Chapter 6: Whiskey and Wounds
The hotel corridor was a tunnel of muted beige and low-pile carpet, stretching toward a door that felt like the entrance to a cage. Vanja’s knuckles rapped against the wood, the sound absorbed by the dense silence. No answer. She tried the handle. Unlocked.
The room smelled of whiskey and wasted potential. Elias was slumped on the worn-out sofa, shirtless, a half-empty bottle of Macallan at his feet. His right hand was a grotesque balloon of purple and blue, clumsily wrapped in a stretch bandage that was already staining. He didn’t look up as she entered.
“Get out,” he slurred, his voice thick and hollow.
Vanja kicked the door shut, the bang making him flinch. “Look at you.” Her voice was cold, a scalpel. “A masterpiece of self-pity.”
He finally lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, the brilliant green dulled by alcohol and despair. “What do you want? A consultation? Bill me for your time, Doctor.”
She strode across the room, snatching the bottle from the floor. She poured the remaining amber liquid into the sink in the small kitchenette, the glug-glug-glug a final, dismissive sound. “Don’t do this, Elias. Don’t throw your future away because you’re in a mood. Don’t be fucking stupid. You are a grown man. Act like it.”
He launched himself off the sofa with a sudden, feral energy that made her stumble back. He loomed over her, his good hand slamming into the wall by her head, caging her. The heat from his bare chest radiated against her, the smell of him—sweat, whiskey, and anger—overwhelming.
“A grown man?” he sneered, his face inches from hers. “You reduced me to this. To a fucking animal who punches walls because he can’t get a woman out of his head.”
“I reduced you?” she shot back, her fear morphing into fury. “You did this to yourself. You and your fragile fucking ego.”
His eyes darkened. In one brutal motion, he spun her around and shoved her face-first onto the bed. His body came down on top of her, his weight pinning her, his injured hand resting beside her head, the other gripping her hip so hard she knew it would bruise.
“You want to fix me?” he growled into her ear, his voice a raw, broken thing. His hips ground against her ass, his cock already a hard, demanding ridge through his jeans. “Then take all of me. The fucked-up parts, the angry parts. All of it.”
He fumbled with her trousers, yanking them and her underwear down to her knees with a single, rough pull. The cool air hit her skin, followed an instant later by the rasp of his zipper. He didn’t bother taking his jeans off, just shoved them down enough to free himself. He was thick and hard, the head of his cock slick with pre-cum as he pressed it against her entrance.
“You want this?” he demanded, his breath hot on her neck. “This is what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer. She was already pushing back against him, a silent, damning consent. He let out a choked sound, part triumph, part agony, and drove into her with a single, deep, punishing thrust. She cried out, her fingers twisting in the cheap bedspread, her body stretching to accommodate his girth. He filled her completely, a familiar, devastating invasion.
He began to move, a hard, frantic rhythm fueled by pain and a desperate, clawing need. Each thrust was a jolt that shook the bedframe, a physical manifestation of his chaos. His injured hand came up, his bandaged fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat.
“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he grunted, his voice strained. “Tell me this isn’t the only thing that makes any fucking sense.”
She couldn’t. It was a truth as fundamental as gravity. In this raw, ugly coupling, everything else fell away—the photo, the blonde girl, the expectations, the legacy. There was only this brutal, honest collision.
She met his rhythm, arching her back, taking him deeper, forcing him to feel her own power. A low, guttural moan was torn from his chest. His thrusts became less controlled, more ragged, his body slamming into hers with a primal hunger. The pain in his hand was forgotten, consumed by a different, all-consuming fire.
“Vanja,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Vanja, I…”
He drove into her, once, twice more, then stilled, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a shattered, broken cry. His body convulsed against hers, his release hot and pulsing inside her. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a crushing, comforting burden, his face buried in her hair.
For a long time, the only sound was their ragged, intermingled breathing. Slowly, he rolled off her, onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving.
“I love you.”
The words hung in the stale air, simple and devastating.
Vanja pushed herself up on her elbows, her body aching, her mind reeling. “What?”
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes clear for the first time, stripped bare of all arrogance and defense. “I love you,” he repeated, the words quiet but absolute. “I’m so stupid. I didn’t… I didn’t know how to say it. I don’t have anyone else. It’s you. It has been you ever since I saw you first.”
The confession was a bomb detonating in the quiet room. All the fights, the harsh words, the brutal sex—it had all been a twisted, clumsy translation of this one, simple, terrifying truth.
Vanja looked at him—at the magnificent, broken boy lying next to her, his future hanging by a thread of swollen tendons and bruised bone. She saw the raw vulnerability in his gaze, the sheer, staggering courage it had taken for him to say those words.
She swung her legs off the bed, pulling her clothes back into place with practical, deliberate movements. She walked to the small desk, found a notepad and a pen.
“Okay,” she said, her voice low and steady.
He watched her, confusion and a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Okay?”
She didn’t look at him. She was already writing, her hand moving quickly. “Okay. We need to fix you. Training is in three hours.” She ripped the top sheet off the pad. It was a list. Ice. Ibuprofen. A specific type of compression wrap. The name and number of a private clinic that asked no questions.
She tossed the paper onto the bed beside him. “Get cleaned up. I’ll get the supplies. You have ninety minutes to be sober and dressed.”
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She finally looked back at him, her golden-green eyes holding his. “We’ll talk about the other thing later.”
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving him alone with the echo of her promise and the first, fragile thread of hope.
The door clicked shut. For a moment, Elias just stared at it, the silence in the room roaring in his ears. Then he looked at the list in his hand, her precise, academic script a stark contrast to the chaos she’d just carved into his soul. He moved.
Three hours later, he stood on the pristine training pitch, his right hand a numb, tightly-wrapped club inside his glove. Every pass, every dummy run sent a dull throb up his arm. He ignored it. His focus was a laser, pinpointed on the figure standing alone on the sideline, arms crossed, a silhouette against the grey sky. Vanja. She watched every move, her expression unreadable.
“Richter! Eyes on the ball, not the skirt!” one of the guys jeered during a water break. Laughter rippled through the group.
Joshua Kimmich, observing the session, sidled up to him, his voice low. “That’s a distraction you can’t afford, Elias. Not now.”
Elias took a long swallow of water, his gaze never leaving Vanja. “She’s the reason I’m here,” he said, the truth simple and absolute. “So, yeah.” Kimmich studied him for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod of understanding.
The stadium was a cauldron of sound, a roaring, living entity. When his number lit up the board in the 64th minute, a current of pure, undiluted purpose shot through him. He exploded onto the pitch, the pain in his hand a distant memory. The ball came to him just past the halfway line. Without a second thought, without even looking up, he unleashed a thunderbolt. It sailed, a perfect, arcing predator, from a third of the pitch out, dipping viciously under the crossbar. The net bulged. The roar was deafening.
He didn’t hear it. He spun, scanning the dugout, the VIP seats, his heart hammering against his ribs. She was gone. The euphoria curdled into a cold, sharp dread in his gut.
He found himself outside her apartment door, still in his track suit, the scent of grass and sweat clinging to him. He knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet hallway. The door opened. Her face was puffy, her golden-green eyes red-rimmed. She’d been crying.
“Elias,” she breathed, her voice ragged. “Why are you here?”
“You fucking kidding me?” The words tore out of him, raw and wounded. “I… you left me.”
“I went home,” she said, her voice a broken whisper.
“Yeah. You ran. From me. From us.” He stepped forward, invading her space, his body trembling with adrenaline and fear.
“There is no us,” she whispered, the words so quiet he almost didn’t hear them.
“What if I want there to be?” he asked, his voice cracking. He felt the facade of the golden boy, the superstar, splintering apart. “What do I need to do? Score more goals? Punch more walls? Beg? Vanja, please.” He was broken, his expression a mirror of her own shattered state.
She looked at him, at the desperate, pleading truth in his eyes, and a quiet acceptance settled over her features. “Okay,” she said.
She stepped back. “Okay. Enter.”
He did. The door closed. The space between them vanished in a single, frantic step. He backed her against the wall, his hands cradling her face, his thumbs smearing the wet tracks of her tears. His mouth found hers, not with the brutal force of the hotel room, but with a desperate, consuming hunger. It was a confession, an apology, a claim.
“I meant it,” he gasped against her lips, his voice thick. “Every word.”
“Show me,” she demanded, her fingers clawing at the back of his jacket, pulling it down his arms.
They stumbled toward her bedroom, a tangled mess of shedding clothes and frantic hands. He pushed her down onto the bed, his eyes devouring her. He was on her in an instant, his mouth trailing a hot, wet path down her throat, over the swell of her breasts. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing it until she cried out, her back arching off the mattress.
“You’re all I see,” he growled, moving lower, his hands spreading her thighs apart. “Every fucking thing else is just noise.”
He buried his face between her legs, his tongue finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He licked and sucked, a ruthless, dedicated rhythm that had her twisting the sheets in her fists, her hips bucking against his mouth. “Elias… god…” she choked out.
He didn’t let up, driving her higher and higher until she shattered, a sharp, broken cry tearing from her throat as her body convulsed under his mouth. He rose above her, his eyes wild, his cock thick and heavy in his hand. He positioned himself at her entrance, slick with her release and his saliva.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
Her eyes, hazy with pleasure, found his. He pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion that made her gasp. He filled her completely, a perfect, devastating fit. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was nothing like the frantic fucking of before. This was a claiming, a conversation. Each thrust was a punctuation to his confession.
“I. Love. You.” He drove the words home with his hips, his gaze locked on hers, refusing to let her hide.
Tears welled in her eyes again, but these were different. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. “I’m here,” she breathed, her nails digging into the sweat-slicked muscles of his back. “I’m right here.”
His control shattered. The pace became frantic, a primal, driving need. The bed slammed against the wall, their bodies sliding together, skin slapping against skin. He was panting, grunting with the effort, his face a mask of ecstatic agony. “Vanja, I’m gonna… fuck…”
“Do it,” she urged, her own climax building again, coiling tight deep inside. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”
With a final, guttural roar, he plunged deep and stilled, his body seizing as he emptied himself into her in hot, pulsing waves. The feeling triggered her own release, a second, softer unraveling that milked him dry. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Their hearts hammered against each other, a frantic, synchronized drumbeat in the quiet room.
He didn’t pull out. He just held her, his breath slowly steadying against her skin. The world outside, with its cameras and expectations, ceased to exist. There was only this: the smell of sex and sweat, the salt of dried tears on her skin, and the terrifying, exhilarating truth hanging in the air between them.
The truth was a live wire between them, buzzing in the aftermath of their sweat-slicked bodies. Elias’s weight was a solid, comforting pressure, but the stickiness of drying sweat and the scent of sex was becoming a sharp, uncomfortable reminder of their raw collision. He stirred first, lifting his head from her neck, his green eyes searching hers in the dim light. “We’re a mess,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with spent passion.
She just nodded, her fingers tracing the taut line of his shoulder blade. The gesture was quieter, more intimate than anything that had come before. He shifted, pulling out of her with a soft, wet sound that made her gasp softly. The physical separation felt momentous. He swung his legs off the bed, his naked form a study in lean, powerful lines in the half-light, and held out a hand to her. “Come on.”
The bathroom was small, tiled in white, steam already beginning to fog the mirror as he turned the knobs. He tested the water with his bandaged hand, hissing slightly at the contact. Then he led her under the spray. The hot water was a shock, a blissful scalding that sluiced over their heads and shoulders, tracing paths through the sweat and other fluids on their skin. He reached for a bar of soap, working up a lather in his palms with a surprising tenderness.
His good hand moved over her back, slick and slow, washing away the evidence of their frantic coupling against the hotel wall and in her bed. The soapy circles he made were a silent apology, a reverence. He turned her gently, his lathered hands sliding over her breasts, her stomach, between her legs, cleansing her with an intimacy that felt more profound than the sex itself. She let her head fall back, the water plastering her dark blonde hair to her scalp, her golden-green eyes closed. This was a different kind of nakedness.
He guided her back under the spray to rinse, his hands following the water’s path, ensuring every last trace was gone. Then it was her turn. She took the soap from him, her eyes locking with his as she worked it into a foam. She started with his chest, mapping the defined muscles she’d clawed at in her climax, then moved lower, soaping his stomach, his hips. She took his flaccid cock in her hand, washing him with a deliberate, possessive thoroughness that made him suck in a sharp breath. Her fingers slid over his softness, cleaning every inch, before moving to his strong thighs.
He was hard again by the time she finished, his erection standing thick and eager against his stomach. The steam wrapped around them like a cloak. “Vanja,” he breathed, his voice thick with renewed want.
She didn’t speak. She simply turned around, bracing her hands flat against the cool tiles, and looked back at him over her shoulder, an unspoken challenge in her glistening eyes. A raw sound tore from his throat. He stepped close, his wet body pressing against her back, his hands gripping her hips. He guided himself to her entrance, still slick and warm from the water and her touch. He pushed inside with a single, deep, claiming thrust that filled her completely, making her cry out, the sound swallowed by the drumming water.
He fucked her there, under the relentless spray, his pace steady and deep, a world away from their earlier violence. This was a reaffirmation. His bandaged hand splayed across her stomach, holding her tight against him, while the other gripped her hip, his fingers pressing into her flesh. Each movement was a slick, solid slide, the water cascading over their joined bodies, amplifying the sound of their skin meeting. “You’re mine,” he grunted into her ear, his breath hot against the steam. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasped, the admission wrenched from her as he angled deeper, hitting a spot that made her legs tremble. Her consent was a catalyst. His rhythm fractured into something more primal, more desperate. His thrusts became shorter, harder, a frantic pounding that echoed in the small tiled space. She met him push for push, her own pleasure coiling, tightening, until it snapped. She came with a choked scream, her inner muscles clenching around him in violent waves.
The feeling undid him. With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and poured into her, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever. He slumped against her, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his entire body shuddering. They stood there for a long time, locked together as the water began to run cool, the steam slowly dissipating to reveal the stark, clean truth of them.