Chapter 8: Nico pins Vanja against the wall, his tongue forcing past her lips as his fingers rip open her blouse, her hardened nipples scraping against his Dortmund jersey while she sobs 'I hate you' between desperate, wet kisses.
The autobahn stretched ahead, a gray ribbon blurred by tears she refused to acknowledge. Vanja drove on autopilot, the powerful car humming beneath her, a stark contrast to the shattered stillness inside her. The sequence of Munich played on a loop behind her eyes: the cold touch of the penthouse floor, the phantom ache of being filled by two men who saw her as territory, the final, degrading release on a piece of paper. I quit.
She didn’t know where she was going until the signs for Dortmund appeared. The city was a ghost of a different life. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy, and pressed a name she hadn’t dialed in over a year.
It rang three times. “Vanja?” Nico’s voice was laced with sleep and surprise. “What’s wrong?”
The simple question fractured her composure. A sob escaped, harsh and unwanted. “No,” she managed, the word thick. “I’m not okay.”
A pause. She could hear him shifting, the rustle of sheets. “Where are you?”
“Driving. I’m… near Dortmund.”
“Give me your address. I’m coming.”
Twenty minutes later, she stood shivering outside a nondescript apartment building, the chill of the night seeping through her thin jacket. His car pulled up, and he got out, his familiar frame both a comfort and a wound. Nico Schlotterbeck looked older, the boyishness in his face hardened by the relentless grind of the Bundesliga.
He didn’t hug her. He just looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Come on up.”
His apartment was exactly as she’d imagined it for his post-Bayern life: functional, big, dominated by a huge TV and a couch piled with training gear. The air smelled of clean laundry and takeout. It was the opposite of Neuer’s sterile luxury.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she said, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “You have a girlfriend.”
Nico ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Yeah. I do.” He gestured to the couch. “Sit. You look like hell.”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “Yeah. But you couldn’t be there for me when we were together, could you? So why start now?”
“Vanja, don’t.”
“Fuck you, Nico.” She turned toward the door, the anger a welcome substitute for the despair.
He moved quickly, his hand closing around her wrist. It wasn’t a harsh grip, but it was firm. “Please. Don’t go.”
“You left me behind long before I broke up with you,” she screamed, the accusation echoing in the small space, raw and ancient. “You left me alone with all of it!”
“You broke up with me,” he countered, his voice rising to match hers.
“Yes! Because you were already gone! You were just waiting for me to make it official!” The fight drained out of her as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving her limp. The tears came then, uncontrollable, wracking sobs that bent her double.
He caught her as she crumpled, pulling her against his chest. “Hey. Hey, shhh.” His arms wrapped around her, solid and real. She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, simple scent of him—deodorant and soap, no expensive cologne, no hidden agendas. For a long time, he just held her while she cried, her body shuddering with the force of everything she’d held in since walking into the Allianz Arena.
When the storm passed, leaving her hollowed and spent, he led her to the couch. He handed her a glass of water. “Tell me,” he said, his voice quiet. “Tell me what happened.”
And she did. She told him about Neuer’s initial skepticism, the magnetic, terrifying pull of his authority. She told him about Kimmich’s cold hostility. She skipped the details of Olise, but she didn’t soften the rest. The power plays, the psychological games that escalated into something far more visceral. She described the morning in the penthouse, the two of them using her body as a weapon against each other, the cold finality in Neuer’s study. She told him about the equipment shed with Kimmich, a brutal, meaningless fuck that felt like being erased.
Nico listened, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where they gripped his knee. He didn’t interrupt. When she finished, the apartment was silent except for the distant hum of city traffic.
“Animals,” he finally whispered, the word dripping with a venom she’d never heard from him.
“I let them,” she said, the admission hanging in the air. “I walked into that cage.”
“Nobody deserves that.” He stood up, pacing the length of the small living room, a caged animal himself. “You quit?”
“I left a note. ‘I quit.’ Nothing else.”
“Good. Fuck them.” He stopped in front of her, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn’t name. “They thought they could break you. Use you up and throw you away.”
“Maybe they did.”
“No.” He knelt before her, his hands on her knees. “Look at me, Vanja. You’re here. You got out.”
His proximity was a sudden, electric shock. The safe distance imposed by talking evaporated. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his hands through her trousers, the intensity in his eyes. This was Nico. The man who had once known every part of her, whose love she had cried over for months.
He leaned forward slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. His lips met hers, and it was nothing like the violent kisses of Munich. This was soft, questioning, a rediscovery. It tasted of salt tears and a history that suddenly felt urgent.
The gentleness didn’t last. A hunger took over, a desperate need to erase the memory of other hands, other mouths. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue sweeping past her lips, tasting, claiming.
“I never stopped,” he murmured against her skin, his mouth traveling to her neck, sucking a mark that was about possession, not punishment. “Fuck, Vanja, I never stopped wanting you.”
He pulled her shirt over her head, his hands cupping her breasts through her bra, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were hard peaks. She arched into his touch, a low moan escaping her. He unclasped the bra, tossing it aside, and his mouth closed over one nipple, his tongue lashing it, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. The sensation was so intensely familiar, so right, that it brought fresh tears to her eyes.
He guided her down onto the worn carpet, his body covering hers. They were a tangle of frantic hands and tearing clothes. He yanked her trousers and underwear down her legs, his eyes devouring the sight of her nakedness. “You’re still so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire.
He stripped off his own clothes, his erection springing free, thick and eager. He didn’t enter her straight away. He kissed his way down her stomach, his stubble a rough caress against her soft skin. He parted her legs, holding her open, and lowered his mouth to her.
His tongue on her clit was expert, knowing. He remembered the rhythm that drove her wild, the specific pressure that made her thighs tremble. He licked and sucked, his fingers sliding inside her, curling to find that sweet spot that made her back bow off the floor. This was worship, not violation. The pleasure built, a clean, sharp crescendo that was entirely her own. She came with a broken cry, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body convulsing around his fingers.
While she was still pulsing from the orgasm, he moved up her body. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cockhead nudging her wetness. He looked into her eyes, his gaze serious. “This is me,” he said, a world of meaning in the words. “Just me.”
He pushed inside, and she gasped. He filled her completely, a stretch that was blissful, not brutal. He began to move, a deep, measured rhythm that was about connection, about reclaiming what had been stolen. Each thrust was a promise, an apology, a desperate attempt to fuck the ghosts of Munich out of her body.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he grunted, his hips slapping against hers, his sweat-slicked chest pressed to her breasts.
“I’m yours,” she moaned, the words a truth she hadn’t realized was still there.
He fucked her harder, faster, the pace losing its tenderness and becoming something raw and primal. This was for them, for the history they shared, for the pain they’d caused each other. He drove into her, over and over, until the room was filled with the sound of their skin meeting and their ragged breaths.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his body tightening.
“Inside me,” she begged, wanting to feel him, to be marked by him in this way, a clean mark. “Nico, please.”
With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he groaned her name, and she felt the hot pulse of his release inside her. She clenched around him, milking every last drop, and felt her own second orgasm ripple through her, a softer, deeper wave that left her boneless.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting anchor. They lay like that on the floor for a long time, sticky and entwined, the city lights blinking outside the window.
Eventually, he rolled off, pulling her against his side. They didn’t speak. The silence was comfortable, filled with the echo of what had just happened. She traced the tattoo on his bicep, a familiar pattern her fingers knew by heart.
She traced the tattoo on his bicep, a familiar pattern her fingers knew by heart. The silence was a palpable thing, thick with the scent of their sweat and the echoes of their fucking. It was a better silence than the one in Munich, filled with something other than conquest.
“I have to call her,” Nico said quietly, his voice rough. The words landed like a stone in the stillness between them.
Vanja didn’t move. “Your girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” He sat up, running his hands over his face. The planes of his back, tense and defined, were a map of his discomfort. “I can’t just… this isn’t nothing.”
“I know.” She pulled the discarded shirt over her head, the fabric doing little to shield her from the sudden chill of consequence. The frantic need that had driven her here was receding, leaving behind the complicated debris of reality.
He found his phone, the screen illuminating his grim expression. He scrolled, hesitated, then pressed call. Vanja watched him, feeling like a spectator to the dismantling of her own temporary sanctuary. “Hey,” he said, turning slightly away. “Yeah, I’m okay. Something came up. A friend… yeah, a friend needed help.”
The lie was smooth, practiced. She wondered how often he’d used that tone, those words, for her in the past. He listened for a moment, his shoulders tightening. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. It’s… complicated. I’m sorry.” He ended the call and dropped the phone onto the couch as if it were hot. “Fuck.”
“Complicated,” Vanja repeated, the word tasting acidic. She stood, needing space from his guilt, from the mess they’d just made. She walked to the small kitchen and poured a glass of water, her hand trembling slightly.
“What do you want me to say, Vanja? That was a lie. I just cheated on my girlfriend with my ex who showed up on my doorstep crying.” He followed her, standing in the doorway, a formidable silhouette radiating confused energy. “This is a fucking disaster.”
She drank the water, the cool liquid doing nothing to quell the heat of humiliation brewing in her gut. She had run from one disaster to create another. “You’re right. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
“That’s not what I said.” He moved closer, his hand touching her arm, his grip firm. “I’m glad you came. I’m not glad about what I just did. There’s a difference.”
She looked at his hand, then up at his face. The conflict in his eyes was genuine. It was more than Neuer or Kimmich had ever offered her. This was a real person with real complications, not a god playing with a pawn. The clarity of it ignited a fresh, reckless anger.
“You want to know what a real disaster feels like, Nico?” she whispered, her voice dangerously low. She took his hand and placed it between her legs, over the fabric of the shirt. She was still wet from him, the ache a persistent reminder. “ in Munich… they didn’t ask. They didn’t lie to their girlfriends or anyone. They just took. They used my body to settle a score with each other.”
His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the warm brown of his irises. His fingers pressed against her through the cotton. “Don’t compare me to them.”
“Why not?” She pushed her hips against his hand, a crude, challenging gesture. “You’re inside me now, aren’t you? Your come is dripping out of me. Tell me the difference.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. The civilized man warred with the provoked animal. The animal won. He grabbed the hem of the shirt and ripped it upwards, over her head, leaving her naked again. He backed her against the cool fridge, the metal shocking her skin. “The difference is I fucking love you,” he growled, his mouth crashing down on hers.
This kiss was nothing like the first. It was a battle, a punishment and a plea. He bit her lower lip, his hands gripping her ass, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. He carried her back to the living room, not to the carpet, but to the arm of the bulky couch.
He set her on the edge, her legs splayed open. He knelt again, but this time there was no tenderness in his intent. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue lashing her clit with a frantic, almost angry urgency. He wasn’t worshiping her now; he was branding her, trying to lick the memory of every other touch from her skin.
“Tell me you don’t feel that,” he snarled against her flesh, his tongue plunging inside her. “Tell me it feels like them.”
She couldn’t speak. Her head fell back, a guttural moan from her throat. The pleasure was sharp, overwhelming, edged with the pain of his stubble and the ferocity of his mouth. He sucked her clit hard, and her body convulsed in a swift, brutal orgasm that left her seeing stars.
Before the tremors had even subsided, he was on his feet, his cock jutting out, thick and vengeful. He pushed her back so she was bent over the arm of the couch, her ass in the air. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, then guided his shaft to her entrance.
“This is mine,” he grunted, and drove into her with a single, deep thrust that stole her breath.
He fucked her with a relentless, pounding rhythm, each slam of his hips a punctuation mark to his claim. The couch creaked in protest. He gripped her hips, his fingers sure to leave bruises, holding her in place as he pistoned into her from behind. It was raw, it was possessive, and it was everything she needed to obliterate the feeling of being a passive object.
“You think they can fuck you like this?” he panted, his voice strained with effort. “You think that keeper knows what to do with a woman like you?”
“No,” she cried out, the word tearing loose as he hit a spot deep inside that made her toes curl. “Only you.”
He groaned, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. His body tightened, and with a raw, shouted curse, he emptied himself into her, his release hot and pulsing. He collapsed over her back, his weight pinning her to the couch, both of them sweating and breathless.
The buzzer for the apartment door screamed through the silence, sudden and jarring. They both froze.
Nico pulled out of her slowly, his breathing harsh. He grabbed his jeans and pulled them on, barely zipping them before walking to the intercom. “Yeah?”
A distorted voice crackled through. “Schlotterbeck! You in there? We’re going for a drink. Come on.”
Vanja scrambled for her clothes, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was one of his teammates. Nico glanced back at her, his expression a mask of panic and frustration. “Not tonight, man. I’m… busy.”
“Busy doing what? Come on, don’t be a pussy. Five minutes.”
Nico looked at Vanja, now partially dressed, looking like exactly what she was: a secret. He pressed the button. “I said not tonight, Patrick. Piss off.”
He released the button and leaned his forehead against the wall. The moment was broken. The spell of savage reclamation was shattered by the mundane intrusion of the outside world.
Vanja finished dressing in the sudden, cold silence. The heat of their bodies was fading, leaving behind the sticky evidence and the crushing weight of what they’d done. She walked to the door.
“Vanja, wait,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“You were right,” she said, not turning around. “It’s a disaster.” She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed in her bones.
The expensive whiskey burned a path down Manuel Neuer’s throat, but it did nothing to warm the cold hollow in his chest. He stared at the city lights from his penthouse, the view that usually made him feel like a king now just looked like a collection of distant, indifferent stars. Joshua stood by the desk, rolling a glass between his palms, his silence more accusatory than any words.
“Where is she?” Neuer finally asked, the words slurring slightly.
Joshua looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Dortmund. She went to her parents. She quit.”
Neuer closed his eyes. “Fuck.” The city blurred. His own stupid, arrogant mistake played behind his eyelids. “Fucking Nico Schlotterbeck.”
“What?” Joshua’s voice was sharp.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Neuer laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “Before we fucked her… before I fucked it all up… she used to date him for a few years. It didn’t end well. I know he has some basic girlfriend now, but I think, well fuck, if she wants him, he’ll be hers.”
Joshua laughed, a short, harsh burst of sound. “Fuck. Vinnie will kill us.”
“Yeah,” Manuel said, draining his glass. The emptiness expanded. He looked at Joshua, the rivalry that had once felt so important now seeming pathetic and small. “Fuck, Jo. I don’t want her to go.”