel and walked away. Her steps were measured, precise, but her shoulders were rigid, held unnaturally straight.
Granit watched her go, rooted again, the echo of his own stupidity ringing louder than her footsteps. The silence of the corridor pressed in, heavy and accusing. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. Fuck. He spun around, fist clenched, and slammed it hard into the reinforced concrete wall beside him. Pain shot up his arm, sharp and grounding. "FUCK!" The word ripped from his throat, loud and raw, echoing down the empty corridor. He leaned his forehead against the cool, unforgiving surface, breathing hard, the knuckles of his right hand throbbing. He knew. And he’d used it. Like an idiot. Like an asshole.
Vanja kept walking, the click of her heels the only sound in her world now. He knows. The words screamed inside her skull, drowning out everything else. Granit Xhaka knew who she was. Knew about the pathetic, invisible Serbian girl from Basel who’d trailed after him like a lost puppy, fueled by a crush so intense it felt like a physical ache. He’d known then. And he’d ignored her. Dismissed her. And now? Now he’d thrown it in her face. Used it as a weapon to wound her, to put her back in that insignificant place he clearly thought she belonged.
Humiliation washed over her, hot and sickening, followed by a crushing wave of sadness. She’d been ridiculous. Naive. All those years. The sting of tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. No. Absolutely not. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not a single tear. Not a flicker of weakness he could exploit.
He wanted to win? To dominate? To remind her of her place? Fine. But it wasn’t that place anymore. She wasn’t that girl. She was Vanja Vran. She was sharp. She was capable. She was damn good at her job. And she would not let him win. Not this time. Not ever again. The resolve solidified inside her, cold and hard as steel, pushing aside the hurt. It was time. Time to move the fuck on. For real. Her stride lengthened, purpose flooding back into her limbs. She had work to do. A job to excel at. And Granit Xhaka? He was officially irrelevant. A problem to be managed. Nothing more.
The sharp click of Vanja’s heels echoed down the sterile corridor, a defiant counterpoint to the chaotic drumming in her chest. She pushed open the heavy door to the media prep room, the scent of stale coffee and nervous energy hitting her instantly. Inside, the core players – Schick, Tah, Frimpong, Wirtz – looked up, their earlier cafeteria tension replaced by wary curiosity. "Alright," Vanja announced, her voice crisp, professional, the tremor from moments ago buried deep. "Let's get you prepped for the wolves."
She moved efficiently, projecting calm authority. "Schick, they'll ask about the missed chance against Frankfurt. Own it briefly, pivot to team effort, focus on the win." He nodded, relief flickering across his face at the clear directive. "Tah, leadership questions are coming your way again. Emphasize collective responsibility, Alonso's guidance." The defender gave a thumbs-up. Frimpong grinned as she outlined handling questions about his blistering pace. "Just say I'm faster than their questions, yeah?" Vanja allowed a small, genuine smile. "Maybe phrase it as 'focusing on the next play', Jeremie." Wirtz remained quiet, thoughtful, absorbing her advice on handling transfer speculation with polite deflection. "Ambition is good, Florian," she added softly, meeting his eyes. "Just frame it within Leverkusen's project. Potential here." He nodded slowly, appreciatively. They were engaged, respectful. She felt it. Granit’s absence was a palpable void in the room, a dark storm cloud just beyond the door. She didn’t mention him. Didn't look at the empty chair.
As the briefing wound down, Alonso slipped in, leaning against the back wall, observing. Vanja finished outlining the key messaging points, her delivery smooth, confident. The players filed out, murmuring thanks, their earlier apprehension eased. Only Alonso remained. Vanja approached him, pulling a single, neatly folded sheet of paper from her portfolio. She held it out without a word, her expression unreadable. Alonso took it, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment, seeing the carefully constructed ice. He unfolded the paper, scanned the bullet points – anticipated questions about his captaincy style, handling pressure, the team's disciplinary record under his leadership, his future plans. Comprehensive. Professional. Designed for the man who’d just eviscerated her. Alonso gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Danke, Vanja." She simply turned, gathering her things, the silence louder than any accusation.
Alonso found Granit alone in the dimming light of the nearly empty players' lounge, staring blankly at a muted sports channel. He tossed the folded sheet onto the low table in front of him. "For you. Vanja prepared it." Granit didn't touch it immediately. He stared at the paper as if it might bite. Finally, he picked it up, unfolded it. His eyes scanned the concise, insightful points. Questions about his role, his challenges, anticipating the media's sharpest angles. Prepared meticulously. For him. After everything. A fresh wave of shame, hot and acidic, washed over him. She wrote it even though I ignored her. Even after... that. The professionalism of it was a stark, brutal contrast to his own outburst. Well, it's her job, he thought bitterly, the justification hollow even to himself. He crumpled the edge of the paper slightly.
Later, suited up and waiting in the tunnel before walking out to the press conference, Granit stood beside Alonso. The low murmur of journalists filtered through the heavy curtain. He kept glancing towards the side entrance where Vanja would emerge to observe. "Xabi," he muttered, his voice tight. "How much is the club paying her? PointGuard fees must be insane. How did we even get her?" The question felt petty, desperate, an attempt to diminish her, to find a reason for her presence that wasn't just her undeniable competence.
Alonso kept his eyes forward, his voice low and calm. "Not enough." Granit frowned, turning his head slightly. Alonso met his gaze briefly. "Bayer is her grandfather's favorite club. Has been for fifty years. He's sick. Very sick. She's doing this pro bono, almost. I think we're only covering her insurance and the apartment while she's here." The words landed like physical blows. Pro bono. For her grandfather. Out of loyalty, not greed. Granit looked away sharply, the bright lights of the tunnel suddenly too harsh. He felt physically ill. The crumpled briefing sheet in his pocket felt like it was burning through the fabric. He hates himself even more.
As Alonso stepped forward to pull the curtain aside, the noise of the press room swelling, fragmented images flooded Granit’s mind, unwanted and vivid. Basel. The training ground canteen. A tall, shy girl with startlingly bright red hair back then, always hovering near his periphery. Not invisible. He had seen her. The fleeting eye contact he’d held a fraction too long before looking away. The mumbled "Hallo" exchanged once near the physio room. The way she’d stopped appearing suddenly, replaced by this cool, blonde professional who looked right through him. All the times they kinda talked, few words here and there. The times he looked back. And then when one day she stopped looking. It was weird, disorienting, how sharply it was all coming back to him now, triggered by Alonso's quiet revelation and the weight of her ignored professionalism. She hates me, he realized with absolute, chilling certainty. He’d seen it in the corridor – the raw hurt beneath the ice. Now, after the briefing sheet, after knowing why she was here? Colder than before.
The roar of the press room faded into a dull buzz as Granit followed Alonso onto the dais. He forced a neutral expression, scanning the sea of faces. His gaze snagged on Vanja. She stood at the back, near the exit, posture impeccable, notebook in hand, her eyes fixed on Alonso. Utterly professional. Utterly detached. She didn't glance his way. Not once. The coldness radiating from her was almost tangible. He sat down, the chair feeling like an electric grid. Alonso began speaking. Granit’s phone vibrated silently in his pocket. He ignored it. It vibrated again. Persistent. During a lull while Schick answered a question, Granit subtly pulled it out beneath the table. A message from Agnesa: Press conference done? Call me. Important. His sister rarely demanded immediate calls. A knot of unease tightened in his gut.
The moment the conference ended, the cacophony of shouted follow-ups erupting, Granit was moving. He brushed past Alonso’s murmured "Good job," ignoring the lingering journalists, and pushed through the side door into a quiet service corridor. Leaning against the cool concrete wall, smelling of damp and cleaning supplies, he dialed. Agnesa answered on the first ring.
Agnessa?" his voice held none of its usual teasing warmth.
"Yeah. What's up? You said important." sHe asked.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. The fluorescent light above hummed loudly. "Agnessa," he started, the words thick, clumsy. "I... fucked up." The admission scraped his throat raw.
On the other end, Agnesa half-laughed. It wasn't a sound of amusement. It was weary, knowing, laced with decades of sibling history. "Of course you did, Granit." Another pause, filled only by the hum of the light and his own ragged breath. "Of course you did. Tell me what exactly you did? "