Page 11 of Last Line of Defense

Dani smiles from ear to ear with that exasperating calm of someone who knows perfectly well that he’s just won the game and has me cornered.

“That damn phrase, ‘it’s no big deal,’ should be strictly prohibited by the laws of the gossip court. No one uses it when nothing’s really going on. Come on, spit it out already, you pain in the neck. What happened at that sports complex?”

I shake my head resignedly, even though part of me already knows full well that I lost this conversation the very moment I slipped the key into the door.

“Well… A few days ago, a new star player joined the team—a million-dollar signing,” I begin, trying to choose each word with the utmost care so as not to give myself away.

“Ah…” he replies instantly, loading that single syllable with a thousand hidden meanings.

“Don’t make that little sound with your mouth—I know you too well.”

“What little sound?” he asks, putting on a look of innocence that even he doesn’t believe.

“That one. That tone of someone who’s unbearably interested in watching my perfect emotional stability crumble.”

“Go on with the report, please—you’re keeping me in suspense. What’s she like? Is she pretty? Is she the type who causes trouble in the locker room? Give me some juicy details, woman.”

I look at him with an expression of utter psychological exhaustion and take another big sip of wine before continuing with my confession.

“She’s the team’s new center forward. She’s amazing—a true standout on the field, probably one of the best in all of Europe. But I’ll also tell you she’s the most arrogant, undisciplined, and defiant woman I’ve ever met. She has a supernatural ability to test my professional patience and push it to limits I didn’t even know existed within me.”

Dani slams his fork down on the table and leans forward excitedly, resting his forearms on the table, clearly entertained by my drama.

“Everything you’re telling me sounds perfect. I’m officially head over heels in love with her without even knowing her. What’s this hottie’s name?”

“Don’t joke about this—it’s serious,” I warn him, glaring at him.

“I’m not joking at all—you’re the one trying to change the subject so you don’t have to get to the point. Keep going.”

I press my lips together tightly, regretting having opened this can of worms, but the wine and the blind trust I have in this man end up loosening my tongue.

“She has a nagging injury in her left knee that she constantly hides and downplays in front of the coach. She flat-out refuses to get it treated properly because she believes that admitting any kind of physical weakness is equivalent to disappearing from the professional scene. And as for me… well, the coach has saddled me with the task of having to work with her one-on-one in mandatory private sessions every day.”

“And you, as a proper emotionally controlled woman with a college degree, a savior complex, and years of experience dodging love at first sight, have decided you’re going to be the heroine who saves her from herself,” Dani asserts, arching one eyebrow to impossible heights.

“I’m not trying to save anyone!” I protest immediately, sitting up straight in my chair and feeling a flush of heat rise within me.

“Of course not, I almost forgot,” he says, dripping with hilarious sarcasm. “You’re just trying by any means necessary to prevent a drop-dead gorgeous soccer player from destroying her promising career out of pure pride. All very professional and impartial of you, yes, ma’am.”

Dani rests both elbows on the wooden table and clasps his hands just below his chin, watching me with an intensity that makes me nervous.

“Come on, Clara… Is the girl in question really hot or what?”

I shoot him a murderous glare that could wipe out an entire army, but he just smiles broadly.

“All right, that deathly silence of yours also answers my question, my dear friend.”

“Dani, you’re crossing the line…”

“Clara…” he mimics, perfectly imitating my warning tone.

I take a deep breath, nervously twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers. Inevitably, a vivid image of Alicia pops into my mind: I remember her with her hair still damp from her shower at the gym, wearing that workout T-shirt that clings to her skin, highlighting every muscle, and with that absurd yet magnetic way she invades my personal space; with insolence etched on her perfect features and that fixed, dark, brazen gaze that seems to strip me bare without even touching me. Damn, she’s a force to be reckoned with, I think to myself.

“She’s really an unbearable woman,” I finally declare aloud.

“What you’re telling me still doesn’t answer my question about whether you’re attracted to her.”

“She’s incredibly unbearable, haughty, and brazen,” I insist, trying to convince myself.