Page 13 of Last Line of Defense

“I know that already. My biggest problem in life has never been doing stupid, reckless things, Dani. My real problem is feeling intense emotions inside and having to pretend to the outside world that they don’t exist.”

I fall silent for a moment, processing my own words out loud and getting a little scared of myself. The mere thought of knowing that tomorrow morning I’ll have to see her again at the clinic already sends my heart racing to ridiculous levels. I can still hear her husky, sensual voice on repeat, whispering in my ear: “Then I sincerely hope you’re very well prepared for everything that’s coming your way, Doctor… even for ending up falling in love with me.” And the worst part of this whole situation isn’t the cocky provocation itself. What’s truly worrying is that my mind went completely blank, and I didn’t have a witty comeback to shut her up.

Dani suddenly raises his right hand and gives me a gentle tap on the tip of my nose with his finger, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Listen to me for a second, Clara. Just do me a little favor as a friend. If you’re really going to throw your impeccable emotional stability to the wind because of a wild, sexy, and troubled striker, at least make sure the ride is worth it.”

This time I really do laugh heartily, letting out a clear, resonant laugh.

“You’re definitely a terrible influence on my professional life.”

“But I’m also your favorite influence in the whole world,” he replies, winking at me playfully.

You sure are. Without a doubt.

The conversation takes a different turn after that. We spend the rest of the evening talking about his latest chaotic architectural project, an unbearable millionaire client who’s driving him to the brink, and how the English weather never seems to give us a break. But even quite a while later, when Dani heads home and my apartment is once again plunged into that deathly silence I love so much, Alicia is still here, lingering. She remains suspended in the memory of the last few days. In that electric tension that still hangs in the air of the living room. In that problem that grows with every hour we spend together.

I pour myself one last, generous glass of red wine and stand by the large window, watching the city’s dim lights through the rain. Tomorrow I have another private session with her. Another full hour of dangerous physical closeness. Another pitched battle of pride, defiant glances, and restrained desire.

And, God forgive me, but I’m looking forward to the moment it begins.

5

High-Risk Contact

Alicia

It’s quite ironic to discover that one of the people who gets my pulse racing the most and gets on my nerves the most in this blessed country isn’t an aggressive rival on the field, nor a coach obsessed with controlling what I eat, nor even some pesky journalist determined to turn my nightlife into a tabloid headline. No, sir. It’s a damn physical therapist.

A woman with dark, bottomless eyes, rather limited patience with me, and a dangerous, thrilling tendency to look me up and down as if I were a complex puzzle she could take apart piece by piece with just a snap of her fingers. Honestly, all of this strikes me as a grave lack of respect on fate’s part and a direct mockery of my single status.

This morning I arrived at the Ravenhill FC training complex much earlier than I usually do. My body is still feeling the fatigue from yesterday’s rehab exercises, and my left knee protests relentlessly with every step I take. The sky is completely covered by a blanket of clouds—a clean, silent gray that threatens to break into a heavy downpour in a matter of minutes. The club’s training complex is waking up at this hour with that unique energy found in elite environments where the demands never sleep: maintenance staff rush through the hallways, the distant, muffled sound of balls bouncing off the damp grass can be heard, along with the shouts of the coaching staff organizing the field schedules, and that constant electricity in the air—as if everyone present were breathing to the frenetic rhythm of high-level competition.

I walk straight into the club’s medical area, holding a bottle of cold water in my right hand and my gym bag slung listlessly over my shoulder.

To my surprise, the coach steps out of the main rehabilitation room at that very moment and stares at me, dumbfounded.

“What on earth is this? Are we witnessing a divine miracle?” he says sarcastically, glancing at his wristwatch with obvious curiosity. “You’re right on time, Alicia.”

“Don’t get used to it, Hugo. I got here early because I woke up in a great mood,” I reply, giving him a mischievous half-smile as I drop my backpack onto the floor with a sharp thud.

He shakes his head resignedly, though I know he likes me because he can’t help but flash a knowing smile.

“Clara’s waiting for you in there. And before you come at me with one of your comebacks, yes, I came in person to check on how things are going with your treatment because, unlike you, I do care about making sure you’re available and 100 percent ready for the first day of the league.”

“Wow, I’m so lucky. So much love and concern, but how poorly distributed it is in this locker room.”

The coach gives me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, takes a step toward me, and speaks with narrowed eyes, adopting a much more serious expression than usual.

“Do exactly what she asks of you, Alicia. I mean this very seriously. Don’t piss her off any more than is strictly necessary—that woman is incredibly dangerous when she gets angry.”

I glance surreptitiously over his shoulder into the room. There’s Clara, intently reviewing some data on her touchscreen tablet, standing next to the treatment table. Even from a distance, she has that unbearably elegant way of imposing order and perfection around her without lifting a finger. She’s wearing the club’s black uniform, which looks amazing on her, her dark hair pulled back today into a casual bun at the nape of her neck, and that serious expression that suggests she’s not exactly having the best of days.

“Hey, Coach, what you’re saying sounds like a threat,” I remark, crossing my arms cockily.

“It is, striker, it is,” he confirms, giving me one last smile before turning around and disappearing at a brisk pace down the hallway.

I take a deep breath, adjust my jersey, and stride confidently into the treatment room. Clara looks up from the screen for just a second when she hears my footsteps, though her dark eyes lock directly onto mine in a gaze that strikes me as utterly delightful.