Chapter 5: The Morning After
The apology hung in the air between them for three days, a specter in the training ground and the silent, empty spaces of his apartment. It was in the way he handed her a coffee without being asked, the way his eyes followed her with a new, unsettling softness. Vanja found it more disorienting than his anger. She had built her career on deconstructing male ego, on managing the explosive pride of elite athletes. This quiet, repentant Martin was a variable she hadn’t accounted for.
It made her reckless.
The morning of the North London derby, the training facility was a vault of nervous energy. Martin was in the gym, finishing a light workout, his focus palpable. Vanja found him there, alone, methodically working through a set of weighted squats. The muscles in his back and glutes corded and released with each movement, a study in controlled power.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a long moment. "Nervous, Captain?"
He rack the weights and turned, his chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. "Focused."
"Same thing," she said, pushing off the frame and walking toward him. She stopped just inside his personal space, close enough to smell the clean salt of his skin. Her fingers trailed over the bench press, a casual, predatory gesture. "I had a dream last night."
He stilled, his eyes darkening. "Oh?"
"Mmm." She let a slow, wicked smile play on her lips. "You were on your knees. Not in prayer." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that feathered against his ear. "Your mouth was on me. And you were begging for a taste, like a man dying of thirst. You were so… obedient."
A tremor ran through him. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar, blazing heat. "You're playing a dangerous game, doktor."
"Am I?" She tapped a single finger against his sternum, right over the frantic beat of his heart. "Win the derby. Then maybe we'll see if dreams come true."
She turned and walked away, feeling the burn of his gaze on her back all the way to the door. It was a cruelty, she knew, to dangle that particular fantasy in front of him hours before the biggest game of the season. A psychological gambit. She told herself it was to sharpen him, to give his competitive fury a single, burning point. She ignored the part of her that thrilled at the control.
The Emirates was a roaring, seething cauldron of noise. From the technical area, Vanja watched the match unfold like a violent chess game. Martin was everywhere, a blond dynamo, but his usual flawless precision was a fraction off. A pass overhit. A shot dragged wide. He was playing with a contained, almost frantic energy, his eyes flicking toward the sideline more than once. She had gotten into his head, and for the first half, it seemed she had broken something vital.
In the 87th minute, with the score locked at 2-2, it happened. A failed clearance fell to Martin just outside the box. He took one touch to kill the ball, a second to set himself, and then he unleashed a curling, vicious shot that screamed into the top corner. The net bulged. The stadium erupted.
The final whistle was a release of pure, unadulterated triumph. On the pitch, Martin was swallowed by his teammates, a god restored. When he emerged from the scrum, his eyes found hers across the chaos. He didn't smile. He just looked at her, a single, searing promise in his gaze.
An hour later, the celebrations were still raging in the dressing room, but Martin had already showered and changed. He found her by the players' tunnel, her data tablet tucked under her arm.
"Let's go," he said, his voice rough with adrenaline and something else.
He didn't speak in the car, his grip tight on the steering wheel as he navigated away from the stadium. He didn't drive toward his apartment. Instead, he pulled into the multi-story car park adjacent to the training ground, deserted on a match night. He drove up to the darkest, most remote corner on the top level, killing the engine and plunging them into silence.
The sudden quiet was deafening. The only sound was their ragged breathing.
"Your dream," he said, his voice a low growl. He unclipped his seatbelt, the click unnaturally loud. "Now my reality."
He was on her before she could form a word, his mouth crashing down on hers. It was nothing like the tenderness of their last time. This was all conquest, a claiming fuelled by ninety minutes of pent-up frustration and savage victory. He yanked her over the center console, the move awkward and brutal, her skirt riding up her thighs. He wasn't asking. He was taking.
He fumbled with his own jeans, freeing his cock, thick and achingly hard. He was still half-wearing his Arsenal track pants, the fabric bunched around his thighs. He shoved her thong aside, not bothering to remove it.
"You wanted me begging?" he snarled against her neck, his hands gripping her hips, positioning her over him. "You got me fucking winning. Now take it."
He pulled her down, impaling her in one brutal, downward thrust. She cried out, her head thrown back against the car window, the cold glass a shock against her scalp. He filled her completely, stretching her, the fit so tight it was almost painful. He held her there for a second, buried to the hilt, his eyes blazing up at her in the dim light.
"Ride me," he commanded, his voice guttural. "Ride your fucking champion."
He spanked her ass, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the confined space. The pain was a bright, electric jolt that melted into a wave of pure lust. She began to move, lifting herself up and then sinking back down onto his rigid length. It was awkward, frantic, the gearstick digging into her leg, the leather seats squeaking with every desperate movement.
His hands were on her, everywhere. One hand gripped her hip, guiding her rhythm, while the other squeezed her breast through her blouse, his thumb rubbing rough circles over her nipple. He bucked his hips up to meet her downward strokes, driving himself even deeper.
"That's it," he grunted, his eyes glued to where their bodies joined. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Just like you wanted."
She was lost in it, the raw filth of the act, the smell of his sweat and her perfume and the leather seats. This wasn't love-making. This was a victory fuck, a primal, physical release of all the tension she had so carefully orchestrated. She clawed at his shoulders, her moans turning into ragged sobs as the pleasure built, coiling tight and hot in her core.
"Come for me, Vanja," he growled, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. "Come all over the cock that just won the derby."
His words, so crude, so possessive, tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, screaming convulsion that clenched around him, milking his own release. With a guttural roar, he emptied himself deep inside her, his body shuddering violently beneath hers.
For a long moment, the only sound was their heaving breaths, fogging the windows of the darkened car. He was still inside her, softening. The reality of where they were, what they had just done, began to seep back in. She was straddling the captain of Arsenal in a cold, concrete car park, her clothes disheveled, his come leaking out of her.
He slowly, gently, lifted her off him and set her back in the passenger seat. He leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only a profound exhaustion.
He turned his head to look at her, his expression unreadable in the shadows. "Was that the data you were looking for, doktor?"
Vanja’s breath hitched, the cold car seat a stark contrast to the heat blooming between her thighs. She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear as her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Martin," she moaned, then shifted into Danish, "Ja, min kaptajn, fyld mig helt op," her words a filthy promise that made him shudder.
He groaned, his hands tightening on her hips. "Talk to me like that again," he demanded, his voice ragged.
She complied, switching to Norwegian, "Jeg vil ha deg inni meg igjen, din store, harde jævel," the crude words hanging in the air between them. He started the car with a sharp turn of the key, the engine roaring to life. "We're going to my apartment," he stated, pulling out of the parking space with purposeful speed.
The city lights blurred past the fogged windows as he drove, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting possessively on her leg. He didn't speak, his focus entirely on the road, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes. When they arrived, he practically dragged her from the car and into the elevator, his mouth finding hers in a desperate, claiming kiss.
Inside his apartment, he backed her against the door, his hands already tearing at her clothes. "We are not going out until Sunday," he growled against her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
Vanja grinned, a slow, wicked curve of her lips as she reached for his belt. "Good."