Chapter 3: Physio Room Ruin - The After-Hours Session
Her hands moved over his skin with a clinical detachment that felt like a lie, washing away the sweat and salt and the specific scent of their sex. He stood perfectly still under the spray, his head bowed, water streaming through his blond hair and down his face. This quiet intimacy was more disorienting than the violence of their fucking. It suggested something beyond the collision of egos and bodies, something she had no blueprint for.
The following day, the training pitch was a arena of controlled chaos under a glaring sun. Vanja stood with her tablet, her focus absolute, her body still humming with the memory of being pressed against the shower tiles. During a high-intensity pressing drill, Martin misjudged a pass, sending it straight to an opponent. The coach’s whistle screeched, his voice lacerating the air. “Ødegaard! Your head’s in the fucking stands! Get it right or get off my pitch!”
Martin’s jaw tightened, his frustration a visible heat shimmer around him. He turned, and his gaze, hot and accusatory, locked directly onto Vanja. It was as if her very presence was the distraction, the root of his error. She met his stare without flinching, her expression neutral, but a fresh, sharp tension coiled in her stomach.
Later, in the cool, echoing silence of the physio room, the air was thick with unsaid things. She had him on the table, her fingers working a deep, stubborn knot in his quadricep. The muscle was like stone. “You’re holding too much tension here,” she stated, her voice devoid of the warmth from the showers. “It’s affecting your first-step explosiveness.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” he bit out, his face turned away from her into the cradle.
“It’s a fact. The data from the GPS vests doesn’t lie.” She dug her thumb in deeper, applying punishing pressure. He grunted, his body tensing further. “You need to relax.”
He suddenly rolled over, his movement so swift it knocked her hand away. His eyes were blazing. “I can’t relax. Not with you.” His hand shot out, grasping her wrist. His grip was firm, but not painful. A question, not an assault. “Every time you touch me like this, all I can think about is how you felt coming apart in that shower. How you sounded.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “That’s your problem to manage, not mine.”
“Is it?” He pulled her closer, his other hand circling her waist, dragging her until she was standing between his spread knees. The vinyl of the table pressed against her thighs. “You think you can just turn it off? This?” His voice dropped to a low, rough whisper. “I can still taste you, Vanja.”
That admission, raw and stripped of his usual arrogance, undid her. The clinical distance she’d been clinging to evaporated. A hungry sound escaped her throat as she leaned into him, her mouth finding his in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. It was all tongue and teeth and shared, ragged breath, a silent surrender to the thing that had been simmering between them since the hotel bar.
He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh. “On the table. Now.”
She didn’t need telling twice. She hoisted herself up, lying back on the cool vinyl as he stood, shoving his training shorts and briefs down in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, fully erect, the tip already glistening. He didn’t bother with preliminaries. He grabbed her hips, yanking her to the edge of the table, and shoved her legs apart. The air was cold on her exposed skin.
“Look at you,” he growled, his eyes dark with a feral hunger as he looked at her splayed open for him. “So fucking perfect and ready.” He positioned himself and drove into her with a single, deep, filling thrust that punched the air from her lungs.
“God, yes,” she gasped, her back arching off the table. It was even more intense than against the wall, the angle deeper, more invasive.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm from the start, his hips slamming into her with a force that made the table’s legs shudder. Each thrust was a jolt of pure, white-hot sensation. He leaned over her, bracing himself on one hand, the other tangling in her hair, forcing her to look at him. “This what you wanted? To have me fucking lose my mind on the pitch because I can’t think about anything but being inside you?”
She could only moan in response, her nails digging into his biceps. The pleasure was a sharp, building scream in her blood.
“Answer me,” he demanded, his voice a raw scrape as he pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her skin. “You like knowing you’ve fucking unravelled me?”
“Yes!” she cried out, the admission torn from her. Her hips rose to meet his, each collision a punctuation mark to their shared chaos. “Fuck, Martin, don’t stop.”
He swore, a filthy, beautiful Norwegian curse she didn’t understand but felt in her soul. His rhythm became more frantic, more desperate. She could feel the tension coiling in him, the imminent end. Her own climax was a wildfire spreading from her core, threatening to consume her. “I’m close,” she warned, her voice breaking.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, perfectly aimed. “Come all over my cock. Let me feel it.”
His command, the raw possession in his tone, was the final trigger. Her world dissolved into a supernova of feeling. A shattered cry was ripped from her throat as she convulsed around him, her inner muscles clamping down on his length in violent, rhythmic pulses. The intensity of it blurred her vision, her body seizing with a pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.
Feeling her climax triggered his own. With a guttural roar, he buried himself as deep as he could, his body locking as he emptied himself into her in hot, pulsing jets. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his arms, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as they both rode out the shuddering aftershocks.
For a long time, the only sound was their ragged, gasping breaths mingling in the quiet room. The scent of sex and sweat was thick and familiar. Slowly, he pulled out and helped her sit up. Her legs felt like water. Without a word, he took her hand and led her, silently, back to the showers.
He turned on the water, waiting for it to heat before guiding her under the spray. This time, his touch was different. There was no frantic energy, no claiming violence. He took the soap and began to wash her back with a slow, deliberate tenderness, his hands moving over her shoulders and down her spine with a reverence that felt entirely new. He soaped her arms, her stomach, his touch gentle and thorough, washing away not just the physical evidence but the lingering adrenaline of their clash. She stood there, passive and quiet, her head bowed, letting him care for her in this quiet, startling way, the warm water cascading over them both like a benediction.
She took the soap from him and returned the gesture, her slick palms sliding over the planes of his chest, the water beating down on them, sealing them in a silent, steamy world of their own. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her jawline with a tenderness that felt more dangerous than his earlier violence. This quiet intimacy was a new frontier, uncharted and terrifying. He leaned in, his lips brushing hers, not in conquest but in question.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a stark contrast to the frantic coupling against the tiles. Her hands slid from his chest to his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under his wet skin. He turned her, pressing her back against the wall, the water cascading over them both as his mouth traveled down her neck. His erection, hard again, pressed against her stomach, a persistent, demanding heat.
“What are we doing?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper barely audible over the spray.
He looked at her, his beautiful face full of emotion, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes like tears. “I don’t know,” he breathed, his forehead resting against hers. “But I can’t stop.” He kissed her again, a soft, desperate press of lips. “I don’t want to stop.”
She moaned his name, her resistance dissolving into the steam. Her hands slid down his back, over the curve of his ass, pulling him tighter against her.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice rough with renewed need. He reached behind her and shut off the water, the sudden silence ringing in their ears. “We’ll continue this at home.”
“Home?” she asked, her mind still fogged with desire.
He let out a frustrated breath, grabbing a towel and roughly drying himself. “Sorry, I mean my apartment.” He avoided her eyes, the simple mistake flustering him, revealing a crack in his usual arrogant composure. He tossed her a towel. “Just… come with me.”
She followed him out of the locker room, through the back corridors of the training facility, their wet hair dripping onto their clothes. The drive to his apartment was a tense, silent blur of city lights. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh, his thumb making absent, possessive circles on the denim. He didn’t speak. The air in the car was thick with everything they hadn’t said, every professional boundary they had vaporized.
His apartment was what she expected—sleek, modern, and impersonal, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. It smelled of clean linen and, faintly, of him. The door had barely clicked shut behind them when he pushed her against it, his mouth finding hers in the dark. This kiss was different from the one in the shower; it was hungry, reclaiming the raw edge they had established in the physio room.
“I need to be inside you again,” he growled against her mouth, his hands already pulling at her jeans. “Now.”
He didn’t wait for her to undress. He just turned her around, much like he had in the shower, and yanked her jeans and underwear down to her knees. He unbuckled his own belt with frantic, clumsy movements. She braced her hands against the cool wood of the door, her heart hammering against her ribs. She heard the tear of the foil packet, a sound that was becoming unnervingly familiar.
He entered her in one deep, unyielding thrust that made her cry out. He was still half-dressed, his trousers around his thighs, and the constraint seemed to make him more frantic. He set a brutal, driving pace immediately, his hands gripping her hips, his body slamming into hers with a force that shook the door in its frame.
“Is this what you want?” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “This, instead of your fucking drills?”
“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal ferocity. “God, yes.”
He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his rhythm relentless, his cock hitting a spot deep inside her that made her legs tremble. The pleasure was a sharp, building pressure, coiling tighter with every jarring impact. She could feel the sweat beading on his back through his shirt, could hear the raw, animal sounds tearing from his throat.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Tell me you’re going to come.”
“I’m close,” she panted, her fingers scrabbling against the smooth door. “Don’t stop.”
He drove into her harder, faster, his control splintering. “Come on my cock, Vanja. Now.”
The command, the sheer overwhelming sensation, broke her. A shattered cry was ripped from her lungs as her orgasm detonated, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, milking his own release. He groaned, a long, guttural sound, and poured into her, his body shuddering against her back as he emptied himself.
They collapsed together against the door, a tangled, breathless heap of half-undressed limbs. His weight was heavy on her, his breath hot and ragged against her shoulder. For a long time, the only sound was their struggling lungs and the distant hum of the city below.
Slowly, he pulled out and helped her up, his hands gentle now on her arms. He led her to the vast, minimalist bed, the sheets cool and crisp against her overheated skin. He lay down beside her, on his back, staring at the ceiling. The digital clock cast a faint blue light: 11:43 PM.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said quietly, his voice raw.
Vanja turned her head to look at his profile, sharp and defined in the dim light. She didn’t know either. All she knew was the phantom feel of him moving inside her, and the terrifying realization that she already wanted it again.
The water traced the grooves between his muscles, her fingers following its path. This quiet intimacy felt more dangerous than the fucking against the tiles. He watched her, his blue eyes unreadable beneath the spray, his usual smirk absent. He turned off the water and they stepped out, wrapping themselves in thin, white towels from a stack on a steel shelf. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken things.
Later, in the near-dark of his apartment, the city lights painting stripes across his bare chest, he spoke into the stillness. “I told Erling.” Vanja, lying beside him, went very still. “Told him what?” Martin rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His gaze was direct, unnerving. “That I’m in love with you. Or something like it. It’s a fucking mess.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound with no humor. “That’s what you call it? A mess?” “What would you call it?” he challenged, his voice low. “A research paper? A case study?” She had no answer. She just turned away, the words “in love” echoing in the quiet room, feeling like a trap.
The following evening, Vanja found a different kind of sanctuary across a small table from her cousin, Dino. The restaurant was all warm wood and soft lighting, a world away from stadiums and sterile locker rooms. “He said what?” Dino asked around a mouthful of bread, his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. Vanja shook her head, swirling the wine in her glass. “It doesn’t matter. It’s complication. It’s unprofessional. It’s…”
“Real?” Dino supplied, his expression softening. “You look different, V. Less like a glacier and more like a… woman.” She kicked him under the table, but he just grinned. “I’m serious! You’re blushing. It’s weirdly refreshing.”
The restaurant door opened, bringing a burst of noise from the street. Vanja’s eyes flicked toward it, and her blood ran cold. There, being led to a table by a hostess, were Erling Haaland and Martin. Erling’s massive frame was hard to miss, and his sharp eyes scanned the room, instantly landing on her. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. Martin, following his gaze, froze. His eyes locked with Vanja’s, and the noise of the restaurant seemed to vanish.
“Well, shit,” Dino murmured, following her stare. “Isn’t that your…”
Before she could answer, Erling was steering a reluctant Martin toward their table. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Erling boomed, his voice full of amusement. “Fancy seeing you here, Doctor. And you must be the famous cousin.” He thrust a hand toward Dino, who shook it with a wry smile.
“We can leave,” Martin said, his voice tight, his eyes never leaving Vanja. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Erling declared, already pulling over chairs from a nearby table. “Plenty of room. We’ll make it a party.” The rearrangement was a chaotic, unavoidable collision. Martin was seated directly across from Vanja, his knee accidentally brushing hers under the small table. She jerked her leg back as if burned.
Dino, ever the instigator, leaned forward. “So, Martin. Vanja tells me you’ve been… very cooperative with her new methods.” Vanja wanted to melt into the floor. Martin’s jaw tightened. “I’m a dedicated player.” Erling snorted into his menu. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Dedication?” He winked at Vanja. “He mopes when you’re not on the pitch, you know. It’s pathetic.”
“Shut up, Erling,” Martin muttered, his ears turning pink. He focused on his menu as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Vanja could feel the heat creeping up her own neck, a furious, tell-tale blush. Dino watched the entire exchange like a tennis match, his grin widening.
“The cognitive load drills are very intense,” Vanja said, her voice deliberately clinical, an attempt to reclaim some professional high ground. “It’s natural for a player to form a dependency on the guiding psychologist.” Martin looked up at that, his eyes flashing. “Is that what this is? Dependency?”
The waiter arrived, shattering the moment. Orders were placed, drinks were refilled, and a fragile, temporary truce descended. The conversation turned to football, then to Dino’s work, anything to avoid the elephant in the room. But the tension remained, a live wire running directly between Martin and Vanja. Every time their eyes met, she remembered the shower spray, the feel of his hands on her hips, the raw confession in the dark. He was watching her with the same focused intensity he usually reserved for a decisive penalty kick.
When the main courses were cleared, Erling leaned back, a devilish look in his eyes. “So, Martin. Tell us. How exactly does the good doctor improve your… performance?” The double meaning hung in the air, crude and undeniable. Martin finally looked away from Vanja, shooting his friend a death glare. Vanja’s composure finally cracked. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice sharp.
She stood up, her chair scraping loudly. “I need some air.” She didn’t look at any of them as she walked quickly toward the restroom, her heart hammering against her ribs. The cool, tiled silence of the bathroom was a relief. She splashed water on her face, staring at her reflection—the flushed cheeks, the wide, unsettled eyes. The door opened behind her. She expected Dino. It was Martin.
He closed the door and locked it. The click was final. He didn’t speak. He just crossed the small space, his movement fluid and predatory, and backed her into the corner between the sink and the wall. His body caged hers in, his hands planting on the counter on either side of her hips. “Dependency?” he repeated, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. His breath smelled of the red wine he’d been drinking.
“This is a bathroom,” she managed, her own voice unsteady. “And you’re supposed to be at dinner.”
“Fuck dinner.” He lowered his head, his mouth hovering inches from hers. “You’ve been blushing all night. Every time I looked at you. Do you know what that does to me? Seeing you come undone just from my stare?” His knee nudged her legs apart, and she didn’t resist. The thin fabric of her dress was no barrier against the hard muscle of his thigh.
“They’re waiting for us,” she breathed, even as her hands came up to grip his forearms, her nails digging into the sleeves of his shirt.
“Let them wait.” His mouth crashed down on hers. This kiss was different from all the others—it was bruising, desperate, fueled by the public tension and the private words they’d exchanged. It was a claiming. He bit her lower lip, and she gasped, opening for him. His tongue plunged inside, tasting of wine and a familiar, wild hunger.
His hands left the counter. One tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to deepen the kiss. The other slid down her side, over her hip, and grabbed a handful of her ass through the dress, grinding her against the erection straining against his trousers. A low moan vibrated in her throat. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her jaw to her neck. “You think this is dependency?” he growled against her skin, his teeth scraping her pulse point. “This is a fucking sickness.”
His hand slid from her ass, under the hem of her dress. His fingers, rough and sure, pushed aside the silk of her underwear and delved into the wet heat between her legs. She cried out, her head thumping back against the wall. “You’re soaked,” he muttered, his voice thick with triumph. “Just from a few looks across a table. Just from me being near you.”
He worked two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that made her knees buckle. She clutched at his shoulders, her dress rucking up around her waist. The absurdity of the situation—the sounds of the restaurant just beyond the door, the voices of her cousin and his best friend—only heightened the raw, illicit thrill. This was madness. It was also inevitable.
“I need to be inside you,” he breathed, his forehead pressed against hers, his breathing as ragged as her own. “Right now.” He fumbled with his belt buckle with one hand, the other still working inside her, stretching her, preparing her. The metallic clink of his belt was obscenely loud. He freed his cock, thick and veined and eager. He pushed her underwear to the side, not even bothering to remove it.
He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. He guided himself to her entrance, the blunt head pressing against her slick folds. He looked into her eyes, his own blown black with desire. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he challenged, his voice a ragged whisper.
She answered by driving her hips down, taking him inside her in one deep, shocking thrust. A guttural groan was torn from him, and she buried her face in his neck to stifle her own scream. He was so deep, filling her completely, stretching her to a point of perfect, unbearable fullness. He held her there, impaled, for a long moment, both of them trembling.
Then he began to move. It was a brutal, standing fuck, his grip on her ass the only thing keeping her anchored. Each thrust slammed her back against the tiled wall, a jarring impact that was pure sensation. The room filled with the wet, slapping sound of their bodies joining, his ragged grunts, her choked whimpers. He drove into her with a furious, possessive energy, as if trying to brand himself inside her, to make the confession he’d uttered in the dark a physical truth.
“You feel that?” he panted into her ear, his rhythm becoming frantic, losing its precision. “That’s not dependency. That’s… fuck… that’s everything.”
His words, raw and unguarded, shattered her last remnants of control. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent, a convulsing wave that clenched around his driving length. She bit into the fabric of his shirt to keep from screaming, her body seizing, milking him. Feeling her climax triggered his own. With a broken, shuddering groan, he poured into her, his own release hot and pulsing, his body buckling against hers as he held her tight.
They stayed like that for a minute, slumped against the wall, his head on her shoulder, their breathing slowly returning to something resembling normal. The world outside the door—the clatter of plates, the murmur of conversations—seemed to rush back in. He carefully lowered her, his softening cock slipping from her body. They adjusted their clothing in silence, averted eyes, the reality of what they’d just done settling over them.
He unlocked the door and opened it a crack, checking the corridor. It was empty. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable, a mix of awe and turmoil. Without another word, he slipped out. Vanja leaned against the sink, her legs still unsteady, the evidence of their coupling slick between her thighs. She stared at her flushed, well-fucked reflection. A mess. He was right. It was a fucking beautiful, catastrophic mess.