Chapter 10: Podium Promises
The chill of the glass was still a phantom memory on her skin as Vanja stood in the sterile brightness of the press conference room. She leaned heavily against the cool white wall, away from the bank of microphones and the empty chairs. Her body felt used, hollowed out and yet humming with a residual energy that made her fingers tremble. She could still smell him on her—the scent of grass, sweat, and sex clinging to her like a secret. She’d tried to clean up in the staff bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, straightening her blouse, but the evidence was internal. A dull, pleasant ache pulsed between her legs with every step she took.
The door clicked open and Elias slipped inside, the sound swallowed by the thick carpet. He had changed into a crisp team tracksuit, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked infuriatingly composed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. The room, with its stark lighting and the large screen displaying his winning goal on a loop, felt suddenly claustrophobic.
“Nervous, Coach?” he asked, his voice a low murmur that vibrated in the silent space.
“Don’t,” she warned, her own voice tighter than she intended. She crossed her arms over her chest, a feeble defense.
He didn’t stop. He never stopped. He closed the distance between them in a few fluid strides, cornering her in the narrow space behind the heavy wooden podium, hidden from the direct view of the door. The distant, muffled chatter of journalists gathering in the hallway beyond was a constant, threatening reminder of how exposed they were.
“Don’t what?” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. One hand landed on the wall beside her head, caging her in. The other dropped to her hip, his fingers splaying possessively. “Don’t remind you how you came all over my cock against that glass? How your tight little cunt squeezed me dry?”
She shuddered, a fresh wave of heat flooding her core. “Elias, for God’s sake, they’ll be in here any second.”
“Let them come,” he breathed, and his hand slid from her hip, down over the fabric of her trousers. He palmed the curve of her ass, pulling her firmly against him. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection even through his tracksuit bottoms, a blatant promise. “I want them to see. I want every one of those vultures to know who you belong to.”
His fingers worked their way to the front, deftly undoing the button of her trousers and pulling down the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. She gasped, her hands flying to his wrists, but she didn’t push him away. Her resistance was a performance, a formality they both understood.
“Stop,” she pleaded, but it was a whisper, a sigh.
“You don’t mean that,” he growled, his mouth on her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over her pulse point. His hand slid inside her trousers, past the elastic of her underwear, his fingers seeking the wet heat he knew he’d find. “Fuck, Vanja. You’re still so wet for me. Still dripping my come.”
He was right. Her body betrayed her every thought. As his middle finger found her slit, sliding through her slick folds, a low moan escaped her lips. She bit down on it, turning it into a strangled gasp. He pressed the pad of his finger against her clit, making her jolt, her head thumping back against the wall.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “Think about them all out there. Think about having to sit at that table and answer their stupid questions while my fingers are inside you.”
He pushed one finger into her, then a second, his knuckles stretching her. It was a brutal, delicious invasion. Her inner muscles clenched around him instantly, drawing him deeper. She was so sensitive, every movement sending jolts of electric pleasure through her exhausted nerves. He began to fuck her with his fingers, a steady, punishing rhythm that matched the frantic beating of her heart. The wet, squelching sound was horrifying and exhilarating.
“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered, his lips against her temple. “You love the risk. You love knowing I can make you fall apart at any moment.”
She could only nod, her eyes squeezed shut, her hips beginning to move in tiny, involuntary circles against his hand. The orgasm was building again, a treacherous coil tightening deep in her belly. The world narrowed to the feel of his fingers pistoning in and out of her, the rough texture of his tracksuit against her back, the dangerous proximity of the door.
A sharp, clear knock echoed through the room, followed by a familiar, amused voice that sliced through the haze of her pleasure.
“Five minutes, kids.”
Joshua Kimmich. The sound of his voice, so casual and knowing, was a bucket of ice water. Her eyes flew open. Elias froze, his fingers still buried inside her. For a long, terrifying second, they were both perfectly still, listening to the retreating footsteps.
Then Elias leaned in, his voice a raw, possessive scrape in her ear. “He knows.” He curled his fingers inside her, hitting a spot that made her see stars. “But he doesn’t know what I’m going to do to you later. When I have you bent over this very table, when I make you scream into that microphone so the whole world hears you.”
The image, combined with the skilled motion of his fingers, was too much. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, violent convulsion that stole her breath. She clamped her mouth shut, her body seizing, her cunt pulsing wildly around his invading fingers. He held her through it, his body pinning hers to the wall, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.
As the last waves subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening. He brought them to his mouth, his intense green eyes locked on hers, and sucked them clean with a slow, deliberate obscenity.
The door handle rattled.
Elias stepped back, smoothly zipping and buttoning her trousers as if he were simply adjusting her coat. He wiped his hand on his tracksuit. The smirk was back, full of wicked promise.
Vanja sagged against the wall, her legs like water, the scent of her own arousal thick in the air. She had to walk out there now. She had to sit beside him, under the blinding lights, and pretend her world hadn’t just been shattered twice in one hour. And all the while, the ghost of his threat echoed in the room, a dark promise of what was yet to come.
The door swung inward before her trembling legs could find their strength.
Joshua Kimmich stood framed in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his gaze sweeping from Elias’s composed, smug face to her own, which she knew was flushed and guilty. He didn’t step fully inside, just held the door open, letting the cacophony of the waiting media spill into the room like a wave. “They’re ready for you,” he said, his voice flat, his eyes lingering on Vanja for a moment too long. He’d heard. He knew.
Elias didn’t even flinch. He adjusted the cuff of his tracksuit jacket, a casual, infuriating movement. “We’re done here,” he said, not to Joshua, but to her, his voice a low, intimate threat that promised the opposite. He brushed past Joshua without a second glance, striding out into the hallway as if he owned the very air.
Vanja pushed herself off the wall, her muscles protesting, the phantom feel of his fingers still buried inside her making her walk feel unsteady. She couldn’t look at Joshua as she passed, focusing on the scuffed toe of her shoe. His hand shot out, not touching her, but blocking her path for a heartbeat.
“Be careful, Beckenbauer,” he murmured, the words for her alone. “That one plays a different game.”
Then he dropped his arm, and she was moving, propelled into the bright, noisy hallway toward the bank of cameras. Elias was already taking his seat at the long table, a brilliant, easy smile plastered on his face for the reporters. She slid into the chair beside him, the plastic cold even through her trousers. The microphone in front of her felt like a weapon he had promised to use against her.
“Quite a goal, Elias,” the first reporter began, and Elias launched into a polished answer, all team effort and collective spirit.
His knee, under the table, bumped against hers. Then it pressed, a firm, unyielding pressure that pinned her leg against the underside of the table. She flinched, her notepad slipping from her fingers. He didn’t look at her, just continued speaking, his voice calm and authoritative.
His hand dropped into his lap, and then, so casually it was chilling, he placed it on her thigh. His fingers dug into the muscle through the fabric, a brand of ownership. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. He was talking about formation, about pressing triggers, all while his thumb began to stroke slow, deliberate circles high up on her inner thigh.
“And of course, the coaching staff’s analysis was key in identifying their weak side,” Elias said, his voice smooth as silk, his fingers inching higher.
She felt a fresh, treacherous dampness bloom between her legs. Her face heated, and she stared fixedly at the tabletop, praying the cameras couldn’t see the riot happening below it. His fingertips reached the crease of her thigh, pressing insistently against the seam of her trousers, right against her swollen, sensitive flesh.
“Vanja?” another reporter called, and her head snapped up. “Your thoughts on Elias’s second-half movement?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Elias’s finger pressed down harder, a direct, obscene pressure on her clit through the layers of fabric. A sharp, choked sound escaped her. She cleared her throat, her mind a blank, white static.
“I… his off-the-ball runs were… decisive,” she managed to force out, her voice strangled.
Elias gave her thigh a approving squeeze. His finger moved, rubbing her in a slow, torturous rhythm as she stammered through a generic answer about spatial awareness. He was fucking her with one finger, right there in front of everyone, and the heat was coiling in her belly again, a shameful, unstoppable tide. She could feel the eyes of the room, of Joshua sitting slightly apart, on her. She was coming apart under their scrutiny, under his invisible, expert hand.
She finished her sentence, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table. The moderator moved on to another question. Elias finally, mercifully, removed his hand, placing both of his on the table as if nothing had happened. She sagged in her chair, utterly spent, the ache between her legs a triumphant, humiliating trophy.
The second the moderator signaled the end, Elias was on his feet, shaking hands, smiling. He leaned down as if to retrieve her fallen notepad, his mouth close to her ear. “My room. One hour,” he breathed, the words a hot command. “Don’t be late.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by a crowd of well-wishers. Vanja sat there, stranded in the sudden silence of the emptying room, the scent of his skin and her own arousal the only things that felt real. Joshua watched her from across the table, his expression grim, before turning and walking away without a word. She had one hour to decide if she would walk into that room, and what would be left of her if she did.
She spent fifty-nine of those minutes in a scalding shower, water beating against skin that still hummed with the memory of his hands. Her body felt like a foreign country, its borders violated, its terrain mapped and claimed by a hostile, captivating force. The steam couldn’t cleanse the feeling of his fingers inside her, or the phantom pressure of his knee pinning her under the table.
At exactly the sixtieth minute, she stood outside his room, hair damp, wearing fresh clothes that felt like a flimsy costume. Her knuckles hovered an inch from the wood. Running was the sane choice, the professional one, the only choice that preserved any shred of the authority she’d fought so hard to build. Her fist fell, a single, decisive knock.
The door swung open immediately. He’d been waiting. He wore only a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets clinging to the defined planes of his chest and stomach. His eyes, intense and green, scanned her from head to toe, missing nothing. “You’re late,” he said, but his voice was thick with anticipation, not anger.
He didn’t wait for a reply, just grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside, kicking the door shut with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. He backed her against it, his body a solid wall of heat, the towel rough against her thin trousers. “You were thinking about not coming,” he accused, his mouth descending to her neck.
“I was,” she breathed, her head tilting back against the wood, granting him access.
His tongue traced a path to her ear. “But this cunt decided for you, didn’t it?” His hand cupped her between the legs, his palm grinding against her. “It’s been throbbing for me since the press box. It’s fucking addicted.”
A shuddering moan was her only answer. He was right. The core of her was a raw, wanting thing, separate from her mind, from her will. He made quick, brutal work of her clothes, his hands tearing at the button of her trousers, yanking them and her underwear down her thighs in one rough motion. The cool air hit her damp skin, and she gasped.
“Turn around,” he growled, spinning her to face the door. He pressed his front against her back, his erection a hard line against her through the towel. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. The other guided his cock, the blunt, hot head of it nudging at her entrance. “You want this?” he whispered into her ear, his voice a dark caress. “You want this filthy cock splitting you open again?”
“Yes,” she hissed, the word torn from her.
He didn’t enter her slowly. He drove into her with a single, deep, punishing thrust that stole her air and made her see stars. She cried out, her hands slapping against the door for support. He was so deep, stretching her, filling the empty, aching hollow his fingers had promised. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, his hips flush against her ass.
He began to move, a ruthless, piston-like rhythm that had none of the finesse of their earlier encounters. This was raw claiming. Each thrust jarred her forward, her breasts rubbing against the cold wood of the door. The sound was obscene—the wet slap of his skin against hers, their ragged breaths, the creak of the door in its frame. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, holding her in place for his use.
“This is what you are for me,” he panted, pounding into her. “Your brilliant fucking mind, your PhD, your famous name… it all boils down to this wet, greedy hole.”
She was close already, her body responding to the sheer animal force of him. The pleasure was a sharp, bright pain, building with every jarring impact. Her nails scrabbled against the painted wood. “Elias… please…”
“Please what?” he snarled, his pace increasing, becoming frantic. “Come on my cock? Do it. Scream for me. Let the whole hotel hear how their golden boy fucks his coach.”
The permission, the crude command, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around his driving length. A broken, guttural cry was torn from her throat as she came, her vision blurring at the edges.
He followed her over the edge with a harsh, guttural groan, his body slamming into hers one last, final time as he emptied himself deep inside her with a hot, pulsing rush. He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, his weight heavy on her back, his breath hot on her neck.
The sound of slow, deliberate clapping broke the silence.
It came from the corner of the room, near the open balcony door. Vanja froze, her post-coital haze evaporating in a heartbeat of pure, undiluted terror. Elias went rigid inside her.
Joshua Kimmich stood there, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. He wasn’t smiling. His expression was cold, analytical, like a scientist observing a particularly predictable experiment. “A truly inspirational performance,” he said, his voice flat. “The future of German football is in such… passionate hands.”
Elias pulled out of her so fast she stumbled, the sudden emptiness a visceral shock. He yanked his towel from the floor and wrapped it around his waist, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. “What the fuck are you doing in my room, Kimmich?”
Joshua pushed off the wall, his eyes moving from Elias’s heaving chest to Vanja, who was frantically pulling up her trousers, her back still to him, her face burning with a shame so profound it felt like a physical wound.
“The balcony doors were open,” Joshua said, as if that explained everything. His gaze locked on Vanja. “I came to talk strategy. Seems I’m interrupting yours.” He took a step closer, his presence sucking all the air from the room. “Get dressed, Beckenbauer. We need to talk. Now.”