Chapter 5: Public Claim
h sch
The photograph was a splash of acid on her screen. Elias, his arm slung around a girl with flat-ironed blonde hair and a laugh that seemed to scream through the pixels. They were outside a cafe, his body angled toward her, his smile easy and public. It was everywhere. Bild, Sport1, even the serious broadsheets ran it with a coy caption about the golden boy’s new friend. Vanja stared at it in the sterile light of her penthouse, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing a Frankfurt skyline that felt suddenly brittle and fake.
Her first, shameful thought was of the wall in the Lisbon hotel, the brutal, rhythmic slamming, his voice in her ear. This cunt is mine. Her second thought was a cold, clinical assessment: the girl was pretty. Regular. Unthreatening. The kind of pretty that wouldn’t ask complicated questions or have a PhD hanging on the wall.
A sound escaped her, a half-laugh that caught in her throat and turned into something else. She was glad. Glad he was leaving for the Mannschaft. Glad for the distance, for the clean break. It was better this way. For the team, for him, for her.
Then the laugh came again, sharper, bordering on hysterical. Of course he would still be everywhere. He would be on television, his face looming over sports bars. His name would be in conversations on the street, in the strategies she herself would help devise for future opponents. There was no escape, only a change of venue.
The tears were a surprise. They weren’t the quiet, tragic kind. They were hot and angry, streaking down her face as she sat on the sleek, uncomfortable sofa. She cried for the humiliation, for the sheer, stupid physicality of her need for him that still throbbed as a phantom ache between her legs. She cried because he had used her, and she had let him, and a part of her, a deep, secret part, had loved it.
A week passed. The radio silence was absolute. No more photos appeared. No texts. No calls. It was as if their encounters had been a fever dream, a secret history written in steam and sweat on closet walls, now wiped clean. She buried herself in work, in her dissertation, in the cold comfort of data. She avoided the training ground, working from the sterile expanse of her apartment. The silence was its own kind of noise, a constant, high-pitched hum of absence.
It was on the eighth night, with a storm lashing rain against the panoramic windows, that the intercom buzzed. The sound was a physical jolt. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a traitorous, hopeful drum. She walked to the panel, her hand hovering.
She pressed the button. “Yes?”
No voice answered. Just the sound of the storm and the sharp, insistent buzz of the door release being held down from the lobby. A command.
Her finger trembled over the ‘lock’ button. She could refuse. She could end this here. But her body was already moving, buzzing with a dreadful anticipation. She pressed the button to unlock the main entrance.
She didn’t open her apartment door. She stood behind it, listening. The elevator dinged. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached down the hall. They stopped outside her door. She could feel him there, a pressure change in the air.
The knob turned. He’d never returned his key.
The door swung inward and he filled the frame, soaked through. Rainwater dripped from his hair, plastering his light t-shirt to the defined planes of his chest and stomach. He smelled of night air, expensive cologne, and whiskey. His eyes were dark, intense pools in the dim light of her hallway.
“You’re here,” she said, her voice thin.
“Where else would I be?” He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. His gaze swept over her, taking in her loose sleep shirt and bare legs. “You saw the picture.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded, unable to speak.
He moved then, fast. He closed the distance between them, his hands gripping her upper arms, his body crowding her back against the wall beside the door. The cold from his clothes seeped into her skin.
“She’s nothing,” he said, his voice low and rough. “A distraction. A photo op for my new fucking sponsors. They want a ‘balanced image’.” He spat the words like they were poison.
“You looked happy,” Vanja whispered, hating the weakness in her own voice.
His laugh was a short, harsh bark. “Happy? I can’t fucking breathe.” One of his hands left her arm and cupped her jaw, his thumb pressing against her lips. “You’re the only thing that feels real. You and this.” His other hand slid down, over her hip, pushing the hem of her shirt up. His fingers, cold and demanding, slipped inside the waistband of her panties.
She gasped, her head hitting the wall. “Elias…”
“Shut up,” he growled, his mouth descending on hers. This kiss was different from all the others. It was possessive, yes, but it was also desperate, almost pleading. It was a confession he would never speak aloud. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting of whiskey and a deep, bottomless need. His fingers found her center, stroking her through the thin cotton, and she was already wet, her body igniting for him with a humiliating, instantaneous surrender.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He spun her around, facing her toward the wall, mirroring their last time. He shoved her sleep shirt up her back, baring her skin to the cool air. He ripped her panties down, the fabric tearing at the seams, and she heard the rasp of his zipper, the crinkle of a foil packet.
He was on her in an instant, his body a hard, wet line against her back. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. The other guided his cock, the broad, slick head pressing against her entrance. He was thick and hard, and he pushed into her with a single, relentless thrust that buried him to the hilt.
A choked cry was torn from her throat. He filled her completely, stretching her, a familiar and devastating fullness. He held there, buried deep, his body shuddering.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he challenged, his voice a raw whisper against her ear, his breath hot.
She couldn’t. Her body was already clenching around him, a traitorous, welcoming fist.
He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that was entirely for him. Each thrust was a punctuation mark on a week of silence, a physical rebuttal to the girl in the photograph. The slap of his skin against her ass, the wet, slick sounds of their joining, his guttural grunts—it was a raw, animal reclamation.
“This is mine,” he snarled, his hand tightening in her hair. “This tight, perfect cunt. You think about that picture when I’m fucking you? You think about her?”
“No,” she gasped, the word a lie and a truth. She was thinking only of this, of the feeling of him splitting her open, of the exquisite friction that was building into an inferno.
“Good.” His pace quickened, becoming harder, more frantic. “There is no one else. There is only this. You understand? Only this.”
His words, the sheer, possessive filth of them, tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm crashed over her, violent and blinding, her body seizing around his cock, milking him, pulling a shattered roar from his chest. He slammed into her once, twice more, then stilled, pouring himself into her with a final, shuddering thrust.
He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the wall, his breath a storm against her neck. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged panting and the rain lashing the windows.
Slowly, he pulled out. The sensation was a loss. He turned her around, his eyes searching her face. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a stark, unsettling vulnerability.
“They’re announcing my number for the senior team tomorrow,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s done.”
Vanja just looked at him, her body humming, her heart a bruised, confused thing in her chest. He had used her again. He had come here, to her, to assert his control, to purge his demons. And she had let him.
He leaned in and kissed her, softly this time, a ghost of the violence that had just passed. Then he straightened, adjusted his clothes, and walked to the door without another word.
He left the key on the small table by the entrance.
The click of the door closing was softer than she expected, but it echoed in the vast, silent space of the penthouse. She slid down the wall to the floor, the cool hardwood seeping through her thin shirt. The storm outside was finally beginning to subside.
It was done. He was gone. The key on the table was the final period. She drew her knees to her chest, the physical memory of him a fresh, aching brand inside her. He was using her, and she was letting him. But as she sat there in the aftermath, a cold, hard clarity began to form through the haze of pleasure and paiThe game had changed. The rules were different now. And she was done just being a player on his field.
The sharp buzz of the intercom cut through her newfound resolve like a shard of glass. Her body, still humming from his earlier invasion, went rigid. She didn’t move. She counted the seconds in the pounding of her heart, a frantic drum against her ribs. The buzzer sounded again, longer, more insistent, a finger held down on a trigger.
She walked to the panel, her bare feet silent on the cool floor. “Who is it?” Her voice was steadier than she felt.
Static crackled, then his voice, stripped of all pleasantry, a low vibration through the speaker. “It’s me.”
Vanja’s finger hovered over the lock button. She could leave him standing in the rain-swept lobby. She could let this be the end. But the part of her that had just sworn to change the game knew that real power wasn’t in avoidance. It was in controlled confrontation. She pressed the button, unlocking the main door.
She didn’t chain the bolt on her apartment door. She simply stood back, waiting. The elevator’s chime was a death knell. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, consuming the hallway. The knob turned and he was there, filling the frame again, his hair damp, his eyes shadowed and burning.
He didn’t speak. He just pushed forward, forcing her to step back as he crossed the threshold and kicked the door shut with a finality that shook the walls. The lock clicked into place.
“One last time,” he growled, the words rough and raw, as if torn from his throat.
Before she could form a protest, his hands were on her, turning her with brutal efficiency to face the vast, black window. The city lights blazed behind them, a thousand indifferent stars. He pressed his front against her back, his hard cock already a rigid line against her through his jeans. His arms locked around her, one hand splaying across her stomach, the other closing over her breast, possessive and rough.
“Elias, don’t,” she breathed, but it was a token resistance, her body already betraying her, softening into his familiar shape.
“You don’t get to tell me no,” he muttered into her hair, his breath hot against her neck. His hands worked quickly, pushing her loose sleep shorts and torn panties down her thighs. He fumbled with his own belt, the clink of the buckle stark in the quiet room. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself.
He didn’t prepare her. He just guided the thick, blunt head of his cock to her entrance, which was already shamefully wet for him. He pushed, a single, relentless invasion that stole her breath. He was huge, stretching her, filling a hollow ache she hated herself for feeling.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt. He held there for a moment, a statue of tension, his body trembling against hers.
Then he began to move. His thrusts were not about pleasure; they were a punishment, a branding. Each drive of his hips slammed her against the cool glass, the city sprawling beneath them like a conquered kingdom. His grip on her was iron, holding her in place for his brutal, rhythmic taking.
“This is what you want,” he snarled, his voice guttural. “This fucking cunt grips me like it’s never letting go.”
She cried out, a mix of pain and a devastating, rising pleasure. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the smooth glass, leaving smeared prints. Her own orgasm was building, a treacherous wave gathering force despite her fury, coiling tight in her belly with every possessive slam of his body into hers.
He felt her inner muscles begin to flutter and clamp down around him. “Come for me,” he commanded, his hand sliding from her breast down between her legs, his fingers finding her clit. “Come on my cock, Vanja. Now.”
The command, the crude, explicit touch, shattered her. She came with a broken scream, her body convulsing around his driving length, her vision whiting out as the city lights blurred into streaks of gold. Her climax triggered his; with a final, deep, grinding thrust, he emptied himself inside her with a raw, animal sound that was half roar, half sob.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged, syncopated breathing fogging the window. He slumped against her, his weight a heavy, familiar burden. Then, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a visceral shock.
He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a practicality that felt like a deeper violation than the sex itself.
Vanja turned around, her legs trembling, pulling her shorts up with shaking hands. The heat of him was already cooling on her inner thighs. A cold, clean fury washed through her, scouring away the last traces of pathetic longing.
“Get out,” she said, her voice low and steady.
He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Vanja—”
“Get out,” she screamed, the sound tearing from her raw throat. “And don’t ever come again!”
He flinched, his jaw tightening. “Vanja,” he said again, a plea and an accusation.
“I don’t care.” The words were absolute. She walked to the door and yanked it open, the hallway light cutting a sharp line across his face. “Congratulations.”
She saw the confusion in his eyes, the dawning understanding that this was about the photo, about the blonde girl laughing in the sun. He opened his mouth to explain, to say her name was Lara, that she was just a friend, that the date was nothing, a failed experiment, that the media had blown it all out of proportion. But the words died before they were born. He looked at Vanja’s face, at the heartbreak she could no longer conceal beneath the fury, and he knew any explanation would be a pathetic, meaningless noise.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the sound full of a despair he would never admit to.
Vanja slammed the door in his face. The boom echoed through the penthouse, a final, decisive full stop. She stood there, listening to his silent presence on the other side for one second, two, before she heard his footsteps retreating, slower this time, heavy, until there was only the hum of the elevator and the vast, echoing silence of her own victory.
The silence he left behind was a physical thing, a dense, cold fog that settled in her lungs. She slid down the door, the wood hard against her spine, and drew her knees up. Her body felt used, hollowed out, the ghost of his thrusts still a dull ache between her legs. A victory, she had called it, but it tasted like ash and salt.
Across the city, Elias kicked his own front door shut. The pristine, minimalist apartment felt like a mockery. He ripped the framed first jersey of his professional career from the wall and sent it smashing into the glass coffee table. The shattering crash was a satisfying punctuation to his fucking misery.
He didn’t understand it. He had gone to her to fix it, to brand himself back into her skin, to prove that the girl in the photograph was nothing. And he had. He’d felt her come apart on his cock, heard her scream. But then she had looked at him with those fucking eyes, full of a shattered finality that his goals and his talent couldn’t undo. He’d fucked it up. He’d fucked it up so completely he had no map, no play, no idea what to do.
A ragged sound tore from his throat. He picked up a sleek ceramic vase and launched it at the floor-to-ceiling window; it bounced off the reinforced glass and shattered. He was crying, hot, shameful tears of frustration that he wiped away with a furious snarl. His right hand, on his scoring sidr, connected with the drywall beside the kitchen island. The impact was a sickening crunch of plaster and bone.
A blinding, white-hot pain shot up his arm. He cradled his hand, watching the knuckles immediately swell and bloom into a deep, ugly purple. He slumped to the floor, surrounded by the wreckage, his hand throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He was supposed to be in camp. His debut was tomorrow.
The morning sun was an insult. Vanja’s phone vibrated on the marble countertop, pulling her from a thin, restless sleep. Hansi Flick’s name flashed on the screen. Her stomach tightened. “Hansi,” she said, her voice rough. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” the national coach’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. “It’s Elias. He’s….”
“Not playing today?” she asked, a cold dread seeping into her.
"Yes..." says Hansi.
“What?” she asked, shocked.
“He is not playing. He is, shit, Vanja, I don’t know what happened but he got hurt. He’s in his room, refusing to get out.”
“That’s not like him,” she said, the words automatic. The Elias she knew would crawl onto the pitch with a broken leg for a chance at glory.
“I know,” Hansi replied, his frustration palpable. “Which is why I’m calling you. You know him. He, he seems to care about your opinion.”
Vanja closed her eyes. That was one way to put it, she thought, the memory of his body pinning her to the window a fresh, painful brand. “Okay,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “What do you need me to do?”
“Can you come here, please?” The request was stripped of all coaching authority, just a raw plea. “He’s the best we’ve had since Gerd. I don’t want him to….”
“Yeah,” she cut him off, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. “I’ll be there in an hour.”