Chapter 10: The Claiming
The wedding was not in a cathedral, but in a sun-drenched meadow on the outskirts of Liverpool, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and roses. Vanja had insisted. “A pitch without lines,” she’d said. “Just grass and sky.” His mother wept the moment she saw the location, understanding it perfectly.
The whole team was there, a sprawling, boisterous constellation of athletic grace in badly tailored suits. Virgil was his best man, holding the rings with hands that could snap tree branches, his voice trembling slightly during his speech. Klopp performed the civil ceremony, his usual frantic energy distilled into a profound, beaming solemnity.
When Vanja walked towards him on her father’s arm, the world ceased its noise. She wore a gown of stark, architectural silk, not white but the palest shade of oyster, with a neckline that plunged and long sleeves that hugged her arms. It was severe and sensuous, and she looked like a warrior queen descended from some Nordic saga. Her hair was down, a dark blonde cascade over her shoulders, and in it she wore a simple circlet of olive leaves from Antiparos.
Mats, in a timeless black tuxedo, stood perfectly still. Then his face crumpled. A single, silent sob shook his shoulders as his hand flew to his mouth. Tears tracked freely down his cheeks, gleaming in the afternoon sun. He made no attempt to hide them. The photographers’ shutters whirred like startled insects, capturing the Ballon d’Or winner, the ice-cold finisher, utterly dissolved by the sight of his woman walking through grass towards him.
Vanja’s own composure held until she reached him. She took his wet face in her hands, her thumbs wiping the tears away. “Hey,” she whispered, just for him. “It’s just me.”
“That’s the point,” he choked out, and the crowd laughed through their own collective sniffles.
The party was epic, a blur of champagne, Danish folk songs led by her uncles, and Serbian kolos that Ibrahima and Salah attempted with disastrous, hilarious results. At one point, Mats stood on a chair, ringing a fork against a glass until the crowd quieted. He was gloriously, messily drunk.
“A toast!” he bellowed. “To my wife!” The word echoed, new and powerful. “The only person who ever gave me a tactical briefing so brutal I almost cried… and then fucked me so hard I definitely did!”
The roar of laughter was deafening. Vanja buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Klopp sprayed his drink everywhere.
Later, under a canopy of fairy lights and stars, they found a moment of quiet. His arms circled her from behind, his chin on her shoulder. “Mrs. de Visser,” he murmured into her ear, testing the sound.
“It sounds like a law firm,” she said, leaning back into him. “I’m keeping Jakobsen.”
“I know. I like it. Professor Doctor Mrs. Vanja Jakobsen de Visser. It’s a mouthful. It’s perfect.” He turned her, his eyes dark and serious. “Take me apart, Professor.”
They stole away an hour later, their escape cheered by a tunnel of their friends. The private jet to Santorini was a bubble of hushed exhaustion and buzzing anticipation. They were both sticky with wine and sweat. As soon as the cabin door was secured, he knelt before her seat, pushing her wedding dress up her thighs. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue lathing her through the delicate silk of her underwear. She came quickly, silently, her hand fisted in his hair, gazing out at the black void of the night sky as the pleasure, sharp and bright, shot through her. He rested his head on her thigh, breathing heavily. “Just wanted a taste of my wife,” he mumbled, and she laughed, the sound rich and full.
The honeymoon villa was all blinding white and cobalt blue, perched on the caldera edge. For days, they did nothing. They slept tangled in sun-bleached linen, ate figs from a bowl on their naked bellies, read trashy novels aloud in ridiculous accents. The sex was lazy and frequent, a slow exploration of married ease. He worshipped her body with a tender focus that made her ache, learning the new, responsive map of her as his wife.
One afternoon, she swam in the villa’s infinity pool, the water cool against her sun-warmed skin. Mats was inside, on a call with his agent. A sudden, visceral wave of nausea rolled through her. It was intense and unmistakable. She hauled herself out, dripping, and sat on the warm stone, her head between her knees. She counted back. Her cycle, always ruthlessly precise, was late. Only by a few days. She’d chalked it up to the chaos of the wedding.
But this feeling… it was different. A deep, internal shifting.
When the nausea passed, a cool, clear certainty took its place. She walked inside, water puddling at her feet. He was just hanging up, scowling at his phone. “Fucking sponsors,” he started, then saw her face. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to go into town,” she said, her voice calm.
“Now? I’ll come.”
“No. Stay. I need… some things. Female things.”
He understood, or thought he did. “Okay. Take the car. You sure?”
She kissed him, a slow, lingering press of lips. “I’m sure.”
The pharmacy in Fira was small and crowded. She bought three different brands, her hands steady, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Back at the villa, he was napping on the daybed, a book open on his chest. She slipped into the grand marble bathroom.
She took all three. The wait was an eternity, measured in the drip of the tap and the distant cry of a gull. One by one, the digital windows announced their verdict. Not with words, but with symbols. A stark, unwavering plus sign. A clear, digital ‘Pregnant’. A definitive ‘YES’.
She stared at them, lined up on the sink like a jury. The world tilted, then righted itself on a new, unimaginable axis. A fierce, terrifying joy rose in her throat. She walked out onto the terrace where he slept. The Aegean stretched before them, impossibly blue.
She sat on the edge of the daybed. He stirred, blinking up at her. “Get what you needed?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.
She took his hand and placed it low on her stomach, holding it there. She said nothing.
His eyes went from sleepy confusion to dawning, seismic comprehension. They searched her face. The silence stretched, taut and immense, filled only by the wind and the sea.
“No,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Vanja.” His voice broke. He sat up swiftly, his other hand coming to cup her face. “Are you… are you sure?”
“Three tests. All positive.”
A sound escaped him, a punched-out gasp of pure wonder. He looked down at his hand, still splayed over her lower abdomen, as if he could see through skin and muscle to the microscopic miracle beginning inside. His eyes filled again. This time, the tears were quiet, overflowing.
“A baby,” he said, the word a sacred, fragile thing. “Our baby.”
He pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her so tightly she could barely breathe. He shook against her. She felt his tears hot on her neck. She held him, her own eyes dry, a profound, anchoring stillness settling in her core.
Later, as the sun dipped, painting the sky in violent strokes of orange and purple, he made love to her with a trembling, almost reverent care. He kissed her stomach, his lips whispering promises against her skin. When he entered her, it was with an exquisite slowness that made her whimper. He held himself above her, his gaze locked on hers, moving with a deep, rhythmic patience that felt like a vow of protection.
“I’m inside you,” he breathed, his forehead against hers. “I’m inside you both.”
The thought, so raw and biological, sent a shock of pure lust through her. She clenched around him, pulling a groan from his chest. “Fuck, Vanja,” he whispered, his control fraying. “Knowing that… knowing I’m in there where our child is…” He drove deeper, his pace incrementally increasing. The tenderness began to fracture under the weight of a more primal need.
He flipped her onto her hands and knees with a sudden, gentle urgency. His hand smoothed over the curve of her ass, down to where they were joined. “This cunt,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe and lust. “This perfect, brilliant cunt is making a person.” He thrust into her, harder now. “My cock was here. And now my child is there. Jesus Christ.”
The vulgarity, the sheer animal truth of it, ignited her. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust. “Yes,” she hissed. “Yes. That’s it. That’s where you put it. That’s where it started.”
He growled, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her hip, his fingers surely leaving bruises. The bed rocked against the wall. He was fucking her now with a desperate, claiming intensity, as if trying to imprint himself upon this sacred space forever. She came with a shattered cry, her vision whiting out, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He followed, pouring into her with a series of ragged shouts, collapsing over her, his body sheltering hers completely.
They lay in the wreckage of the sheets, slick with sweat, his hand never leaving her stomach.
“I’m scared,” she admitted into the twilight.
“Me too.”
“What if I’m terrible at it?”
“You won’t be.”
“The football… your career, my work…”
“We’ll figure it out.” He turned her to face him. His eyes were fierce in the gloom. “We’re a team. The best fucking team. This is just a new formation.”
She laughed, a wet, shaky sound. “A 4-3-3 with a newborn. A false nine and a nappy change.”
He smiled, kissing her nose. “We’ll dominate.”
The final days of the honeymoon were different. The hedonistic laziness took on a new, purposeful quality. He researched prenatal vitamins on his phone. She fell asleep for hours in the shade. They talked about names, about nurseries, about telling their families. The future, which had always been a vague, golden horizon of football seasons and shared victories, suddenly had a heartbeat. It was terrifying. It was everything.
On the flight back to reality, to the looming pre-season and the relentless scrutiny, she rested her head on his shoulder. His hand was on her thigh, his thumb tracing idle circles.
“We don’t tell anyone,” she said. “Not yet. Not until after the first scan. We keep this for us.”
He nodded, understanding the need for a secret play, a tactical advantage against the world’s expectations. “Our secret,” he agreed. He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “But I’m going to look at you across every room, every training pitch, and I’m going to know. I’m going to know my baby is growing inside you. And it’s going to drive me fucking wild.”
She shivered, a fresh, hot coil of desire tightening low in her belly. The journey ahead was uncharted, a volatile mix of public glory and private, profound change. But as the plane pierced the cloud cover, heading north towards the stormy light of their competitive lives, she felt an unshakable calm. They had won every trophy together. Now they were playing for forever.
The secret held for seven weeks. It lived in the quick, discreet dash she made for the bathroom during a team meeting, in the subtle shift from espresso to herbal tea, in the way Mats’s eyes tracked her across the training pitch with a possessive, anxious heat. Her body began to change in increments only he was allowed to witness: the faint, blue-veined swell of her breasts, the new, deep fatigue in her bones by mid-afternoon.
The first scan was a private event in a discreet clinic in Manchester. They held hands, staring at the grainy, grey screen as a thunderous, rapid rhythm filled the room. Wump-wump-wump-wump. “Strong heartbeat,” the sonographer said, pointing to a pulsing, star-like speck. Mats’s grip tightened until her knuckles ached. He didn’t speak. He just watched the tiny, alien creature on the screen, his throat working.
Afterwards, in the car park, he leaned against the hood of the Range Rover, his broad shoulders shaking. He cried not with gentle awe, but with a kind of furious, overwhelmed relief. “It’s real,” he kept saying, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “It’s really fucking in there.”
That night, in the dark of their bedroom, the knowledge made them ravenous. The careful tenderness of the honeymoon was gone, replaced by something more primal. He pushed her face-first into the mattress, his knee nudging her legs apart. “I saw it,” he breathed into her ear, his hand sliding between her thighs. “I saw our kid, Vanja. And now I need to be in you.” His fingers found her wet and ready. “This cunt’s a miracle,” he muttered, working her with rough, sure strokes. “And it’s mine.”
She gasped into the duvet, pushing back against his hand. “Then act like it,” she challenged, her voice muffled.
He didn’t need telling twice. He sheathed himself in a single, brutal thrust that made her cry out. He set a relentless, punishing pace, his hands digging into the soft flesh of her hips. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, of his ragged grunts and her choked moans. “You’re gonna get so fucking big,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. “And everyone will see, but only I’ll know. Only I get to feel this.” He plunged deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. “Only I get to fuck the mother of my child.”
The obscenity, the raw claim of it, triggered her climax. It ripped through her, wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure. He followed, spilling into her with a shout, collapsing his weight on top of her, both of them slick and heaving.
Weeks bled into the grueling rhythm of pre-season. Her energy returned, a fierce, focused vitality. She led sessions with her usual sharp precision, but now a hand would often rest absently on her lower belly, a silent touchstone. Mats watched her like a hawk, intercepting any heavy equipment she moved toward, bringing her water without being asked. The team noticed his hyper-vigilance, chalking it up to newlywed intensity.
One evening, they were arguing about a player’s conditioning data, papers spread across the kitchen island. Vanja was standing, emphasizing a point about lactate thresholds, when it happened.
A sudden, internal thump.
Not a flutter. A definitive, muscular jab.
She froze midsentence, her hand flying to the spot just below her navel.
“What?” Mats was immediately alert, his argument forgotten. “Are you okay? Is it—?”
“Shhh.” Her eyes were wide, fixed on nothing. She waited. There. Another one. A distinct, rolling motion, like a tiny elbow or knee dragging from the inside.
She grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand urgently under her loose t-shirt, pressing his palm flat against her skin. It was still smooth, barely curved. They stood there, suspended. He held his breath.
The kick came hard against the center of his palm.
He jerked his hand back as if shocked, his eyes flying to hers. They were stunned. Then it came again, a stronger, more insistent push from within. A tiny, powerful rebellion.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice reverent and shocked. He placed his hand back, his touch feather-light now. The baby kicked again, a rapid one-two against his waiting hand. A raw, astonished laugh burst from him. “Fuck. It’s strong. It’s so fucking strong.”
Vanja felt tears prick her eyes, not from sentiment, but from the sheer, physical strangeness of it. There was a person in there. A person with a will, testing its limits. “It feels like a fist,” she breathed. “A little fist.”
He sank to his knees right there on the kitchen tile, pressing his ear and then his lips to her stomach. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Hey in there. I felt that.” Another kick connected with his cheek. He laughed, a sound of pure wonder. “Okay, okay. I hear you.”
He looked up at her, his expression utterly shattered. All his coolness, his on-pitch arrogance, was gone. In its place was a vulnerable, overwhelming love. “It’s real,” he said again, but this time it was a different truth. The secret was no longer just a scan or a symptom. It was a force. It had a foot. It could kick.
He rose and kissed her, deep and slow. The argument was forgotten, the papers irrelevant. He led her to the living room sofa, his movements possessed by a gentle urgency. He laid her back, peeled off her leggings and underwear, and buried his face between her legs. His tongue was worshipful and thorough, licking and sucking until she was writhing, her hands fisted in his hair.
When she came, crying out his name, he moved up her body. He entered her with a slow, deep pressure that made them both groan. “Can you feel me?” he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. “Can you feel how deep I am?” He rocked into her, each thrust a measured claiming. “Our kid is right there. And my cock is right here.” He shifted his angle, going deeper, and she gasped. “It’s all connected, Vanja. All of it.”
The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness of him inside her, the alien, internal movements just beneath, the emotional vertigo of it all. She clawed at his back, urging him on, and he lost his careful rhythm, fucking her now with a driven, possessive intensity. The sofa creaked in protest. His release came with a guttural shout, his body shuddering against hers.
Later, as they lay tangled in the quiet dark, his hand returned to her stomach. It was calm now, the occupant settled.
“It’s a midfielder,” he said, his voice sleepy and definitive. “That kick had timing. Aggression.”
She smiled in the darkness. “Or a goalkeeper. Reactive. Explosive.”
He huffed a laugh. The future was no longer an abstract concept of ‘forever.’ It had a heartbeat, a foot, a will. It was growing stronger every day, and it was going to break them open in ways no trophy ever could. The secret was becoming physically impossible to keep.
The secret was becoming physically impossible to keep. Her body declared it. The neat, small curve of her belly swelled into a firm, undeniable dome that stretched the fabric of her training sweaters. Mats would stare at her dressing in the morning, his gaze tracing the new, heavy fullness of her breasts, the dark line that had appeared like a compass needle pointing south from her navel.
“You’re a fucking goddess,” he’d say, his voice rough with sleep and lust. He’d pull her back to bed, his hands worshipping the changes. “Look what we did.”
The club doctor knew, of course, and a tight inner circle. The public speculation was a buzzing hive they ignored. Vanja coached from the technical area, her posture perfect, her voice cutting through the December chill at Goodison Park. A photographer caught Mats, after scoring a penalty, running to the touchline and pressing his lips to her temple instead of celebrating with the fans. The image trended for days. De Visser’s Mysterious Devotion, the headlines read.
They were in their kitchen, thirty-seven weeks in, when the first real contraction hit. It was a Sunday. Rain lashed the windows. Vanja was leaning against the counter, analyzing footage of an upcoming opponent on her tablet. A deep, internal cinch, like a steel band being tightened around her lower spine, stole her breath. She gripped the quartz surface, her knuckles whitening.
Mats was across the island, making tea. He saw her face freeze. “What?”
“A practice one,” she managed, exhaling slowly as the pressure released. “Braxton-Hicks. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Twenty minutes later, another one came, deeper, longer. A visceral squeezing that radiated down into her thighs. She made a small, involuntary sound, a grunt of effort. The tablet clattered to the floor.
He was beside her in an instant. “That’s not practice.” His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. “Is it?”
“I don’t know.” She breathed through her nose, a technique she’d read about. “Maybe.”
The third contraction came twelve minutes later, doubling her over. She clutched his forearm, her nails biting into his skin. “Okay,” he said, his voice switching into a terrifying, pre-match calm. “Okay, we’re going.” He didn’t grab the hospital bag they’d packed. He just wrapped her in her coat, shoved her feet into boots, and guided her to the car, his arm a solid bar across her back.
The Mercedes was a capsule of pain and focused silence. The city lights blurred past. He drove with a racer’s precision, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping her thigh through another contraction. She panted, a sharp “he-he-he-hoo” that sounded absurd even to her. “Fuck this,” she hissed, sweat beading on her upper lip. “It’s like my pelvis is being pried apart with a crowbar.”
He let out a tight, strained laugh. “Graphic. I like it.”
At the private maternity wing, a midwife with calm hands confirmed what they knew. “You’re at six centimeters, Vanja. You’re in active labour. This baby is coming today.”
The room was quiet, dimly lit. Vanja refused the epidural. “I want to feel it,” she told Mats, her jaw set. “I need to know what’s happening.” He just nodded, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth, his face pale.
The hours dissolved into a primordial rhythm of suffering and brief, fragile respite. The pain was not a spike but a tidal wave, building from a low, ominous pull to a crushing, impossible peak that obliterated thought. She rode them, kneeling on the bed, Mats braced behind her, his chest a wall for her to lean against. “You’re doing it,” he murmured into her sweat-drenched hair. “You’re so fucking strong. I can’t believe you.”
During one endless contraction, she screamed, a raw, guttural sound that scraped her throat. “I can’t! I can’t do it!”
“You are doing it,” he snapped, his voice fierce. “Right now. You’re doing it. Look at me.” He turned her face to his. His eyes were blazing. “This is the hardest thing. Harder than any final. And you’re winning. I see you winning.”
The urge to push arrived with a violence that shocked her. It was an animal imperative, a demand from her very bones. The midwife guided her. Vanja bore down with a snarl, every muscle in her body corded and shaking. Mats held her hands, his own trembling.
“I can see the head,” the midwife said, her voice bright with excitement. “Lots of dark hair, Vanja. One more big push with this next one.”
The contraction mounted, a summit of pressure. Vanja gathered every shred of will, every ounce of strength she’d ever used on a pitch or in a fight. She pushed, a roar tearing from her lungs. There was a burning, stretching agony, and then a sudden, slippery release.
A sharp, indignant cry pierced the room.
A small, purple, writhing creature was placed on her chest, slick and warm and real. The world shrank to the weight of him, the frantic beat of his heart against hers, the stunned, blind seeking of his face. She was shaking, sobbing, laughing all at once. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, hello.”
Mats was weeping openly, silently, his forehead pressed to her temple, his hand covering their son’s tiny back. “Vanja,” he choked. “Look what you did.”
They named him Jens, after his grandfather. He had Mats’s serious brow and her full mouth. He fed, a fierce, determined suckle that made Vanja wince and smile. Mats watched them, his expression one of shell-shocked reverence. He cut the cord, his hands steady, his eyes never leaving their son’s face.
Three days later, Mats stood in the hallway of the maternity wing, a club PR manager hovering nearby. A trusted reporter, one who had covered his career from Ajax, waited with a single camera. Mats’s hair was messy. He wore a simple black hoodie. He looked exhausted, utterly undone.
“Ask your questions,” he said, his voice quiet.
The reporter smiled. “Just tell me about them.”
Mats looked down at his hands, then directly into the lens. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. “She… she coached a session on Tuesday. Gave a full tactical briefing. On Wednesday, she gave birth to our son. She refused any pain relief. She wanted to feel all of it.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ve seen her break down teams with her mind. I’ve seen her out-think men who’ve been in the game fifty years. But I have never, ever witnessed bravery like what I saw in that room.”
He ran a hand over his face. “She was like… a force of nature. A storm. It was violent, and beautiful, and terrifying. And she was in command of it. Even when she screamed, she was in command.” His voice broke. “They say I’m strong on the pitch. I’m nothing. I’m a child next to her. What she did… what her body did… it’s impossible. And she did it.”
He looked right at the camera, his gaze fierce and direct. “Jens is perfect. He has her eyes, I think. But Vanja… Vanja is a miracle. She’s the strongest person I will ever know. My beautiful, brave wife. She gave me a son, and she showed me what real strength is. It’s not kicking a ball. It’s this. It’s her.”
He stopped, nodding to signal he was done. He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked back down the hallway, toward the room where his world now resided, leaving the reporter in a stunned, respectful silence.