Chapter 3: The Catalyst
The Allianz Arena vibrated, a deep, resonant hum rising from seventy thousand throats even before kickoff. Vanja leaned against the cool concrete wall of the tunnel, the tang of liniment and damp earth sharp in her nose, trying to ignore the knot tightening beneath her ribs. Bayern Munich’s bus had just disgorged its cargo of stars onto the turf. Among them, moving with an unnerving, focused calm, was Joshua Kimmich. He scanned the tunnel entrance, his sharp blue eyes missing nothing. They landed on her, and a flicker of something – recognition, challenge, maybe amusement – crossed his handsome, composed face. He peeled away from the group, striding towards her with the precision of a midfielder spotting a pass.
"vranjac," he greeted, his voice clipped, German accent precise. He stopped just a little too close, invading her personal space with the casual arrogance of the elite. "Always lurking in the shadows before the storm?"
"Call it professional reconnaissance, Kimmich," Vanja countered, forcing her tone light despite the prickling awareness of Granit Xhaka mere meters away, talking animatedly with Leverkusen's manager. She could feel Granit's presence like a low-frequency thrum. "Checking if the enemy looks suitably terrified."
Joshua’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Terrified? Of Leverkusen? Cute." He glanced past her shoulder, his gaze briefly snagging on Xhaka before snapping back. "Heard you were grilling Wirtz about his future plans. Trying to poach him for City already? Bit premature, no? Or just your usual relentless professional curiosity?" His tone was deceptively casual, edged with ice.
Vanja bristled. "It's called conversation, Joshua. Something adults engage in. Unlike some who just stomp around scowling." She deliberately didn't look towards Granit, but she felt the subtle shift in the air – a tension coiling tighter. "And my client list is my business. Unlike yours, which seems to involve assuming every question is a covert operation."
"With you, vranjan?" Joshua stepped even closer, his voice dropping, the scent of expensive cologne and clean sweat mingling. "It usually is. You have a talent for asking questions designed to unsettle. Saw your little tête-à-tête with Granit at their training ground. Looked… tense. Does he ever remember you from Basel? Or is he too busy remembering every referee decision that went against him?" His words were a calculated barb, meant to prod at the wound Vanja tried so hard to conceal.
The casual cruelty, wrapped in that charming veneer, ignited her temper. "What is it with you Bayern boys?" she snapped, her voice losing its forced lightness, turning brittle. "Is arrogance a prerequisite for the shirt? Or just a side effect of constantly having your egos stroked?" She squared her shoulders, meeting his cool gaze head-on. "Granit remembers what’s relevant. And my history, or lack thereof, with him isn't your concern. Focus on not getting overrun in midfield today."
Across the tunnel, Granit had gone still. His conversation with the manager had stalled. His dark eyes were fixed on Vanja and Kimmich. The easy camaraderie was gone, replaced by a simmering intensity. He saw Kimmich lean in, saw Vanja’s sharp retort, saw the uncomfortable proximity. The laughter and shouts of the arriving Leverkusen players faded into a dull background roar for him.
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles bleaching white against his tanned skin. The veins stood out starkly along his forearms. His jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing rhythmically near his temple. The possessive fury was sudden, visceral, a physical heat rising up his neck. It wasn't just Kimmich's cold, flirtatious intrusion; it was the intimacy of the argument, the way Vanja held her ground against the Bayern star, the undeniable spark of friction between them that he, Granit, seemed incapable of igniting. He wanted to stride over, shove Kimmich away, demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing.
Vanja felt the burn of Granit's stare like a physical touch, even as she glared defiantly at Kimmich. It was a tangible pressure, heavy and angry. She knew exactly what that clenched fist meant, what those burning eyes signified. A part of her, a treacherous, weak part, wanted to glance over, to see the confirmation of his jealousy. But she locked her gaze on Kimmich’s infuriatingly handsome face. This is what moving on looks like, she told herself fiercely, pushing down the flutter Granit's gaze inexplicably caused. He doesn't remember you. He doesn't get to claim you. Her resolve felt brittle but absolute.
Kimmich arched an eyebrow, a faint, cruel smile touching his lips as he registered Vanja’s awareness of Granit’s reaction. "Touchy subject, I see," he murmured. "Better watch yourself, vranjan. Seems you’ve got more than one player wound a little tight around here. Wouldn’t want anyone to… misplace their temper." He gave her a final, lingering look that was neither friendly nor entirely hostile, then turned with fluid grace to rejoin his team, leaving Vanja simmering in the tunnel’s fluorescent glare.
The noise of the stadium crescendoed as the teams began their final preparations. Vanja took a deep, steadying breath, trying to shake off the confrontation. She busied herself with her tablet, checking media schedules, forcing her focus onto the job. Movement blurred at the edge of her vision. Granit was suddenly there, close, his large frame blocking out the tunnel lights. He radiated suppressed energy, the scent of grass and warm skin replacing Kimmich’s cologne.
"What was that?" he demanded, his voice low and rough, thick with an accent made sharper by emotion. His dark eyes bored into hers, the possessive fire still smoldering, mixed now with something that looked suspiciously like hurt.
Vanja met his gaze, refusing to flinch. Her own anger, fueled by Kimmich's jibe and the years of being unseen, surged up. "What was what, Xhaka? Professional discourse? Or are you suddenly the tunnel police?"
"With Kimmich?" Granit bit out the name. "Looked like more than 'discourse'. Looked like he was enjoying winding you up. And you weren't exactly discouraging it." The accusation hung in the air, thick and unfair.
A brittle laugh escaped her. He doesn't remember Basel, but he sees this and it bothers him? The irony was almost painful. "Oh, please," she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think you're the only football star who enjoys giving me a hard time?" She tilted her head, her green-gold eyes locking onto his, challenging him. "Join the club, Xhaka. And do try," she added, turning away towards the pitch entrance as the roar of the crowd became deafening, throwing the words over her shoulder like shards of glass, "to get over yourself."
Vanja pushed through the heavy tunnel curtain, the wall of sound hitting like a physical blow—seventy thousand voices, a deep, rolling thunder that vibrated in her teeth. The vivid green expanse of the Allianz pitch stretched out, painfully bright under the stadium lights, the air thick with the smell of cut grass, beer, and charged anticipation. She clutched her tablet like a shield, forcing her legs to carry her towards the designated media pen, her back prickling with the sensation of Granit’s furious gaze boring into it.
He’d heard her. Every sharp syllable of ‘get over yourself’. Good.
The pre-match rituals unfolded in a blur of color and noise: players warming up, bouncing balls, stretching hamstrings, the flash of cameras like frantic fireflies. Vanja scanned the Bayern half, her professional mask firmly in place, noting player interactions, body language. Then, inevitably, Joshua Kimmich’s path intersected hers as he jogged towards the center circle for the coin toss. He slowed, that infuriating, composed half-smile playing on his lips.
"Still breathing, vranjan? Looked like you left a storm brewing back there." His tone was light, conversational, but his sharp blue eyes held a calculating glint.
"Breathtaking, isn't it? The atmosphere?" Vanja deflected smoothly, gesturing vaguely at the roaring stands, refusing to rise to his bait about Granit. "Almost makes the ego in here bearable. Almost." She kept her gaze fixed on his, projecting cool indifference, though her pulse hammered against her ribs.
Kimmich chuckled, a low, dry sound. "Always sharp. Keep cutting like that, you might draw blood eventually." His gaze flickered over her shoulder, towards the Leverkusen end. "Careful where you aim, though. Some players have thinner skins than others. Prone to… rash decisions." He tapped the captain's armband on his bicep, a subtle, pointed gesture. "See you around, vranjan."
He jogged away, leaving Vanja grappling with the double-edged meaning. A warning? Or just more of his cold amusement? She turned, needing a steadying breath that wouldn't come. And there he was. Granit Xhaka, standing rigid amidst his teammates near the Leverkusen dugout. Not warming up. Not talking. Staring directly at her across the thirty yards of pristine turf, his expression utterly unreadable except for the dark intensity burning in his eyes. A silent accusation, a promise of unfinished business. The noise, the lights, the sheer scale of the event seemed to shrink, collapsing the distance between them to that single, searing connection.
Then the whistle blew. The game erupted into frantic motion. Vanja forced her attention back to her tablet, scribbling meaningless notes, trying to anchor herself in the job: Media queries post-match, Leverkusen spokesperson availability, confirm Wirtz interview slot. Anything to avoid looking back. But her focus was shattered, fragmented by the sheer cosmic unfairness of it.
Fate truly despised her. Joshua, with his cutting charm and veiled threats. Granit, with his volcanic jealousy and devastating lack of memory. The only two men who’d ever truly snagged her interest, tangled her insides, both radiating active, potent dislike across this cavernous stadium. Joshua saw her as an intriguing irritant, a puzzle to poke. Granit? He saw her now, finally, only through a lens of possessiveness and resentment sparked by another man. It was absurd. Exhausting.
"Focus, vranjan," she muttered harshly under her breath, digging her nails into the tablet’s edge.
The first half unfolded with aggressive pace. Leverkusen pressed high. Bayern absorbed and countered with terrifying efficiency. Vanja tracked the flow, noting key moments, but her gaze betrayed her, repeatedly drifting towards the Leverkusen midfield anchor. Granit moved with his usual relentless power, barking orders, snapping into tackles. But there was an edge tonight, a rawness. A tackle on Kimmich midway through the half was late, clumsy, driven by pure frustration. It earned him a yellow card and a roar from the Bayern fans.
The referee’s yellow flashed under the lights. Kimmich picked himself up, dusted grass off his shorts, offered Granit a slow, deliberate, utterly unimpressed clap. Granit ignored him, jaw clenched tight as iron, his chest heaving. Instead, his burning gaze sliced through the chaos, past teammates and opponents, and locked onto Vanja again. It was brief, incendiary. Blaming her.
Vanja stared back, stunned. Her whispered words escaped before she could cage them. "The universe hates me." It was the only explanation. Why else would she be trapped here, professionally crucified between these two titans of mutual antagonism? Joshua, watching her reactions like a hawk. Granit, channeling his fury onto the pitch and radiating it straight at her. Both men she'd stupidly, hopelessly wanted, now sources of nothing but grating friction.
Just before the half-time whistle, a Leverkusen attack broke down. Granit tracked back, intercepting a Bayern pass near the center line. He controlled it, looked up, and for a split second, his trajectory seemed aimed towards the media pen. Vanja froze, caught in his sights. Then, with visible effort, he wrenched his head away, spraying a long, aimless pass towards the sideline that sailed harmlessly out of play. The whistle blew. Players trudged off. Granit didn’t look at her again as he disappeared down the tunnel, the set of his shoulders radiating pure, furious tension.
Vanja exhaled, the breath shaky. The noise of the crowd settled into a restless murmur. She looked down at her tablet. The screen was dark; she’d never turned it on. Perfect. Shoving it into her bag with more force than necessary, she turned on her heel, needing space, air, distance from this stadium and the impossible men polluting it. She walked briskly along the touchline towards the player tunnel exit, the weight of two distinct, hostile attentions pressing down on her like a physical force. She could feel them both, even now, an invisible, grating presence she couldn’t shake.
Vanja shoved through the heavy service door into the relative quiet of the under-arena corridors, the concrete walls muffling the crowd’s roar to a dull throb. Her heels clicked a frantic rhythm on the linoleum, echoing like gunshots in the sudden stillness. She just needed a minute away from the suffocating pressure of their combined scrutiny; Joshua’s calculated coolness and Granit’s simmering fury felt like physical weights pressing down on her shoulders.
The second half exploded back onto the pitch with even more ferocity. Leverkusen, fired up by Granit’s raw intensity, pressed relentlessly. Bayern, anchored by Kimmich’s unnerving calm, absorbed the pressure and struck with venomous counter-attacks. Vanja watched, professionally detached on the surface, her insides a tangled mess. Every crunching tackle Granit made, especially near Kimmich, tightened her chest. Every precise pass Joshua threaded felt like a personal slight. She noted the flow, the tactical shifts, but her gaze kept betraying her, snagging on the clashing midfield titans.
Granit’s yellow card had made him reckless, a bomb waiting to detonate. Ten minutes into the half, he lunged late again, clipping Kimmich’s ankle. The referee sprinted over, hand hovering near his pocket. A collective gasp went up. Vanja held her breath. Second yellow? Red? The ref settled for a stern lecture, finger jabbing. Granit stared straight ahead, jaw muscle jumping, refusing to look at Kimmich picking himself up or at Vanja. Leverkusen’s manager barked instructions, subbing him off immediately before he got himself sent off. Granit stalked towards the bench, face like a thundercloud, ripping off his captain’s armband. He slammed it onto the seat beside the manager and slumped down, a volcano contained, his burning gaze fixed on the pitch, deliberately avoiding her section.
Kimmich, freed from Granit’s shadow, orchestrated Bayern’s attacks with chilling efficiency. He scored a deflected goal fifteen minutes later, putting Bayern 2-1 up, a cruel smirk briefly touching his lips as he celebrated near the Leverkusen dugout. The stadium shook. Vanja felt sick. But Leverkusen fought back, a desperate scramble in the box leading to an equalizer in the 88th minute. 2-2. The final whistle blew on a breathless, brutal stalemate.
The roar of the final whistle was a physical weight lifting, replaced instantly by the frantic buzz of the mixed zone. Vanja leaned against the cool concrete wall just outside the Leverkusen locker room corridor, the sharp tang of sweat, deep heat, and damp turf thick in the humid air. She scanned the stream of players, journalists, and officials, her tablet a useless prop in her damp hands. Her pulse still hammered from the game’s frantic end, and the unresolved tension with two specific men.
Joshua Kimmich emerged from the Bayern tunnel, hair darkened with sweat but moving with that unnerving, precise calm. He spotted her instantly, a predator locking onto prey, and altered course. His blue eyes held a familiar, challenging glint beneath the stadium lights.
"Well, well, Vranjan," he said, lingering on the shortened form of her surname with deliberate emphasis. He stopped close, invading her space. The scent of grass, effort, and expensive cologne washed over her. "2-2. Thrilling, no? Almost like you planned it for maximum... drama." His gaze swept her face, assessing.
Vanja kept her expression neutral, professional. "Just doing my job, Joshua. Leverkusen fought hard." She deliberately used the English pronunciation – Yoshua – knowing it needled him, a small retaliation.
He chuckled, a low, dry sound. "Your job seems to involve stirring pots wherever you go. First poking Wirtz, then winding up Granit like a cheap watch." He tilted his head. "Working closely with the enemy now, are we? Leverkusen’s little PR shadow." His tone was light, but the ice beneath was unmistakable.
"Enemy?" Vanja arched an eyebrow, meeting his gaze directly. The residual adrenaline, the frustration of the day, Granit’s furious stare – it all coalesced into defiance. "It’s football, not war. And you seemed pretty cozy interrogating me before kickoff." She paused, a dangerous edge entering her voice. "Or is it just me you have a problem with? Are you jealous, Yozua?"
The deliberate mispronunciation landed. His composed mask flickered. He stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate murmur that sent an unwanted shiver down her spine despite her anger. His eyes locked onto hers, intense, probing. "Jealous? Of what? Xhaka’s charming personality?" His gaze didn’t waver. "What if I am?"
The raw, unexpected admission hung between them, crackling in the noisy corridor. Vanja’s breath hitched. Before she could form a reply, before she could process the dangerous shift in his usually icy demeanor, his expression shut down completely. A wall slammed up behind his eyes. ," Joshua stared flatly, the intimacy gone as abruptly as it appeared. He turned on his heel and strode away without a backward glance, swallowed instantly by the throng of departing Bayern players.
Vanja stared after him, stunned, the echo of "What if I am?" ringing in her ears. The noise of the mixed zone seemed to recede. She pressed a slightly trembling hand against the cold concrete wall, grounding herself. Jealous? Joshua Kimmich? It made no sense. It was just another mind game, another way to unsettle her. Had to be.
"Vran."
The voice, deep and rough, cut through her chaotic thoughts like a blade. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Granit Xhaka stood behind her, radiating heat and simmering fury even from a few feet away. He smelled of intense exertion, grass, and the unique, warm, musky scent that was inherently him. She hated how familiar it was, how it immediately bypassed logic.
She turned slowly, carefully schooling her features into professional composure, masking the surprise and the lingering shock from Kimmich’s exit. Granit’s dark eyes burned into hers, intense and unreadable. He wore his substitute's vest over his damp training shirt, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. He looked like he’d just run a marathon through hell.
He didn’t wait for her to speak. "Media conference," he stated, his accented voice clipped, devoid of any pleasantry. "Fifteen minutes. We work on it. Now." It wasn't a request. It was a command, laced with the frustration of his early substitution and whatever he’d witnessed with Kimmich.
Vanja nodded once, her own mask firmly back in place. No flinch. No reaction to his abruptness. "Sure," she said, her voice impressively level. "Let's do it." She gestured vaguely towards the media room down the corridor. "But please," she added, her tone coolly professional, "shower first. You’re dripping on the carpet."
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across Granit’s face, transforming the harsh angles. It wasn't friendly. It was a challenge. He took a deliberate step closer, invading her space just as Kimmich had, but his presence was entirely different – heavier, more primal. He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes holding hers captive.
"You don't like how I smell, Vran?" he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. The scent of him intensified – clean sweat, warm skin, something uniquely masculine and undeniably attractive. It wrapped around her, undeniable and infuriating. She hated him for it, hated the way her traitorous body reacted.