Chapter 1: best friends
The city glittered below, a million pinpricks of light bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Vanja Schmidt’s penthouse bedroom. Sweat cooled on her skin, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from her core. She sat astride Alex Pavlovic’s face, thighs like marble pillars framing his head, the muscles she’d honed on Olympic tracks trembling with exertion and oversensitivity. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfume, sex, and exertion.
“Clean your mess, Pavlovic,” Vanja commanded, her voice a low, satisfied purr, rough around the edges. Her fingers were tangled in his dark, sweat-dampened hair, anchoring him firmly beneath her. She shifted, grinding her swollen, hypersensitive flesh against his mouth with deliberate pressure.
Alex groaned, the sound muffled by her. His hands gripped her hips, not pushing away, but holding her steady as his tongue moved. Languid. Thorough. Obliging. He lapped at the slick evidence of their coupling, the tang of salt and her own arousal sharp on his tongue. His eyes, heavy-lidded, looked up at her through the shadowy gap between her thighs. There was amusement there, exhaustion, and pure, uncomplicated contentment. He’d scored goals in front of roaring stadiums, but this felt like a different kind of victory lap.
A fresh, intense shiver ripped through Vanja, unexpected and overwhelming. A gasp tore from her throat as her body clenched, and a hot gush of fluid spilled over Alex’s chin, drenching his mouth and neck. She slumped forward slightly, catching herself on her hands braced against the rumpled silk sheets, breathing hard. “Scheiße,” she breathed, a laugh bubbling beneath the word. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Alex chuckled, the vibration humming against her. He lifted a hand, wiping his chin with the back of his wrist before pulling her hips down again, resuming his task with renewed, messy enthusiasm. “Olympic champion in unexpected events too, Schmidt?” he mumbled, his voice thick.
Vanja just moaned in response, head dropping, her long, dark blonde hair falling like a curtain around their faces. The golden light from the bedside lamp caught the sheen on her skin, the curve of her spine, the powerful lines of her shoulders still tense with aftershocks. The panoramic view of the city felt suddenly distant, irrelevant. This, the heat, the stickiness, the familiar, playful dominance, this was her world right now.
A sharp, rhythmic knocking shattered the intimate haze. Bam. Bam. Bam.
Vanja froze. Alex went utterly still beneath her.
“Vanja? Alex? You guys decent?” Kenan Yildiz’s cheerful, slightly boisterous voice echoed through the thick door. “Party’s dying downstairs, mate brought some insane Turkish coffee, thought you might want a cup before the real hangover kicks in!”
Vanja and Alex stared at each other, wide-eyed. Panic, absurdity, and a desperate need not to laugh warred in their expressions. The sheets were a battlefield, the air thick with the undeniable scent of sex. Vanja sat directly on Alex’s face, both of them glistening.
“Uh…” Alex managed, his voice strained. He carefully tried to shift Vanja off, but she pressed down, silencing him.
“Just a minute, Kenan!” Vanja called out, her voice impressively steady, belying the frantic scramble her body wanted to perform. She slid off Alex in one fluid, athletic motion, landing silently on her feet beside the bed. “Be right out!”
Alex scrambled backwards on the bed, grabbing a discarded pillow and holding it strategically over his lap, wiping his face frantically with the corner of the sheet. Vanja snatched her silk robe from the floor, wrapping it around herself in a swift, practiced move, cinching the belt tight. She ran her hands through her hair, trying to tame the wild strands, took a deep breath, and strode towards the door, swinging it open just wide enough to block the view of the bed.
Kenan stood there, grinning, holding two small porcelain cups of steaming black coffee. His dark eyes were bright, clearly oblivious. He looked past her shoulder, spotting Alex sitting awkwardly against the headboard, the pillow clutched over his middle, hair sticking up at odd angles, the flush high on his cheeks unmistakable even in the dim light beyond Vanja.
“Hey,” Kenan said, his smile faltering slightly as he took in Alex’s state. “Everything alright? You look… wrecked, Pavlovic. Too much champagne?”
Alex managed a weak grin, his voice a little hoarse. “Yeah, mate. Bit too much. Long night.”
Vanja leaned against the doorframe, radiating forced nonchalance. The robe gaped slightly, revealing a hint of the sweat-slicked skin beneath. She could feel Alex’s gaze burning into her back. “Coffee sounds perfect, Kenan. Thanks.” She took the cups from him, her fingers brushing his. “We’ll be out in a sec. Just need to… freshen up.”
“Sure, sure,” Kenan said, his eyes darting between them, a flicker of dawning comprehension starting to form. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t take too long. Coffee gets bitter.” He gave Alex a knowing, slightly teasing look. “Looking forward to hearing about your… night, Pavlovic.”
He turned and headed back down the hall towards the expansive living area where the remnants of the post-race celebration lingered. Vanja closed the door softly, leaning her forehead against the cool wood for a second before turning around.
Alex had dropped the pillow. He was staring at her, a mixture of residual arousal, amusement, and utter relief on his face. “Freshen up?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.
Vanja walked back towards the bed, placing the coffee cups carefully on the nightstand. She smirked, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. “Well, you certainly need it. You’ve got…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards his chin and neck. “…remnants.”
He laughed, a genuine, deep sound that echoed in the quiet room. He reached for her robe’s belt. “Maybe you should help me.”
Before she could respond, the low murmur of new voices drifted from the living area. Louder, deeper, cutting through the muffled bass still thumping faintly from downstairs. One voice was familiar, authoritative. Vanja’s eyes lit up with a different kind of mischief. She swatted Alex’s hand away from her belt. “Later, Pavlovic. Duty calls.”
She adjusted her robe, ensuring it gaped just a little more strategically this time, and swept out of the bedroom, leaving Alex scrambling for his own clothes.
The living room was dimmer now, most guests gone. Kenan was chatting animatedly with Hansi Flick near the panoramic windows overlooking the city skyline. Flick, the legendary football manager, looked slightly out of place amidst the youthful, post-party debris – discarded champagne flutes, a stray high-heel under the sofa. He wore a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking more like a man conducting training than attending a champion’s after-party. His expression was one of weary tolerance.
Vanja glided towards them, the silk robe swirling around her legs. Her movements were fluid, powerful, but there was a distinct sway to her hips now, the champagne and exhaustion finally hitting her system. Her green eyes, usually sharp and focused, held a drowsy, reckless glint.
“Hansi!” she exclaimed, her voice louder than intended, slicing through Kenan’s chatter. She reached him and leaned in, brushing a deliberate kiss against his cheek. Her robe slipped further, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulder. She smelled of sex, sweat, expensive perfume, and alcohol. “Didn’t expect to see you slumming it with us mere mortals tonight.”
Flick took a subtle step back, his posture stiffening. He offered a polite, tight smile. “Vanja. Congratulations on the win. Truly spectacular.” His eyes scanned her face, taking in the flushed cheeks, the slightly unfocused gaze. “You look like you’ve celebrated thoroughly.”
“Always,” Vanja declared, swaying slightly. She placed a hand on his arm for balance. “Life’s short, Hansi. Gotta grab it, yeah? Like you grabbed that Champions League trophy?” She giggled, the sound slightly slurred.
Flick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He gently, but firmly, removed her hand from his arm. “Indeed. Listen, Vanja, it’s getting late. Perhaps it’s time you thought about heading home. Getting some proper rest.” He glanced meaningfully towards the hallway where her bedroom – and presumably, Alex – was. “You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret in the morning.”
Vanja pouted dramatically, leaning in conspiratorially, her breath warm against his ear. “But where’s the fun in that?” She pulled back slightly, looking up at him through her lashes, a provocative smile playing on her lips. Her words, heavy with implication and alcohol, landed with a thud. "I'm old enough to be your father," Flick stated firmly, his voice low and serious, a clear boundary drawn in the charged air. Vanja’s smile widened, defiant, intoxicating. Her green eyes locked onto his, holding a challenge both reckless and alluring. “But you are not,” she countered, her voice dropping to a husky purr that vibrated with pure, drunken audacity. Her finger traced a feather-light path down his forearm. “Aren’t you, Daddy?”
The silence that followed Vanja’s question wasn't just quiet; it was a physical thing, thick and crackling, pressing down on the room. The faint thump of bass from the club downstairs felt suddenly obscene. Kenan choked on his Turkish coffee, sputtering into his cup. His eyes darted between Vanja, swaying slightly in her barely-tied silk robe, and Hansi Flick, whose face had gone rigid, the polite mask shattering into something stunned and deeply uncomfortable. The legendary manager looked less like a tactician and more like a man who'd just been handed a live grenade with the pin pulled.
Alex, leaning against the bedroom doorframe now wearing hastily pulled-on sweatpants and nothing else, froze mid-step. His gaze snapped to Flick, then back to Vanja, a flicker of something dark and possessive crossing his face before it settled into stunned disbelief. He saw the way Vanja leaned into the older man, the deliberate brush of her finger down his arm, the challenging tilt of her chin. He saw Flick flinch.
"Young lady," Flick began, his voice dangerously low, stripped of all its usual tactical calm. He stepped back sharply, putting clear distance between them, his movement precise and controlled despite the shock vibrating through him. He smoothed his rolled-up sleeve where her finger had traced, a gesture that screamed of erasing her touch. "That is wildly inappropriate. You are clearly intoxicated and not thinking clearly."
Vanja didn't retreat. The defiance in her green eyes only intensified, sharpened by the champagne and the lingering adrenaline from Alex and the race. The robe gaped further, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the curve of her hip. The scent of sex, sweat, and her expensive perfume clung to her, a stark contrast to Flick’s aura of clipped professionalism. "Inappropriate?" she echoed, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that somehow carried across the room. "Or just inconvenient? Scared someone might see the great Hansi Flick actually having fun for once?" A reckless laugh escaped her, tinged with a bitterness Alex hadn't heard before. "Or maybe just scared of me?"
Kenan set his coffee cup down with a loud clatter. "Okay, wow. Strong coffee. Maybe too strong, Hansi? Vanja, hey, maybe let's—"
Flick ignored Kenan entirely. He fixed Vanja with a hard stare, the kind he probably reserved for players who'd spectacularly blown a tactical instruction. "You are an exceptional athlete, Vanja. A champion. But this?" He gestured vaguely at her, at the state of the room, the implication hanging heavy in the air. "This is beneath you. It’s reckless. It’s stupid." The final word landed like a slap. "You need to sleep this off. Now." He turned his glare on Alex, who straightened under the scrutiny. "Pavlovic. See she gets to bed. Safely. Alone." It wasn't a suggestion.
Alex pushed off the doorframe, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The possessive heat from the bedroom had cooled into something protective, edged with anger – not at Flick, but at Vanja's self-destructive spiral. "On it, Coach." The title slipped out automatically, reinforcing the gulf between them and Flick’s world.
Vanja watched them, the two men deciding her fate. Kenan shifted awkwardly, looking like he wished the panoramic window would swallow him. The city lights outside blurred slightly in her vision. The sharp defiance began to fray at the edges, replaced by a wave of exhaustion so profound it made her knees feel weak. The adrenaline was crashing, hard, leaving behind the sour taste of cheap champagne and the echo of Flick's words: Beneath you. Stupid.
She felt exposed suddenly, standing there in the wreckage of her own party, her robe doing little to cover the evidence of her choices. The confidence that usually radiated from her like a force field felt brittle, threatening to shatter.
Vanja smiles.
It wasn't the teasing, provocative smirk from before. It wasn't a smile of victory or defiance. It was a slow, bleak curve of her lips that didn't touch her eyes, those captivating green pools now dulled and distant. It was the smile of someone who’d pushed too far, seen the edge, and found nothing exhilarating about the view. It was an acknowledgment, cold and final, of the line she’d crossed and the consequences crystallizing in the stunned faces around her. The smile flickered, then vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving her looking impossibly young and utterly lost amidst the penthouse luxury. Without another word, she turned, the silk robe whispering against her skin, and walked unsteadily back towards the shadowed hallway, towards the bedroom and the tangled sheets that smelled of Alex and the mess she’d made.
The heavy silence slammed shut behind Vanja like a vault door. Kenan stared at the empty hallway, then slowly turned towards Hansi Flick, his mouth slightly open. The legendary manager stood rigid, his face pale beneath the dimmed penthouse lighting. He wasn't just angry; he looked deeply, profoundly shaken. His usually sharp eyes were wide, fixed on the spot Vanja had just vacated, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of a sleek console table.
"Jesus Christ," Kenan breathed, the words escaping in a rush. He looked at Alex, who hadn't moved from the bedroom doorway, his expression unreadable in the shadows. "Did she just...?"
Flick didn't look at Kenan. He didn't move. His breath hitched, a sharp, almost painful intake of air that cut through the lingering bass thump from the floor below. Then, his entire body seemed to recoil. He flinched, violently, as if physically struck. The controlled mask of professionalism shattered completely, revealing raw shock and a flicker of something darker – disgust? Fear? It was gone in an instant, replaced by a chilling, focused fury. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle spasmed near his temple.
"Enough." The word cracked out, low and dangerous, devoid of its usual measured authority. It wasn't loud, but it felt like a whip snapping in the tense air. He finally tore his gaze from the hallway, his eyes sweeping over Kenan and then pinning Alex with an intensity that made the footballer straighten instinctively. "This..." Flick gestured sharply towards the bedroom door, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, "...this juvenile, toxic spectacle ends now. Pavlovic."
Alex stepped fully into the living room, the earlier possessiveness replaced by a wary alertness under Flick’s glare. "Coach?"
Flick took a single, deliberate step forward. The air around him crackled. "You get that girl," he spat the word, "into bed. Alone. You ensure she sleeps. And if she so much as stumbles back out here before morning, I will personally ensure your next contract negotiation includes a significant 'behavioral adjustment' clause. Understood?" His voice was ice, laced with a threat that resonated far beyond football contracts. It was a promise of professional annihilation.
Alex swallowed, meeting Flick’s gaze head-on. There was no room for argument, no charm to deploy. "Understood."
Flick’s piercing stare didn't waver for another heartbeat, ensuring the message was seared in. Then, without another word, without even a glance at Kenan, he turned on his heel. His movements were stiff, almost jerky, radiating repressed energy. He snatched his coat from the back of an armchair and strode towards the penthouse entrance. The heavy door opened and closed with a final, resonant thud that echoed in the suddenly cavernous silence.
Kenan let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. "Holy. Fucking. Shit, Alex. Did you see his face? I thought he was gonna spontaneously combust."
Alex didn't answer immediately. He was staring down the hall towards Vanja’s bedroom, the echo of Flick’s fury still vibrating in his bones. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice flat. "I saw." He pushed off the doorframe. "Coffee's cold. Go home, Kenan. Party's over."
Kenan nodded mutely, grabbing his jacket. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Call me tomorrow? If she’s... you know... alive?"
Alex gave a curt nod, already moving down the hallway. The thick carpet muffled his steps. He paused outside Vanja’s door, listening. No sound. He pushed it open gently.
The bedroom smelled overpoweringly of sex, expensive perfume, and stale champagne. Vanja stood near the window, the city lights painting streaks of gold and white across her face and the thin silk robe. She wasn't looking at the view. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, tears carving glistening tracks through the remnants of her makeup. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, a stark contrast to the defiant vixen who’d faced down Flick minutes before.
Alex leaned against the doorframe, watching her. The protective urge warred fiercely with a growing knot of frustration. "Happy now?" he asked, his voice rough.
Vanja flinched but didn't open her eyes. A choked sob escaped her. "Piss off, Alex."
"Gladly," he shot back, stepping inside and closing the door. "Just as soon as Flick’s personal hit squad confirms you’re safely unconscious. He looked like he wanted to have you benched for life. Or deported." He walked towards her, stopping a few feet away. "What the hell was that, Vanja? 'Daddy'? Are you completely out of your mind?"
She whirled around, eyes flashing with sudden, wet fury. "What do you care? You got what you wanted hours ago! Just go! Crawl back to whatever groupie is warming your side of the bed tonight!" Her voice was thick with tears and venom, slurring slightly.
Alex laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Right. Because that’s the issue here. Not the fact that you just sexually harassed one of the most respected figures in European football at your own party. Not the fact that Kenan saw it. Not the fact that you’re standing here crying like the world ended when you lit the fuse!" He took another step closer. "This self-destruction act? It’s getting old. And it’s going to get you destroyed. Flick doesn’t make idle threats."
Vanja swayed, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it flared. The tears flowed harder. "I don't care," she whispered, but it sounded hollow, defeated. "Nothing matters. It’s all...empty." Her gaze drifted past him, unfocused. "The track... the medals... the parties... him..." She gestured vaguely towards the rumpled bed. "It’s just noise. Flick... he looked at me like I was dirt. Like I was nothing." A shudder ran through her.
Alex sighed, the anger softening slightly, replaced by a weary concern that felt dangerously familiar. He saw the exhaustion pulling her under, the alcohol and adrenaline crash hitting her like a tidal wave. "You're drunk. And you're an idiot. But you're not nothing." He moved towards her, not touching her. "Come on. Flick’s orders. Bed. Now. Before the hangover gods declare war."
He guided her, more firmly than gently, away from the window. She resisted weakly, stumbling. Her robe gaped open completely as she half-fell onto the edge of the massive bed. She made no move to cover herself, just sat slumped, staring blankly at the tangled sheets, the physical evidence of their earlier abandon now seeming sordid under the stark bedroom light. Tears dripped steadily onto her bare thigh.
Alex grabbed a discarded t-shirt – his, he noted distantly – from the floor. He didn't try to put the robe back on her. He simply draped the soft cotton over her shoulders. "Lie down, Vanja."
She didn't move. Her breathing hitched. "He hates me," she murmured, her voice tiny. "Everyone will hate me."
"Maybe," Alex said bluntly, sitting beside her, careful not to touch her. The scent of her, mixed with his own, was overwhelming. "Or maybe they'll just think you're a spectacularly messy drunk who needs rehab. Either way, you deal with it tomorrow. Sleep it off." He nudged her shoulder. "Down."
With a sob that was almost a groan, she finally collapsed sideways onto the pillows, curling into a ball, the t-shirt barely covering her. She buried her face in the sheets that smelled of them both. Her body trembled, the silent crying continuing.
Alex sat there for a long moment, watching the powerful lines of her back, the curve of her hip exposed by the shirt riding up, the vulnerability so at odds with the world-beating sprinter. The frustration was still there, simmering. So was the lingering heat from earlier. But mostly, looking at her broken form, feeling the oppressive silence of the penthouse pressing in, he just felt tired. And a cold dread, settling in his stomach, about what the morning light would bring. Flick’s sharp reaction wasn't just anger; it was a seismic shift. The carefully constructed glamour of Vanja Schmidt’s world felt dangerously close to shattering. He stood up, the movement abrupt. His job was done. Flick’s orders fulfilled. He turned off the main light, plunging the room into near darkness, broken only by the city glow. He didn't look back as he walked out, closing the bedroom door softly behind him, leaving the Olympic champion alone in the dark with the mess she’d made. Outside her door, Alex leaned his forehead against the cool wood, the muffled sound of Vanja’s ragged breaths the only thing breaking the penthouse silence. Flick’s livid expression flashed in his mind – not just anger, but a profound disappointment that felt like a physical blow. A notification buzzed insistently in his pocket. Pulling out his phone, the screen illuminated his grim face. A single text from an unlisted number: My office. 9 AM. Don’t be late. No signature needed. The cold dread solidified into a block of ice in his gut. Morning couldn’t come fast enough. Or maybe it already had.