Chapter 7: The Jersey Payment
The key turned in the lock at precisely 5:47 PM. Vanja’s heart, which had been a steady drum against her ribs all afternoon, stuttered into a frantic rhythm. She was exactly where he’d demanded: bent over the cold marble island, the vast cityscape sprawling beyond the windows. The damp, crimson Bayern jersey was a paltry shield, the fabric clinging to her breasts and hanging just below the curve of her ass. She’d spent the day in a haze of translation work and nervous anticipation, her body humming with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his command.
The door closed. His training bag hit the floor with a soft thump. Silence, thick and charged, filled the spacious apartment.
She heard his footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossing the living area. She didn’t turn. The air shifted, grew warmer. She could smell him—clean sweat, grass, the faint, expensive scent of his shower gel from the club.
A calloused hand slid over the bare swell of her ass, his touch electric. His thumb traced the edge of the jersey’s hem. He made a sound, a low, hungry groan that vibrated through her.
“Fuck, Vanja.”
In one swift motion, he gathered the wet fabric and lifted it clear to her lower back, baring her completely. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, making her shiver. His other hand came down, not in a caress, but a firm, possessive grip on her hip, holding her in place.
“You’re already wet for me,” he murmured, his voice rough. He didn’t check with his fingers; he could see it, the glistening evidence of her arousal. “Been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? About my cock splitting you open right here.”
She couldn’t speak. She nodded, her cheek pressed against the cold stone.
He didn’t take her immediately. Instead, he dropped to his knees behind her. His hands spread her cheeks, holding her open. He exhaled, a hot rush of air against her most intimate flesh, and then his mouth was on her.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a devouring. His tongue, broad and demanding, licked a brutal, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit. She jerked, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. He did it again, and again, lapping at her with a focused intensity that blurred her vision. Then he pushed his tongue inside her, fucking her with it, deep and rough, mimicking the act he was so clearly hungry for.
“Tastes like mine,” he growled against her, his words muffled by her flesh. “Every fucking part of you tastes like you belong to me.”
He alternated—sucking her clit until her knees threatened to buckle, then plunging his tongue back inside, drinking from her. The obscene, wet sounds filled the sterile kitchen. Her cries escalated, helpless, echoing off the hard surfaces. She was a live wire, every nerve ending sizzling under his mouth.
When he finally rose, she was quivering, on the precipice. She heard the rustle of his track pants, the snap of the waistband. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against her soaked opening.
“Tell me,” he commanded, one hand fisting in her hair, not painfully, but with absolute control. “Whose are you?”
“Yours,” she gasped, pushing back against him, needing the fullness. “Michael, please—”
He slammed into her to the hilt in one ruthless stroke, burying himself so deep she saw stars. The breath left her body in a punched-out sob. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, his hips pistoning against her ass, the sound of skin on skin sharp in the quiet room.
“Yes,” he hissed, his grip tightening in her hair. “Take it. This is what you wanted. This is what you waited for. My cock in this perfect, greedy cunt.”
Each thrust jolted her forward, her nipples scraping against the coarse mesh of the jersey. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a glorious, overwhelming invasion. He was everywhere—the smell of him, the sound of his ragged breathing, the sheer, physical force of his possession.
“I can feel you clenching,” he grunted, his pace becoming erratic, desperate. “You gonna come? Come all over me. Do it. Let me feel it.”
His words, the unrelenting friction, the dizzying sense of being utterly used for his pleasure—it tipped her over. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming, her internal muscles spasming around his driving length. She screamed, the sound raw and unfiltered.
It shattered his control. With a final, deep plunge, he held himself deep and still, a guttural roar tearing from his chest as he emptied into her, hot and endless. His body trembled against hers, his weight sagging over her back for a long moment.
They stayed locked together, connected, breathing in shattered unison. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He gently lowered the jersey back over her skin, his hands, now tender, smoothing the fabric down her thighs. He turned her around and lifted her onto the counter, facing him. His eyes were dark, soft, satiated. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, a stark contrast to the frenzy of moments before.
“Go get stunning,” he said, his voice hoarse. He swatted her ass lightly as she slid off the counter. “We have a reservation.”
The restaurant was all low lights and murmured conversations, a world away from the raw exposure of his kitchen. Vanja wore a simple, black dress that clung to her curves, feeling the pleasant, lingering ache between her legs with every step. Michael’s hand rested on the small of her back, a constant, warm point of contact.
He watched her across the table, his eyes reflecting the candle flame. “You look amazing,” he said, the words simple, devoid of the filthy poetry he wielded in private.
She smiled, a genuine, easy thing. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He reached across the linen, his fingers intertwining with hers. His thumb stroked her knuckles. The casual intimacy of it, in this public place, felt more profound than anything that had happened on the island.
Their food came, and they ate, talking of inconsequential things—a funny thing Dino had said, a tricky source she was wrestling with for her thesis. It was normal. It was terrifying.
As the waiter cleared their plates, Michael’s expression grew quiet, introspective. He looked at their joined hands, then back up at her, the confident superstar nowhere to be seen.
“I can’t believe you’re mine,” he whispered, the noise of the restaurant fading into a hushed backdrop.
She squeezed his fingers. “I’m here.”
He shook his head, as if grappling with a thought too big for words. “I can’t believe I almost let you go. All that time. I saw you with Aleks and the others, laughing, and I wanted to… I wanted to claim you right there in the middle of the Säbener Straße cafeteria. But I held back. I thought it was complicated. I thought it was danger.” A wry, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “Turns out, not having you was the most dangerous thing I could have done to myself.”
The admission hung between them, fragile and honest. Vanja felt a lump form in her throat. This was the man behind the aura—vulnerable, a little bewildered by his own feelings, fiercely possessive not out of arrogance, but out of a profound, staggering gratitude that she’d said yes.
“You didn’t let me go,” she said softly. “You just took a very… circuitous route.”
He laughed, the sound warm and rich. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, a gesture so old-fashioned and sincere it made her heart clench.
Later, in the back of the darkened car returning to the penthouse, he pulled her close, her head on his shoulder. The city lights streaked past the window.
“I have to leave tomorrow,” he said into her hair, his voice reluctant. “National team call-up. Three days.”
She’d known it was coming. The schedule was pinned to the fridge. Still, the reality of it, now, felt like a cold draft.
“I know,” she said.
“Come with me.”
She lifted her head. “To Clairefontaine? Michael, they won’t let me in.”
“Then stay in Paris. At the hotel. I’ll be with you every second I’m not obligated to be with them.” His eyes searched hers in the gloom. “I don’t want three days without you. Not now. Not after just getting this.”
The car slid to a stop. He paid the driver and led her into the building, into the private elevator. As soon as the doors closed, he pushed her against the mirrored wall, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was less about passion and more about sealing a promise.
When they entered the penthouse, it didn’t feel like his space anymore. Her laptop charger was snaked by the sofa. A book she was reading lay face-down on the armrest. The red jersey, now dry, was draped over a chair in the bedroom like a flag.
He saw her looking at it. “Pack that,” he said, nodding toward the jersey. “I want to find you wearing it in a Paris hotel room.”
He went to shower, and Vanja stood in the silence of the living room, the weight of his request settling on her. Her own world—the university library, her quiet apartment, the predictable rhythm of her research—seemed like a distant, faded photograph. This, the whirlwind, the intensity, the man who switched between savage lust and devastating tenderness in a heartbeat, was her life now.
From the bathroom, she heard the shower turn off. She walked to the bedroom, pulling her suitcase from the closet. She folded the red jersey and placed it on top of her clothes. It was just fabric, but it felt like a uniform. A commitment.
He emerged, a towel slung low on his hips, water gleaming on his torso. He watched her pack, his expression unreadable.
“Okay,” she said, without looking up. “I’ll come to Paris.”
He crossed the room in two strides, cupping her face, kissing her deeply. It was a kiss of gratitude, of victory, of relief. When he pulled away, his forehead resting against hers, he simply said, “Thank you.”
That night, he made love to her in the vast bed. It was slow, almost reverent, a wordless conversation of lips and hands and joined bodies. There was no frantic claiming, only a deep, rhythmic connection that felt like grounding, like fortification against the separation to come.
After, as she drifted off curled into the heat of his body, his arm a heavy weight across her waist, the last thing she heard was his whisper in the dark.
“Don’t forget whose you are.”
The whisper followed her into dreams of deep water and strong currents, and it was the first thing she felt upon waking in the gray Paris dawn, his side of the bed already cold. For three days, the compact hotel room near the Parc des Princes smelled of him—his cologne on the pillow, his sweat on the discarded training gear, the faint, lingering scent of their frantic coupling each night when he returned from camp, still buzzing with adrenaline.
He was different here, coiled tighter, a live wire of focused intensity. The sex was even more frantic, a necessary pressure valve. The second night, he’d pushed her face-first into the mattress, his hand a firm weight between her shoulder blades. He’d fucked her with a quiet, relentless fury, his rhythm punishing. “They’re watching,” he’d grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “The coaches, the veterans. Every fucking mistake. I have to be perfect.” He drove into her, each thrust exorcising the day’s pressure. “Only place I don’t have to be perfect is right here, buried inside you.” He came with a shuddering groan, collapsing atop her, his weight a comfort.
Now, the stadium was a vibrating ocean of sound, a deafening roar that hummed in her bones. Vanja sat in the privileged swell behind the bench, the blue French jersey—fresh from his bag that morning, the number 10 stark on her back—feeling like both armor and a target. On her left was Michael’s mother, Elodie, a elegant woman with his same intelligent eyes who had greeted Vanja with a warm, assessing hug. On her right was Faiza, her aunt’s best friend since their own university days in Zagreb, whose presence was a startling, soothing thread of home woven into this dizzying new tapestry.
“He cannot keep his eyes off you,” Faiza murmured during a midfield lull, her lips close to Vanja’s ear to be heard. “Even from here, it is obvious.”
Vanja followed her gaze down to the pitch. Amidst the fluid chaos of players, Michael was static for a split second, his head turned almost imperceptibly toward their section. The connection was a physical jolt. Elodie simply patted Vanja’s knee, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
The game was a tense, grinding affair. Vanja, who usually dissected football with a sociologist’s detached eye, felt her academia evaporate. Every tackle on him made her flinch. Every missed pass from a teammate drew a low growl from her throat. She was a raw nerve, exposed and twitching in the Parisian night.
The breakthrough came in the 74th minute. A turnover, a swift series of one-touch passes, and then Michael was driving forward, a blur of blue slicing through a tired defense. He received the ball at the edge of the box, his touch deft, killing its momentum. A defender lunged. Michael shifted his weight, a subtle feint that wrong-footed the man completely. It created a sliver of space, just enough.
He didn’t blast it. He caressed it with the inside of his boot, a curving, elegant shot that whispered past the goalkeeper’s fingertips and kissed the netting in the far corner.
The stadium detonated.
Vanja was on her feet, screaming, her voice lost in the cataclysm. Elodie was hugging her, Faiza was shouting in Serbian next to her. On the pitch, Michael was mobbed by his teammates, but he fought them off almost immediately. His celebration was direct, purposeful. He sprinted, not to the corner flag, but straight toward their section. He pointed, his finger aimed like an arrow at her heart.
He stopped at the advertising hoardings, his chest heaving, his face alight with a triumphant, primal joy. He made a gesture, fingers to his lips, then pointed at her again—a pantomime for the millions watching. Her. Mine.
After the final whistle, the world became a slow-motion blur of security barriers and flashing credentials. Players milled, families descended onto the pitch. And then he was there, cutting through the crowd, still in his sweaty kit, smelling of grass and effort and victory. He ignored the extended hands, the backslaps. His destination was singular.
He stopped before her. The noise faded into a distant hum. His eyes, dark and blazing, held hers. He didn’t smile. He cupped the back of her neck, his grip firm, possessive. His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her into the solid, damp heat of his body.
“You wore it,” he said, his voice gravel.
Then he kissed her.
It was not a chaste, celebratory peck. It was a deep, claiming, open-mouthed kiss, there on the hallowed turf of the Parc des Princes, under the blinding lights and the gaze of his mother, his friend’s mother, and sixty thousand witnesses. He tasted of salt and vitality. His tongue swept against hers, a bold, unmistakable declaration. She could feel the hard plates of his chest protector through the thin jersey, could feel the rapid, victorious hammering of his heart against her own.
When he finally broke away, breaths mingling, the roar of the crowd surged back in. Cameras flashed, a constellation of light freezing them in that moment. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, a private smile finally touching his lips.
“Now everyone knows,” he whispered, for her alone.
The kiss broke, but the silence between them in the roaring stadium did not. His hand remained anchored at the back of her neck, a hot, solid claim. Cameras whirred, flashes popping like distant artillery. He smiled then, a real one, all bright teeth and crinkled eyes, the fierce possessiveness melting into boyish triumph.
“Got to do the rounds,” he said, his thumb stroking her jaw. “Don’t move far.”
He was pulled away by a team official, his fingers trailing from her skin reluctantly. Vanja stood rooted, her lips tingling, the taste of him and adrenaline metallic on her tongue. Elodie gave her a knowing, amused look before turning to greet another player’s family. It was Faiza who guided her gently by the elbow into the flow of people heading toward the tunnel and private lounges.
The lounge was a cacophony of relieved laughter, clinking bottles, and technical dissection. Vanja accepted a glass of champagne she didn’t want, her eyes scanning the clusters of athletes and VIPs for his familiar gait, the set of his shoulders. She felt adrift, a satellite suddenly pulled into a foreign galaxy’s gravity.
“Ovo je ludilo, zar ne?” A woman’s voice, low and melodic, spoke beside her in flawless Serbian.
Vanja turned. The woman was stunning, ageless in that way of certain former models, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that missed nothing. She wore an aura of easy elegance that seemed to quiet the noise around her. Vanja recognized her immediately from a thousand tabloid pages and football documentaries: Andrea, Thierry Henry’s wife.
“Apsolutno ludilo,” Vanja replied, the familiar language a shock of cold, clear water. It unlocked something in her chest. “I feel like I’ve been teleported.”
Andrea’s smile was warm, conspiratorial. She nodded toward where Michael was now surrounded by federation suits, though his gaze kept flicking back to Vanja. “He is not subtle, your boy. The kiss? The pointing? Very old school. Very effective.” She took a sip of her drink. “It is a lot, this life. The eyes. The expectations. It helps if the person you come home to speaks the language of your real life, not just the one on television.”
Vanja understood. This was not small talk. This was a lifeline, a translation. “It’s… intense.”
“It is a vortex,” Andrea corrected gently. “It will try to swallow you. Do not let it. Make him speak Serbian sometimes. Or Danish. Or Croatian. Remind him, and yourself, who you were before the galaxy of football decided you were its new moon.” She touched Vanja’s arm lightly. “It is a good trick. It keeps you sane.”
Before Vanja could respond, a new energy pulsed through the crowd. Kylian Mbappé moved through the room with the unforced gravitational pull of a planetary body. He was smiling, exchanging effortless banter, a hand on shoulders. His path, Vanja realized with a slow-motion dread, was intersecting with hers.
He stopped before them, his smile brilliant and practiced. “Andrea, toujours magnifique,” he said, kissing her cheeks. His eyes, sharp and appraising, shifted to Vanja. “And this must be the famous distraction. The reason our boy Olise has been smiling at his phone like a teenager for three days.”
“Vanja,” she said, offering her hand.
He took it, his grip firm. “Kylian. A pleasure. Michael talks of little else. We are all jealous, of course.” His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes performed a swift, comprehensive scan—her face, the jersey she wore, the way she held herself. It was a valuation. “He is a lucky man. To have such a… dedicated supporter.”
The comment hung, perfectly balanced between compliment and insinuation. Vanja felt her spine stiffen. “He plays beautifully. It’s easy to support artistry.”
Mbappé’s smile widened, appreciative of the parry. “Well said. Keep him happy, yes? His happiness is now a matter of French national security.” He winked, a flash of superstar charm, and moved on, absorbed back into the constellation of his own orbit.
Vanja exhaled. She found Michael across the room. He was no longer talking to officials. He was staring directly at her, his champagne flute dangling forgotten from his fingers. His expression was flat, unreadable. He had seen the entire exchange.
The car ride back to the hotel was shrouded in a thick, simmering quiet. The partition was up, sealing them in a plush, silent cube gliding through Parisian lights. Michael sat apart from her, his body angled toward the window, the hard line of his jaw illuminated by passing streetlamps.
“He was just being polite,” Vanja said finally, the words sounding feeble.
Michael didn’t look at her. “I know how he was being.”
“It was nothing.”
“I didn’t say it was something.” He turned his head now. His eyes were dark pools in the intermittent light. “Did you like it? His attention? The great Kylian Mbappé, coming to inspect my new accessory?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, heat flaring in her cheeks.
“Ridiculous?” In one fluid, violent motion, he closed the space between them. His hands were on her, not gentle. He gripped the waistband of her jeans, his fingers hooking into the fabric and her underwear beneath, yanking them down to her thighs in a single, rough pull. The cool air of the car hit her exposed skin. “What’s ridiculous is me sitting over there, hard as a fucking rock since I kissed you on that pitch, watching him look at you like he was pricing a luxury car.”
He didn’t kiss her. He pushed her back against the leather seat, his body a cage. His hand slid down her stomach, past the coarse hair, his middle finger finding her entrance in one blunt, probing movement. She was wet. Achingly so. The shock of the public confrontation, the adrenaline, him—it had all coiled tight inside her.
“See?” he growled, his voice raw. “Your body knows. It doesn’t lie.” He pushed his finger deep inside her, a crude, claiming invasion. She gasped, her head falling back. “This is mine. This wet, hot little cunt is mine. He can look. The whole fucking world can look.” He added a second finger, stretching her, scissoring them roughly. “But this. This feeling? This is only for me. You understand?”
He curled his fingers, stroking a spot deep within that made her vision whiten. His thumb pressed against her clit, a rough, circular grind. It was not pleasure; it was a punishment, a branding. The obscene, slick sounds of his fingers working her filled the silent car.
“Say it,” he demanded, his mouth against her ear, his breath hot. “Whose is it?”
“Yours,” she choked out, her hips lifting off the seat, riding his hand shamelessly. The friction was brutal, perfect. The city lights streaked past the window, anonymous witnesses to her surrender.
“Again.”
“Yours, Michael, god, please—”
He fucked her with his hand, a relentless, penetrating rhythm, his palm grinding against her with every thrust. The pressure built, a terrifying wave cresting from that deep, claimed place inside her. She came with a shattered cry, her body clamping down on his fingers, pulsing around them in violent, helpless waves. He held her there, pinned and trembling, until the last spasm faded.
Slowly, he withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers in the gloom, and sucked them clean, a dark, deliberate obscenity. Then he tenderly pulled her jeans back up, his movements now gentle, almost remorseful. He pulled her into his arms, her body limp and boneless against him. He kissed her hair.
“Mine,” he whispered, the word now a covenant, not a threat.
The limousine slid to a halt under the hotel canopy. He adjusted himself, his erection still obvious against his suit pants. He got out, straightened his jacket, and offered her his hand, the perfect gentleman. As she took it, his thumb traced a final, secret circle on her palm. Her legs were unsteady. She could still feel the ghost of his fingers inside her, the thick, satisfied ache. He led her through the glittering lobby, past the stares, and into the waiting elevator. The doors closed. He stabbed the button for their floor.