Chapter 4: Unfinished Business
The scent of him – sweat, grass, something warm and undeniably male – slammed into her as he leaned closer. Vanja’s back hit the cool, unyielding concrete wall of the corridor. She refused to flinch, forcing her spine straight despite the tremor that threatened her knees. Her gaze locked onto his, a stormy mix of fury and something darker, hotter, swirling in his dark eyes.
"Whether I like it or not," she clipped out, her voice impressively steady, slicing through the thick air between them, "is of zero consequence, Xhaka. Focus on the interview." She shifted her weight, subtly trying to reclaim an inch of space. Her tablet was a hard edge against her ribs. "And stop trying to rattle me. It’s getting pathetic."
His slow, dangerous smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, carving harsh lines beside his mouth. He didn't retreat. He shifted his weight, one powerful arm bracing against the wall beside her head, his massive frame effectively caging her in. The heat radiating off him was a physical force, chasing away the corridor’s chill. His damp training shirt clung to the solid planes of his chest, mere inches from her own.
"Pathetic?" he echoed, the word low and rough, vibrating with a suppressed intensity. His eyes raked over her face, lingering on her lips, then snapping back up. "You think that’s what this is?" His breath fanned warm against her cheek, the scent more intimate now, primal. It sent an unwelcome, traitorous shiver down her spine, which she fought to suppress. "You and Kimmich." It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, ground out between clenched teeth. "That little… chat before the game. And after. Looked cozy. Too cozy. How long? Basel? Or something new?"
Vanja’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the cool concrete at her back. Fear and fury warred, but fury won. She tilted her chin up, meeting the burning intensity in his eyes with her own fierce, green-gold glare. His proximity, the raw jealousy simmering off him, was almost suffocating. "Get. Off. Me." The words were bitten out, precise and cold.
He didn't move. His other hand came up, not touching her, but resting flat against the wall on her other side, completing the cage. His face was dangerously close now. "Answer the question, Vran."
The old nickname, used like a weapon. The utter injustice of it, after years of being invisible to him, ignited a white-hot rage. Her control snapped. "You don’t remember me from Basel?" Her voice rose, sharp and incredulous, echoing slightly in the near-empty corridor. "You don’t remember anything? But now, because another man talked to me, now you suddenly care enough to pin me to a wall and interrogate me? Is that it?" She shoved hard against his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the damp fabric, but he barely budged. "Get off me, you arrogant prick!"
Her shove seemed to ignite something raw in him. His hand shot away from the wall, fingers closing tightly but not painfully around her upper arm. Not restraining, but anchoring. Holding her there in the forcefield of his anger and something else, something dangerously close to desire, that burned in the depths of his dark eyes. His breath hitched, his gaze dropping to her mouth again, then snapping back up, conflicted and blazing. His voice dropped to a guttural rasp, rough with emotion she couldn't fully decipher. "Don't push me, Vanja."
The use of her first name, raw and unfiltered, struck her harder than the grip on her arm. It wasn't 'Vran', the nickname, or 'vranjan, the professional address. It was Vanja. It felt like a crack in his armor, a terrifying chink revealing something volatile beneath. Her defiance flared brighter, fueled by years of being overlooked, by the lingering sting of Kimmich’s words, by the sheer, maddening proximity of him. She wrenched her arm, but his grip held firm.
"Too late, Xhaka," she breathed, her voice trembling now, not with fear, but with the sheer, overwhelming force of her own feelings breaking free. Her green-gold eyes blazed up at him, locking onto his, holding nothing back. "It’s all far, far too late."
The words hung in the humid corridor air, charged like electricity. His grip on her arm tightened almost imperceptibly, his knuckles white. His jaw worked, the muscle jumping violently. The dark fire in his eyes flickered, momentarily stunned by the raw, unexpected force of her declaration. The simmering jealousy, the possessive demand, seemed to momentarily recede under the weight of those four words. Too late. What did she mean? Too late for what? Too late for him to care? Too late for… them? Confusion warred with the fury and the dangerous attraction that hummed between them.
Vanja saw the flicker of uncertainty, the brief fracture in his control. It was the opening she needed. With a sharp twist, she tore her arm free from his slackened grip. She didn't wait, didn't look back. She ducked under his braced arm, the heat of his body scorching her skin as she slipped past him. Her heels clicked a rapid, uneven staccato on the linoleum as she practically ran towards the sanctuary of the media room.
She burst through the door, the sterile coolness of the air-conditioned space a shock after the heat and tension of the corridor and Granit’s overwhelming presence. She leaned back against the closed door for a second, eyes shut, dragging in deep, ragged breaths. Her arm throbbed where he’d gripped her, a phantom heat radiating from the spot. Her heart felt like it was trying to escape her chest.
The media room was empty except for the Leverkusen press officer, Lena, setting up laptops at the circular table. "Vanja? You alright?" Lena asked, frowning. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or tackled one."
Vanja pushed off the door, forcing a professional mask back into place, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed her blazer. "Fine," she managed, her voice still a bit unsteady. She walked towards the table, avoiding Lena’s concerned gaze. "Just… Granit. Pre-game tension. He’ll be in soon." She pulled out a chair, the scrape of it on the floor loud in the quiet room, and sat, staring blindly at the blank screen of the laptop before her. She could still smell him. Grass. Sweat. Musk. Him. And his voice, rough with that dangerous blend of command and something else, echoed in her mind. Don't push me, Vanja.
Too late, Xhaka.
The door clicked open. Vanja didn't need to look to know it was him. The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately, thickening with the raw energy he carried. She kept her gaze fixed on the laptop screen, her fingers curling into her palms, nails biting into her skin.
Granit walked in, showered now, his dark hair damp, wearing a fresh Leverkusen training top. He moved with a contained power, but the simmering intensity was still there, banked but not extinguished. He didn't look at her. He barely acknowledged Lena’s greeting. He pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the circular table, the legs scraping harshly. He sat down heavily, his forearms braced on the tabletop, his gaze fixed on some point on the sleek surface.
Lena glanced between them, the tension so thick it was almost visible. "Right," she said, clearing her throat, her voice overly bright. "Let's get started. We need to focus on the team's resilience coming back twice, Granit. The effort, the spirit. Avoid the…" she hesitated, "...the disciplinary aspect. Okay?"
Granit grunted. Just once. A low, noncommittal sound. He still hadn't looked at Vanja.
Vanja forced herself to breathe, to focus. She opened her laptop, the screen flaring to life. "The comeback narrative is strong," she said, her voice miraculously clear and professional, though it felt tight in her throat. She still felt the phantom pressure on her arm, the heat of his body, the storm in his dark eyes. She risked a glance across the table.
He was staring at her. Not at her face, but at her arm. Where his fingers had gripped her. His expression was unreadable, a mask of dark brooding intensity, but his knuckles were white where he clenched his hands together on the table. The raw confusion she'd seen in the corridor was gone, replaced by that familiar, smoldering intensity, but it felt… different now. Charged with the echo of her accusation and the stark finality of her words.
Too late.
He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. The fire was still there, but beneath it flickered something else. Something like frustration, yes, but also a dawning, unsettling awareness. She held his gaze for a heartbeat, her own defiance a shield against the tumult she saw there, before deliberately looking down at her notes. The interview prep began, the sterile language of PR washing over the unspoken tempest raging silently across the gleaming table. He remained silent, a brooding presence, his dark eyes periodically flicking back to her, the question she’d thrown at him hanging heavy in the air between them: You don’t remember me from Basel? But now you care? And her answer, echoing relentlessly in the space his silence left: Too late.
The sterile air of the media room hummed with the low thrum of electronics and Lena’s nervous shuffling of papers. Granit’s silence wasn't passive; it was a physical weight pressing against Vanja’s skin, thick with the echo of her accusation – You don’t remember me from Basel? – and the brutal finality of her answer. Too late. She focused on the laptop screen, the pre-prepared talking points blurring before her eyes. Her arm still tingled where his fingers had dug in, a phantom brand. Lena cleared her throat again, the sound overly loud. "Granit? Resilience? Team spirit? That’s the angle." She tapped her pen rhythmically on her notepad. "Focus on the fight back, yeah? The character."
Granit shifted in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight. He finally lifted his gaze from the tabletop, not towards Lena, but directly at Vanja. The dark intensity hadn't lessened; it had merely banked, simmering beneath a surface of forced calm. His voice, when it came, was low, gravelly, scraping against the quiet. "Character." He repeated the word slowly, letting it hang. His eyes remained locked on Vanja, ignoring Lena completely. "Funny word." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Seems some people have a different face for every occasion. Nice and professional one minute." He leaned forward slightly, his forearms pressing harder onto the table. "Then… something else entirely the next."
Vanja felt the barb aimed squarely at her interaction with Kimmich. Heat flooded her cheeks, a mix of anger and humiliation. She met his stare head-on, her own green-gold eyes sparking. "Is that your expert analysis, Herr Xhaka?" Her tone was deceptively light, laced with ice. "Based on your extensive five-minute observation? Or maybe," she tilted her head, a sharp, mocking gesture, "your famously reliable memory?" The Basel reference landed like a physical blow; she saw him flinch minutely, the mask cracking for a split second. "Perhaps," Vanja continued, her voice gaining strength, cutting through the thickening tension, "you should stick to analyzing your own performance on the pitch. Fewer variables."
Granit’s chair scraped violently backwards as he surged to his feet. "My performance?" His voice rose, rough and raw, filling the small room. He planted his hands on the table, looming over it towards Vanja. "You think this is about football?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "You stand there, looking like…" He gestured vaguely at her, his gaze raking over her with a furious intensity that felt less like appraisal and more like possession, "...and you flirt with Kimmich right under my nose! After Basel!" The name exploded from him. "You knew me then! You knew me! And you never said a damn word! Now he looks at you like…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the raw jealousy choking him, his fists clenching on the tabletop.
Vanja stood up too, her own chair tipping slightly. The fear was gone, burned away by white-hot fury. "Flirt?" Her laugh was brittle, sharp. "Is that what you call doing my job? Talking to a player I represent?" She took a step closer to the table, mirroring his aggression. "And Basel? Oh, now Basel matters?" Her voice rose, trembling with years of pent-up hurt. "Where were you then, Granit? Huh? When I was practically invisible? When you walked past me every day without seeing me?" She slammed her palm down on the table,"You didn't see me then! You only see me now because Joshua Kimmich looked my way!" She spat the name. "That’s what this pathetic little tantrum is about! Your bruised ego!"
"Tantrum?" Granit roared, his control shattering. He slammed his own fist onto the table, the impact vibrating through the laptops. "You think this is ego?" He leaned further, his face inches from hers across the polished surface. His dark eyes burned, stripped bare of everything but primal fury and a terrifying, undeniable hunger. His breath hit her face, warm and rapid. "You feel this?" His voice dropped to a guttural rasp, thick with emotion. "This heat? This… thing between us? You think that’s about Kimmich? About ego?" He shook his head violently, a lock of damp hair falling across his forehead. "You’re blind, Vanja. Or lying."
The raw honesty in his voice, the sheer force of his declaration, momentarily stole her breath. The air crackled.. Vanja saw the desperation beneath his anger, the confusion warring with desire. It mirrored her own chaotic storm. But the years of being unseen, the sting of his earlier dismissal, were stronger. She straightened up, pulling back from the precipice his closeness created. Her voice, when it came, was cold, clear, and utterly final. "The only thing I feel right now," she stated, each word precise and cutting, "is the overwhelming need to get as far away from your breathtaking hypocrisy as possible." She snatched her tablet off the table, her movements sharp and decisive. "You lecture me on professionalism after pinning me to a wall?" She scoffed, heading for the door. "Do us both a favour, Granit. Sort yourself out." She yanked the door open.
The heavy media room door slammed shut behind Vanja, the finality of the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. Granit stood frozen behind the circular table, the polished surface reflecting the harsh lines of his face, stark under the sterile lights. His fists remained clenched, knuckles bone-white, trembling not with fading anger, but with the seismic shift her departure had triggered. Her words – "And try very hard to forget you ever saw me" – weren't a dismissal; they were a gauntlet thrown down, igniting a furnace within him hotter than any pitch-side rage. Forget her? Impossible. The memory of her blazing green-gold eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin, the phantom heat of her arm beneath his fingers – they were seared into him.
Too late, my ass. The thought roared in his head, drowning out Lena’s hesitant, "Granit? The interview... maybe we should reschedule?" He barely registered her, the irrelevant noise fading into the hum of the electronics. Seeing Vanja with Kimmich, that easy familiarity, Kimmich’s hand brushing her arm as they laughed about some private joke – it hadn’t just sparked jealousy. It had detonated something primal, possessive, terrifying in its intensity. It wasn't about ego. Not really. It was the sudden, blinding realization that she was the variable he hadn’t accounted for, the missing piece he hadn't known was absent until its absence became a physical ache. He wanted her. Not with the casual interest of before, not with the confused frustration of the corridor. He wanted her with a ferocity that eclipsed any desire he’d ever known, a hunger that demanded satisfaction, demanded possession, demanded her.
"Reschedule everything," he ground out, the words raw, not looking at Lena. His gaze was fixed on the door, seeing only the path Vanja had taken. He pushed his chair back with a violent scrape, the sound jarring in the quiet room. He needed air. He needed space that wasn't tainted by this sterile failure. He needed her.
The cool, antiseptic air of the stadium corridors did nothing to quell the firestorm inside him. Vanja power-walked, her heels striking the polished concrete with sharp, angry clicks that matched the frantic rhythm of her pulse. Her skin still burned where his grip had been, a brand marking the spot of his furious possession. Hypocrite. Arrogant, blind hypocrite. The words looped in her mind, fueling her stride. Basel. The sheer gall of him invoking Basel now, after years of oblivion! Kimmich’s easy charm, his genuine attentiveness earlier, felt like a cool balm compared to Xhaka’s scorching, bewildering fury. One wanted her attention. The other seemed to want to consume her, spitting accusations while his eyes promised something far more dangerous.
She took a sharp turn, leaving the main thoroughfare for a narrower service corridor leading towards the media parking garage. It was quieter here, dimmer, the air smelling faintly of damp concrete and distant diesel. The muffled roar of the departing crowd was a dull thrum through the structure. She fumbled in her bag for her keys, her hands shaking. Too late. She’d meant it. Every syllable. Let him brood. Let him rage. Let him choke on his own misplaced jealousy.
The heavy thud of a door crashing open further down the corridor made her flinch. Footsteps, rapid, heavy, purposeful, echoed on the concrete. She didn’t need to look. She knew that tread. Her breath hitched. She quickened her pace, almost at the garage access door. Her fingers closed around the cold metal key fob.
"Vanja!" His voice wasn't a shout, but a command, rough-edged, cutting through the gloom. It stopped her dead, the sound vibrating deep in her chest.
She spun around, bracing herself against the cold metal door. He stood ten paces away, silhouetted against the light spilling from the corridor he’d emerged from. His chest rose and fell rapidly, damp tendrils of dark hair clinging to his temples. He wasn't running, but the controlled energy radiating from him, the predatory stillness, was more frightening. His dark eyes, shadowed but blazing, locked onto hers with terrifying intensity. No anger clouded them now. Only raw, unvarnished want. And determination. The sheer force of it stole her breath.
"Stop," he said, the single word low, guttural, resonating with a finality that brooked no argument. He took a step forward, then another, closing the distance with deliberate strides. "You don't get to walk away from this. Not again." Another step. The scent of clean sweat, fresh soap, and that underlying, uniquely him musk enveloped her as he neared. "Not after Basel." The name wasn't an accusation this time. It was a plea, a confession wrapped in gravel. "Not after this."
He was right in front of her now, looming, his presence overwhelming the narrow space. The heat of his body radiated out, banishing the corridor's chill. He didn't touch her, but the space between them crackled. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered, then swept back up to her eyes, holding her captive. She saw it then, the ferocity of his realization, the absolute certainty. He wanted her. More than the game. More than his pride. More, perhaps, than he’d ever wanted anything. And he was done pretending otherwise.
"It is too late for forgetting," he breathed, his voice a deep vibration she felt in her bones. He lifted one hand, slowly, deliberately. Not to grab, but to touch. His thumb brushed, feather-light, the spot on her upper arm where his grip had been, a silent apology and a brand all at once. His other hand came up, palm flat against the cold metal door beside her head, caging her gently but inescapably. "But it’s not too late for this." His dark eyes searched hers, desperate, demanding, promising. "Give me a chance. One chance, Vanja. Don’t make me be the fool who misses it twice." He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath warm on her cheek. "Please." The raw vulnerability in that single word, from a man built of granite and fierce pride, shattered her resolve. "Try and stop me," she whispered, the defiance in her voice trembling, cracking under the weight of his nearness, his scent, the terrifying promise in his eyes. A ghost of his earlier smirk touched his lips, devoid of cruelty, filled only with fierce, possessive intent. "That," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky rasp as his head bent towards hers, "is the plan." Outside, the distant roar of the crowd swelled, a final, thunderous chant for victory, utterly drowned out by the roaring silence