Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The pre-dawn air in Podujevo was cool and damp, smelling of turned earth and the faint, sweet rot of last season’s forgotten apples. Silence lay heavy over the village, broken only by the distant crow of a rooster and the crunch of gravel under Granit’s running shoes. His breath plumed in the grey light as he pushed himself, the familiar rhythm of his stride a welcome purge after the restless night haunted by images of copper hair and glacial eyes. Training regimen. Discipline. Control. That’s what mattered. That’s what he could grasp.
He rounded a bend on the dirt track skirting the village outskirts. Crumbling stone walls, remnants of boundaries long irrelevant, lined the path. Wildflowers – defiant purple thistles and spindly yellow blooms – pushed through cracks in the stone and sprouted in the neglected orchards, reclaiming the scarred landscape. Ahead, a figure emerged from the mist clinging to the lower fields.
Running towards him.
His breath hitched mid-stride.
Her.
Vanja. Alone. Running hard. Her long, copper hair was pulled back in a high, severe ponytail that swung like a metronome with each powerful stride. She wore black leggings that clung to every curve, outlining the powerful sweep of her thighs, the incredible, rounded fullness of her ass, the strong taper of her calves. A tight, dark purple sports bra barely contained the heavy, jostling weight of her breasts with each pounding step. Sweat sheened her exposed shoulders, her collarbones, the taut skin of her stomach above the high waistband. The early light sculpted her, highlighting the fierce intensity of her exertion. She was concentrated, focused inward, her hazel eyes fixed on the track ahead, unaware of him for the moment.
Granit felt a familiar, unwelcome jolt – raw admiration for her athleticism instantly tangled with the white-hot knot of resentment and desire she’d left coiled inside him since their encounter on the street. He didn't slow. He couldn't. Stopping would feel like surrender. He pushed harder, meeting her trajectory head-on.
She looked up, finally seeing him. Recognition flashed, cold and sharp, instantly hardening her features. Her pace didn't falter. Neither did his. They were twenty meters apart, closing fast. Ten. Five. The air crackled with the tension of their shared path, the silence suddenly deafening beyond their pounding footfalls and ragged breaths.
They passed each other without breaking stride, a violent near-miss of conflicting energies. The scent of her sweat – clean salt and something uniquely her – hit him like a physical blow as she flashed by. He caught the fierce set of her jaw, the complete lack of acknowledgment beyond that initial icy glare.
It was the dismissal, the absolute negation of his existence, that snapped the frayed thread inside him. He skidded to a stop in the gravel, sending pebbles skittering. He spun around.
"Vanja!" His voice ripped through the quiet dawn, harsh, uncompromising.
She stopped instantly, about ten meters away. Her back remained to him for a moment, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned. She didn’t walk back. Just stood there, framed by the crumbling wall and the misty field, hand on her hip, chest still heaving. Her expression wasn't ice this time. It was pure, simmering fury, mixed with… expectation. Like he’d finally done what she knew he would.
"What?" The single word was clipped, challenging, cutting through the damp air.
Granit took a step towards her, closing half the distance. "How do you know my name?" The question burst out, the mystery gnawing at him since Xhavit spoke it. "Who are you?"
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped her. She tilted her head, those extraordinary hazel eyes boring into his. "How do I know your name?" She echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "How do you think, Granit?" She spat his name like an accusation.
He froze. She knew it. Confirmed it. But the venom… "What?" he demanded again, baffled by the intensity of her hostility.
"How could I not?" she shot back, taking a step towards him now, closing the gap further. Her voice rose, sharp and clear in the dawn stillness. "After that little stunt you pulled? That celebration?"
Understanding slammed into him, cold and sickening. The celebration. The goal. Switzerland vs. Serbia. The World Cup qualifier last year. The stadium in Bern, roaring. The net bulging. The pure, unadulterated adrenaline rush. He’d sprinted towards the corner flag, grabbed the double-headed eagle crest on his shirt, kissed it fiercely, and raised both hands high, fingers spread in the shqiponja – the Albanian eagle. A defiant roar tearing from his throat aimed straight at the section of Serbian fans. A declaration. A reclamation. For Kosovo.
It had made headlines. Praised by some in the diaspora. Criticized as provocative by others. FIFA fined him. He didn’t care. It was for his father, for his uncles, for Podujevo.
And now, standing in the dust of Podujevo, confronting a Serbian woman whose family owned the solitary, defiant house down the street, he realized exactly who must have filled her in. The context. The meaning.
His eyes widened slightly. "The match? That's… that's why?"
Her laugh was bitter. "Oh, yes. The match. The great Granit Xhaka, hero of the Swiss, making his little political statement. Very brave. Very dramatic." She took another step, now barely an arm's length away. He could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat, the fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip. The fury in her eyes was incandescent.
"It doesn’t even matter," she added, the words clipped, final. She turned abruptly, dismissing him, her ponytail slicing the air. "Have a nice run."
The sight of her walking away, the powerful curve of her back, the defiant set of her shoulders, ignited something else entirely. Frustration, anger at the tangled mess, and a fierce, undeniable pull. "Wait," Granit growled, the sound rough in his throat. He took a step after her. "Please."
She stopped, her back still to him. Didn't turn. "What do you want?" The question was flat, exhausted, devoid of the earlier fire but laced with wary impatience.
The raw truth tumbled out before he could filter it, propelled by the tension, the dawn light, the sheer physical magnetism of her standing in the mist. "You," he said, the word stark and heavy in the quiet air. "I want you."
She finally turned, slowly. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked. Then, a small, wry, almost pitying smile touched her lips. It wasn't welcoming. It was edged with disbelief. "Tough luck," she said softly, shaking her head once. Then she spun on her heel.
And ran. Not a jog. A sprint. Her powerful legs pistoned, gravel spraying. The black fabric of her leggings stretched taut over the magnificent, hypnotic sway of her ass as she pushed herself away from him with astonishing speed. Her ponytail streamed behind her like a copper banner.
Granit stood rooted, breathing hard. Fury roared through him – at her dismissal, at the impossible situation, at himself for his own blunt stupidity. The cool air did nothing to quell the sudden, intense heat pooling low in his gut. He was angry. He was painfully, undeniably aroused. He watched her figure diminish rapidly down the track, swallowed by the morning haze near the skeletal orchard. His fists clenched at his sides.
"I want you," he whispered again, the words lost to the wind, a desperate echo chasing her retreating form.
The gravel skittered under Granit's trainers as he launched himself forward. He didn't think, just moved, legs pumping, lungs burning, chasing the flash of copper hair and dark fabric disappearing into the mist near the skeletal apple trees. The cool dawn air felt sharp in his throat. Fuck this. Fuck her running.
He closed the gap fast. Her lead wasn't huge, the surprise of his pursuit giving him an edge. He saw the powerful muscles in her back and legs working, the determined rhythm of her run. "Vanja!" His voice was rough, carrying further this time. "Stop!"
She didn't slow. If anything, her stride lengthened, a surge of speed fueled by adrenaline or fury. They were off the track now, cutting across a field damp with dew, the long grass whipping their legs. The scent of wet earth and crushed green stalks filled Granit's nostrils. He pushed harder, the footballer's stamina kicking in.
He drew level with her shoulder, then half a step ahead. Cutting slightly across her path, forcing her to pull up or collide. She skidded, arms flailing for balance on the slick ground, a curse ripped from her lips. Her ponytail whipped around as she spun to face him, chest heaving, eyes blazing. The purple sports bra was dark with sweat, clinging.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she spat, her voice tight with exertion and rage. She took a step back, putting distance between them in the tall grass. "Are you insane? Go away!"
Granit stood his ground, breathing hard, sweat trickling down his temple despite the chill. He saw the pulse hammering in her throat, the flush high on her cheeks. The anger in her hazel eyes was magnetic, terrifying. "You run," he managed, the words raw. "You always run."
"From you?" Her laugh was brittle. "Damn right I run! You think after... after that bullshit on the pitch, after your little show..." She shook her head, the copper strands catching the weak morning light. "You think I want anything to do with you? You know what that symbol meant here. You know."
"It wasn't for you!" The words exploded out of him, louder than he intended, echoing slightly in the open field. A bird startled from the nearby orchard. "It was... it was history. My father. My blood. Not an attack on you."
"Everything is history here!" she shot back, taking another step back, her boot sinking into the soft earth. "Everything is blood! ..." She stopped, swallowing hard, the fury momentarily clouded by something raw and painful. "Forget it. Just leave me alone, Granit. Go back to your fancy German life."
She turned sharply to leave again, the dismissal absolute. The sight of her walking away, the powerful lines of her retreating back, the defiant lift of her chin, finally snapped the last thread of his control. He couldn't let her vanish into the mist again, carrying that burning anger. He surged forward, his hand shooting out.
His fingers closed firmly around her wrist.
The contact was electric. Her skin was damp, cool from the morning air and exertion, but underneath, radiating fierce heat. He felt the fine bones, the surprising strength in the tendons beneath his grip. She froze mid-step, her entire body rigid. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of surprise and disbelief.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to look back at him. Her eyes, wide and intense, locked onto his. The fury was still there, white-hot, but now mixed with something else: shock, a flicker of fear, and a potent, undeniable awareness. The morning air crackled. Dew dripped from a blade of grass onto his shoe. Her pulse hammered against his thumb where it pressed against her wrist.
"Let go," she whispered, her voice dangerously low, trembling slightly. Her gaze didn't waver. "Right now."