Chapter 5: Vanja's legs tremble as Roman watches the final beads of her climax drip down her inner thighs onto the physio table, her fingers still buried deep inside her swollen pussy - 'Now that's what I call recovery training,' she pants, meeting his darkening gaze.
The antiseptic sting was a clean, sharp counterpoint to the deep, throbbing ache in her ribs. Vanja lay on the medical room’s examination table, the paper sheet crinkling under her with every shallow breath. The physio had just left, muttering about contusions and avoiding heavy impact. The Arsenal match had been a brutal, glorious war of attrition. A 2-1 win, carved out in the last minutes, a victory built on the tactical overloads she’d drilled into them and a reckless, diving block from her star defender that had also seen him stretchered off.
The door clicked open. She didn’t need to look. The air changed, grew denser.
Roman stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the brighter light of the hallway. He was still in his suit from the director’s box, but his tie was loose, his hair disordered by restless hands. He carried the victory in his posture—a conqueror’s ease—but his eyes were on the blooming purple and yellow bruise visible above the waistband of her track pants.
“Greaves is having an aneurysm in my office,” he said, his voice echoing in the tiled room. He stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut.
Vanja pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing. “Let him. His model probably predicted a 0.5 expected aneurysms post-match.”
Roman didn’t smile. He walked to a steel trolley, its surface cluttered with bandages and cooling sprays. He picked up a can, shook it, the rattle absurdly loud. “The board thinks the Leduc deal is insanity. The fee, the wages. They say you’re building a house of cards.”
“I’m building a fortress,” she corrected, her voice tight. “And they’re complaining about the price of the bricks.”
He moved to the side of the table. “Roll onto your side. Lift your shirt.”
It wasn’t a question. She hesitated, the memory of the locker room, of his hands and his anger, flashing hot behind her eyes. This was different. The command was clinical. Slowly, she turned, presenting her side to him. The cool air hit her skin as she pulled up the hem of her fitted athletic top, revealing the spectacular, ugly bruise that spread across her ribcage like a violent sunset.
She heard the hiss of the spray, then the shocking, icy blast on her skin. She gasped, her muscles seizing. His other hand came down, not gently, to hold her hip steady. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of her pants.
“The win bought you capital,” he said, his voice low as he worked the spray. “But capital burns fast. They want your head on a spike after the January window if we falter. Mine, too, for hiring you.”
“We won’t falter.”
“We?” He tossed the can back onto the trolley with a clatter. His hand remained on her hip, his thumb pressing into the divot just above her pelvis. “You think you’ve been signed off on? That dressing room stunt didn’t earn you loyalty. It just made you a more interesting problem.”
She rolled onto her back, ignoring the pain, forcing her top back down. She sat up, their faces now close in the dim, flickering light. “What do you want, Roman? A performance review? You got your win. You’ll get more.”
“I want to know what the fuck you’re playing at.” His hand slid from her hip to the table, caging her in. “You walk a razor’s edge. One minute you’re quoting sociological theory at the press, the next you’re taking a boot to the ribs for a tactical foul. Which one is the real you?”
“They’re both me,” she shot back, her green eyes blazing. “The theory wins the war. The boot wins the battle. You of all people should understand that.”
He studied her, his blue eyes scanning her face as if reading a complex financial report. Then, he straightened. “My office. Ten minutes. Bring your fortress blueprints.”
The walk to the main building was a test of endurance. Every breath felt like a blade. Roman’s office was all dark wood and subdued lighting, the huge monitor on his desk displaying financial tickers. Lionel Greaves was already there, perched on the edge of a chair like a displeased bird, his face pale.
Roman didn’t sit. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed. “Vanja. The board has approved an adjusted budget for the January window. Given the Leduc commitment and the need for defensive cover after today’s injury.”
Greaves couldn’t contain himself. “It’s a billion dollars. A billion. You can’t even grasp the amount of money that big. It’s… it’s irresponsible!”
Vanja leaned against the doorframe, conserving her strength, and lifted a single eyebrow. The gesture was insolent, serene.
“That’s enough, Lionel,” Roman said, his voice devoid of heat. A simple dismissal.
A slow smile touched Vanja’s lips. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times, ever since the final whistle blew and she felt the peculiar, leveraging power of victory. “I have a proposition,” she said, her voice clear in the thick silence.
Greaves snorted. “What, a pay cut?”
“If I’m to invest some of my own money,” Vanja continued, ignoring him, her gaze locked on Roman, “can I get another player? A specific one. Outside the budget.”
Greaves laughed, a short, incredulous bark. “Your own money? For a player? That’s adorable. What’s your budget, love? Fifty grand? A hundred?”
Roman didn’t laugh. His entire body went still. “How much?”
Vanja pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the room. “Let’s start with two-fifty. A five percent stake.”
Roman’s lips quirked. Not a smile, but a recognition of a bold opening move. “Two-fifty of what?”
Greaves was still chuckling, shaking his head. “Two hundred and fifty thousand? That’s a nice gesture for the youth academy, I suppose—”
“Million,” Vanja said.
The word dropped into the room like a stone into a still pond. The silence it created was absolute, profound. Greaves’s chuckle died in his throat, becoming a strangled gulp. His eyes bulged. Roman’s casual pose solidified into something statue-like. His sky-blue eyes held hers, and in them, she saw the furious, exhilarating recalculation happening in real time. The numbers scrolling behind his pupils.
“Pounds,” she added, softly.
No one was laughing.
Greaves found his voice, a thin, reedy thing. “Two hundred and fifty million pounds? Of your own money? That’s… you don’t have that. You can’t.”
“My family has interests in Baltic shipping, German manufacturing, and, as you recently discovered, Russian energy,” Vanja stated, as if listing squad players. “My trust fund became self-directing at twenty-five. I have it.”
Roman finally moved, pushing off the desk. He walked towards her, each step measured. “Five percent. Of the club.”
“Of the holding company that owns the club. Yes. A non-voting, purely financial stake. In return, you add another two hundred and fifty million to the transfer fund. My money buys my player. My choice. No committee.”
“This is unprecedented!” Greaves sputtered. “It’s a conflict of interest! It’s—!”
“It’s ingenious,” Roman cut him off, his eyes never leaving Vanja’s. He stopped a foot from her. She could smell his cologne, the faint scent of the stadium on him. “You’re not just betting on your tactics. You’re betting on your own valuation. If you fail, you lose your job and a quarter of a billion pounds.”
“If I fail,” she whispered, holding his gaze, “the money will be the least of what I’ve lost.”
A long, tense moment stretched between them, fraught with the weight of numbers and the ghost of every physical encounter. Greaves was a forgotten fixture in the corner.
“Draw up the term sheet,” Roman said, not to her, but to the room. “Vanja, you have your extra player. Now get out. Both of you.”
Greaves stumbled out, muttering about regulators and madness. Vanja turned to follow, the pain in her side a dull triumph.
“Not you,” Roman said.
She stopped. The door closed behind Greaves, leaving them alone. The financial tickers glowed silently.
“The medical room,” he said, his voice now stripped of all boardroom polish, raw and demanding. “Now.”
Her heart hammered against her bruised ribs. This wasn’t about power plays anymore. This was something more primal, a reaction to the sheer, audacious scale of what she had just done. She had moved from employee to investor, from a problem to a partner in crime. The imbalance had shifted, and he needed to reassert the older, more fundamental hierarchy.
She walked back to the medical wing, the corridors deserted. He followed a step behind, a silent, looming pressure. Inside the room, the flickering light was stroboscopic. He locked the door.
“On the table,” he commanded.
She obeyed, hoisting herself up, the paper crinkling obscenely. He didn’t approach her with fury this time. It was a cold, focused intensity. He came to stand between her legs, pushing them apart with his hips. His hands went to the waist of her track pants and underwear, and he pulled them down to her knees in one swift, brutal motion, exposing her to the cold, sterile air.
“Two hundred and fifty million,” he mused, his gaze dropping between her legs. “All that money, and you still get wet when I tell you what to do.”
She was. A hot, slick betrayal of her body. She said nothing, just watched him as he unbuckled his belt, freed his cock. It was already thick and hard. He spat into his palm, stroked himself once, twice, his eyes locked on hers.
“This is the only stock that matters right now,” he growled. He gripped her thighs, his fingers digging into the firm muscle, and pushed himself forward.
There was no teasing, no resistance. He filled her in a single, deep, relentless thrust that made her back arch off the table. A guttural sound was torn from her throat. It was overwhelming, a fullness that bordered on pain, mixing with the ache in her ribs into one singular symphony of sensation.
He set a ruthless, driving pace. The examination table rocked on its casters, squeaking in time with his thrusts. His hands slid up her body, pushing her top and sports bra up to her neck, exposing her breasts. He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to make her cry out. The mix of sharp pain and deep, penetrating pleasure was dizzying.
“You think your money changes anything?” he grunted against her skin, his hips slamming into her. “You’re still mine. You come on my cock in a fucking medical room. Billionaire.”
The vulgarity, the crass reduction of her staggering move to this animal act, was somehow the most honest thing he’d ever said. It stripped everything away—the PhD, the tactics, the money. It left only this: friction, heat, possession.
Her second orgasm built quickly, a terrifying wave rising from the epicenter of their collision. He felt it, changing his angle, grinding his pelvis against her clit with each inward drive.
“Come on it,” he ordered, his voice ragged. “Come on your investment.”
The words did it. The absurd, obscene linking of finance and flesh tipped her over the edge. She came with a shattered cry, her body convulsing around him, her heels hooking behind his thighs to pull him deeper. The contractions milked him, and with a final, brutal thrust, he followed, his release hot and endless inside her, a physical claim to match the financial one she’d just staked.
He slumped over her, his weight pressing her bruised ribs into the hard table. She didn’t care. The pain was just another color in the riot.
Slowly, he pulled out. He turned away, fastening his trousers. She lay there, exposed, spent, the paper sheet torn beneath her. He walked to the sink, ran water, splashed his face.
“The player you want,” he said, not looking at her, his reflection blurred in the steel. “Who is it?”
She swallowed, her throat dry. “Mateo Silva. The winger from Sevilla.”
He nodded, a sharp, business-like dip of his head. “Greaves will call his agent in the morning.”
He left without another word, leaving her in the flickering silence. Vanja slowly pulled her clothes up, her body aching in a dozen new and old ways. She slid off the table, her legs unsteady. In the small mirror above the sink, she saw her reflection: flushed face, bruised skin, hair wild, eyes holding a dark, victorious light.
She had just bought a piece of the kingdom. And the king, it seemed, was still collecting his due. The game had levels she hadn’t even conceived of. And for the first time, she held chips of her own. Dirty, expensive, powerful chips. She turned off the flickering light and walked out into the dark, empty corridor, the numbers—250,000,000—echoing in her head like a war chant.
She turned off the flickering light and walked out into the dark, empty corridor, the numbers—250,000,000— echoing in her head like a war chant. Her body felt simultaneously wrecked and invincible, each ache a medal. The silence was broken by the distant, tinny echo of a janitor’s radio somewhere deep in the stadium’s belly, playing a pop song she didn’t recognize. She found her way to the executive car park, the cold night air sharpening the smells of sweat and sex on her skin.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A single message from an unknown number, but she knew.
> My driver is outside. He’ll take you to the flat.
She didn’t reply. A black sedan idled by the gates, its passenger window already lowered. She slid inside, the leather cool and embracing. The driver, a man she’d seen before, said nothing. The city slid by, a river of neon and shadow.
The flat was not her modest club-provided one. It was a different place, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. The air smelled of lemon and new money. A single lamp was on. Roman stood by the window, back to her, a glass of vodka hanging from his fingers.
“The term sheet is being drafted,” he said, not turning. “My lawyers are having simultaneous aneurysms and orgasms. It’s a fascinating thing to watch.”
Vanja dropped her bag by the door. “And Greaves?”
“Currently researching Baltic shipping conglomerates and hyperventilating into a paper bag.” He finally turned. He had changed into dark jeans and a grey sweater, the casual look a disguise for the tension in his shoulders. “Why are you here, Vanja?”
She held his gaze. “Your driver brought me.”
“Not here in this flat. Here. Working for me. You don’t need to work. Not for a salary, not for accolades. You just gambled a quarter of a billion pounds on a football club. So why?”
A slow smile spread across her face, igniting the lingering fire in her green eyes. She walked towards him, each step deliberate on the polished concrete. “I’m not working for you.” She stopped a foot away, close enough to see the flecks of grey in his blue irises. “I’m working with you.”
She let the words hang, then shifted into perfect, unaccented Russian, the language of his father, of oligarchs and old wars. “For the glory of the motherland.”
He went utterly still. The glass in his hand didn’t tremble, but his breathing hitched. The phrase was layered, ironic, deadly serious. It was a nod to legacy, to a aggressive, expansionist hunger he understood in his bones. It acknowledged the game was bigger than both of them. Then he moved.
He kissed her. It wasn’t like the others—not punitive, not claiming. It was a collision of understanding, a seal on a pact. His mouth was harsh, tasting of vodka and a strange, furious gratitude. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs pressing hard against her jawline. She kissed him back with equal force, her fingers twisting into the wool of his sweater.
When he broke away, his voice was gravel. “That’s the first real thing you’ve said to me.”
“Everything I’ve said has been real.”
“That was true.” He set his glass down on a side table with a definitive click. His eyes traveled over her face, down to the neckline of her shirt, remembering the bruise beneath. “The medical room was about the money. This is different.”
“Prove it,” she whispered.
He didn’t need further invitation. His hands went to the hem of her top, dragging it up and over her head. Her sports bra followed. The cool air pebbled her skin, her nipples hardening instantly. He looked at the bruise, a galaxy of purple and yellow on her pale skin, and his expression darkened. He bent his head and pressed his lips to it, not to the unmarked skin beside it, but directly onto the injured flesh. The pressure was a bright, shocking pain that made her gasp. His tongue laved the spot, a wet, tender apology that felt more invasive than any bite.
He backed her towards the sprawling, low sofa, his mouth never leaving her skin. When her knees hit the cushions, he pushed her down. He yanked her track pants and underwear off in one rough motion, leaving her completely naked and exposed under the ambient city light bleeding through the windows. He stood over her, stripping off his sweater and jeans, his cock already erect, thick and demanding.
He didn’t enter her immediately. He knelt on the floor, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and pulled her to the edge of the sofa. His mouth found her core. This was new. His tongue was relentless, a flat, broad stroke followed by a focused, circling pressure on her clit. He licked into her with a groaning hunger, devouring her wetness, his stubble scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs.
“Fuck, Roman,” she choked out, her hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark blond strands. Her hips lifted off the cushion, seeking more. The orgasm built not as a shocking wave but as a deep, heating pool in her belly, spreading outwards.
He felt her thighs begin to tremble around his head and pulled back, denying her. She cried out in frustration. He rose above her, knees on the sofa, his body a dark silhouette against the window. He gripped his cock, guided it through her slick folds, smearing her wetness over himself, and then with a single, deep, long push, he filled her. This penetration was different. It was slow, deliberate, a total occupation. She could feel every inch as he sank in, until their bodies were flush. He held there, buried to the hilt, his eyes locked on hers.
“For the glory,” he repeated, his voice thick, and then he began to move.
The pace was a deep, rolling thunder. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a full, grinding reseating. It was less about friction and more about profound, mind-altering fullness. The angle rubbed her clit with every roll of his hips. He wrapped one arm under her lower back, arching her up to meet him, driving even deeper. The other hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit again, applying a steady, maddening pressure.
“You’re going to come again,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re going to come on this cock you just bought a piece of. You’re going to drown it.”
The crudeness, paired with the relentless, perfect rhythm, destroyed her. Her second climax tore through her with less violence but more depth, a pulsating, endless series of contractions that made her vision white out. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed in the minimalist space. Her body clenched around him, milking him, pulling his own release from him. He swore, a filthy, beautiful string of Russian obscenities, as he plunged in one final time and came, his hips stuttering, his seed pouring into her in hot, endless pulses.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor. They were both slick, breathing in ragged unison. After a long moment, he shifted to the side, pulling her with him, so they lay tangled on the wide sofa. Her head was on his chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart slowly decelerate. His hand traced idle patterns on the bare skin of her back, avoiding the bruise.
“Silva’s agent is expecting the call,” he said, his voice rumbling in his chest. “But Leduc has to be unveiled first. The optics. We look decisive, not desperate.”
“We are desperate,” she murmured. “Just a very well-funded kind of desperate.”
He hummed, a non-committal sound. His fingers stilled. “My father would have hated you. Called you a dangerous, scheming bitch.”
“My grandfather would have called you a soft Western boy playing with inherited toys.”
He laughed then, a genuine, startled sound that vibrated through her. “We’ll show them.”
Silence settled again, comfortable now. The city glowed beyond the glass. The numbers—the unbelievable, transformative sum—no longer felt like just a chant. They felt like foundation. She had bought her way into the heart of the machine, and the man who was its engine was, for this moment, hers. The thought was more terrifying, and more exhilarating, than any touch.