Chapter 8: The Aftermath
The roar of the Allianz Arena was a physical force, a tidal wave of sound crashing over Vanja as she stood in the executive box, her knuckles white on the railing. Below, a blur of red and black swarmed the pitch. Granit, a sweat-slicked, mud-streaked engine in midfield, screamed instructions, his voice raw, lost in the cacophony. Seconds left. Tie game. Bayern Munich pressed, a relentless red tide against Leverkusen’s desperate, exhausted wall. Vanja’s stomach clenched. Not again. Please, not again. The ghost of Basel, of being unseen, felt absurdly close in this maelstrom of global attention.
Then, the counter. A Leverkusen defender intercepted, hoofing the ball clear. It bounced, took a cruel deflection off a Bayern leg, and fell perfectly into the path of him. Granit. One touch to kill it dead on the halfway line. He looked up. Saw the gaping chasm ahead. The Bayern keeper, Neuer, was yards off his line, still caught in the press.
"GO! GRANIT, FUCKING GO!" Vanja shrieked, her voice lost but her whole body a prayer.
He ran. Not with Messi's grace, but with terrifying, piston-driven power. He ate up the turf, legs pumping, defenders scrambling back like panicked deer. Neuer hesitated, stranded in no-man's land. Granit didn't hesitate. From thirty-five yards out, pure instinct, pure adrenaline, he struck the ball. A thunderous, dipping drive. Vanja stopped breathing. The ball seemed to hang forever, defying physics, before slamming with brutal precision just under the crossbar. The net billowed.
Silence. A heartbeat of pure shock. Then, the Leverkusen end erupted. The sound was volcanic. Vanja was screaming, tears blurring the scene – players mobbing Granit, collapsing on him, the Bayern stars frozen in disbelief. Champions League winners. Because of him.
Hours later, the champagne still fizzed in Vanja’s veins, mingling with the high-octane adrenaline and the deep, warm thrum of belonging. The hotel ballroom thumped with bass, a victory party in full, chaotic swing. Players danced badly, coaches beamed, executives clapped backs. Granit was a magnet, constantly pulled away for handshakes, photos, backslaps. But his eyes, dark and intense beneath the sweat-dampened hair plastered to his forehead, kept finding hers across the room. A current crackled between them, amplified by the shared history of that goal, the shared secret of what had happened on his penthouse floor months ago.
He finally broke free, weaving through the crowd towards her. He smelled of champagne, sweat, grass, and pure, unadulterated victory. Without a word, his hand closed around her wrist, rough and possessive. "Need air," he murmured, his voice hoarse from shouting, his breath warm against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "Now."
He didn't wait for a reply. He pulled her through the throng, ignoring congratulations, his grip firm, unyielding. Down a corridor, past startled staff, towards the players' area. He shouldered open a heavy door marked 'Staff Only – Locker Access'. The relative quiet descended like a blanket. The concrete walls echoed with the distant bass. It smelled of disinfectant, damp towels, and deep heat liniment. He led her down another corridor, past rows of lockers, until he found an equipment storage room. He shoved the door open, pulled her inside, and slammed it shut, plunging them into near darkness save for a single emergency light casting long shadows.
The moment the door clicked, he had her pinned against it. His mouth crashed down on hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was a claiming, fueled by months of simmering tension, the explosive high of victory, and the raw need that always hummed beneath their surface. Champagne and exhaustion vanished, replaced by the familiar, intoxicating scent of him and the primal hunger that flared whenever they collided.
"Fuck, Vanja," he growled against her lips, his hands already shoving the expensive silk of her dress up around her hips. His fingers found the waistband of her lace panties, tearing them aside with a brutal jerk. "Saw you watching me. All fucking night." His voice was gravel, thick with lust and triumph. "Knew you wanted this." He didn't ask. He knew. His fingers plunged between her legs, finding her already slick, swollen, utterly ready for him. He groaned, the sound echoing in the small, cold room. "Soaking wet for me, Princess? Even after all this time?"
The old Basel nickname, Princess, used to sting. Now, growled with this possessive hunger, it ignited her. "Shut up and fuck me, Xhaka," she gasped, arching into his touch, her own hands fumbling with the buckle of his trousers. "Prove you're still the king of something besides just the fucking pitch."
He laughed, a dark, breathless sound, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and rigid, flushed a deep red, veins standing proud. Pre-cum glistened at the tip. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly against the door. Her legs wrapped around his waist. There was no preamble, no gentle guidance. He positioned the swollen head at her soaked entrance, paused for one agonizing second, looking into her eyes burning with the same fierce need reflected in his own.
Then he slammed home.
Vanja cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. The stretch was immense, brutal, filling her completely, driving the breath from her lungs. He was so deep, the angle unforgiving against the unyielding door. Granit hissed, his head dropping forward, forehead pressed to hers. "Christ... tighter than ever. Squeezing me like a fucking fist." He withdrew almost completely, the drag exquisite torture, then slammed back in with the same devastating force.
His rhythm was relentless, powerful thrusts that hammered her against the metal door. Each stroke drove the air from her lungs, each withdrawal left her aching. The wet, rhythmic slap of flesh meeting flesh filled the small room, counterpointed by their harsh, ragged breaths. Sweat slicked their bodies where they pressed together. He fucked her with the same focused intensity he brought to the pitch: aggressive, dominant, utterly consuming.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice guttural against her ear as he pistoned into her. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You!" Vanja gasped, her fingers clawing at the back of his sweat-stained dress shirt. "Oh god, Granit! You! Harder!"
He obliged, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, deeper grinding motions. The base of his cock ground against her clit with every brutal plunge. "Say my fucking name," he snarled.
"Granit! FUCK! GRANIT!" she screamed as the pressure built, coiling unbearably tight inside her. The relentless pounding, the sheer overwhelming sensation of being taken so completely, owned so utterly against the cold metal door, shattered her. Her body convulsed violently, inner muscles clamping down on his invading cock in frantic, fluttering spasms. Juices flooded him, the wet sounds intensifying as she screamed his name into the darkness.
Her climax triggered his own. He roared, a sound ripped from the depths of him, primal and victorious. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding his hips hard against hers, holding himself deep as he emptied himself in thick, hot jets inside her pulsing channel. His body shuddered violently against her, his arms locked around her waist, holding her pinned as he came, each pulse echoing the finality of his winning goal.
They slumped together against the door, gasping, trembling, slick with sweat and the evidence of their frantic coupling. The distant party thrummed on, a world away. Granit’s forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and ragged on her skin. His arms tightened around her, a different kind of possession now. Possession laced with something terrifyingly close to reverence.
"Vanja," he rasped, his voice wrecked. He eased her down gently, her legs trembling as her feet touched the cold concrete floor. He kept one arm around her waist, steadying her, while his other hand fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jacket, draped over a stack of gym mats.
She leaned into him, exhausted, sated, the adrenaline crash making her limbs feel heavy. The cold air of the storage room raised goosebumps on her exposed skin. She watched him, confused, as he pulled out a small, dark velvet box. Her breath hitched.
He didn't get down on one knee. He just stood before her in the dim emergency light, sweat drying on his skin, hair wild, the scent of sex and victory clinging to him. He looked utterly vulnerable, the aggressive captain stripped bare. He flipped the box open.
Inside, nestled in black satin, wasn't a traditional solitaire. It was a stunning, intricate band – platinum woven into a delicate pattern that echoed traditional Albanian filigree, set with a single, fiery, deep green emerald that perfectly matched her eyes. The stone she’d admired once, in a Basel jeweler's window years ago, walking home unseen behind him and his teammates. A stone she’d thought belonged to another life, another girl.
He swallowed hard, the movement visible in his throat. His dark eyes held hers, raw and completely open. "Basel," he said, his voice low, rough with emotion. "I was blind. Stupid. Arrogant. I didn't see the most fucking incredible thing right in front of me." He took a shaky breath. "I see you now, Vanja . Every stubborn, brilliant, beautiful fucking inch of you. I see the fire, the sarcasm, the kindness that cuts through my bullshit." He glanced down at the ring, then back up, his gaze burning into hers. "This... this emerald. I saw you look at it. Years ago. It made me think of your eyes, even then. Even when I was too much of a fucking idiot to realize why it caught my attention." He held the box out. "Marry me. Be my fucking wife. Let me spend the rest of my life proving I see you. Every single day."
Vanja stared. The roar of the stadium, the thump of the party, the chill of the storage room – everything faded. There was only him. The raw honesty in his eyes, the impossible weight of the emerald glinting under the weak light, the devastating callback to the pain and longing of Basel transformed into this. Tears welled, hot and unstoppable, blurring the image of the ring, of his face. The jagged pieces of her past with him – the hurt, the fierce attraction, the brutal honesty, the terrifying confession on the penthouse floor, the shared triumph tonight – slammed together in her chest.
She didn't hesitate. Didn't overthink. The word burst from her, raw and certain, echoing softly in the concrete room, hanging in the charged air between them. "Yes."