Page 20 of Last Line of Defense

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When I leave the locker room building, having changed my clothes, the club’s main hallway is much quieter and more deserted. There are still a couple of long hours left before the mandatory afternoon practice, and the facilities are experiencing that brief, idyllic interval of deathly silence between training sessions. I walk slowly, shuffling my feet with my gym bag slung over my shoulder, going over the same thoughts a thousand times in my head about how the hell I feel about Clara.

Until I suddenly see her as I round the corner.

Clara is standing right at the end of the hallway, very close to the large glass-enclosed side exit that leads directly to the secondary training field. But she’s not alone. She’s chatting animatedly with Lara Montes. The great Lara Montes: the club’s legendary former player, a brilliant midfielder who had to retire prematurely because of a damn knee injury and who now works as an occasional sports commentator on television. She’s also a regular and highly sought-after presence at all of Ravenhill FC’s official events. She’s a beautiful, elegant woman, outrageously self-assured, and possesses that kind of overwhelming charisma that draws everyone’s attention without even trying.

And I see them laughing. Really laughing together, roaring with laughter. It’s not that faint, forced, restrained smile Clara grants me in the locker room after I’ve insisted long enough. No, sir. What I see between them is pure familiarity. Blind trust. A shared history stretching back many years. Lara touches her arm completely naturally as she whispers something in her ear, and Clara doesn’t move a millimeter. She stays right there, still, comfortable, relaxed, and natural, as if she knows exactly where she belongs in the world when she’s next to that woman.

I suddenly feel something extremely unpleasant, sharp, and ridiculous settle firmly right under my ribs, preventing me from breathing properly. Jealousy? No, man, no. No way. That can’t be it. I have absolutely no right to feel this way. We’ve crossed a very big physical line, yes, okay, but that doesn’t officially make Clara mine in any way. We’re not some movie-style love story. We’re not even a good idea for our respective careers at the club. And, honestly, if there’s anyone on this planet with absolutely no right to feel jealous of anyone, it’s me—the star striker who flees commitment like the plague.

So, of course—and because I’m an idiot—I feel absolutely dreadful jealousy anyway. Absurd, unnecessary, painful, and very revealing.

I stand completely still in the middle of the hallway for far too long, watching them from a distance. Long enough to start hating myself a little. Long enough to suddenly realize that the real problem here isn’t that Clara is hanging out or laughing with another woman. The damn real problem is that I care. I care so much that she’s doing it. And that’s infinitely worse for my mental health.

I spin on my heel in a hurry before either of them happens to look down the hallway and catch me spying, and I stride directly toward the outdoor training field. I need to run until I drop.

The damp grass still holds all the dew from the morning fog, and the cold air of the English countryside hits my face with a brutal honesty that, deep down, I’m grateful for. I reluctantly drop my backpack on the bench, tighten the laces on my cleats, and start jogging at a brisk pace along the sideline without stopping to warm up for even a minute, as if the physical exertion could magically resolve what my mind flatly refuses to admit.

First lap around the field. Take a deep breath, Alicia. Second lap. Don’t be pathetic or ridiculous. Third lap. You can’t be jealous of Lara Montes, for fuck’s sake. Fourth lap. You’re completely jealous—just admit it.

Fantastic. A flawless plan.

I start running much faster, sprinting along the white line. My left knee gives me a serious warning and protests with a sharp twinge, but I decide to ignore the pain. I always do that when I play. But this time, it’s not the physical pain in my ligaments that I’m trying to drown out with the thud of my footsteps against the ground. It’s this discomfort that’s totally new to me, this unsettling and terrifying certainty that Clara is becoming someone much more important in my daily life—something far more intense, dangerous, real, and close than I’m willing to admit out loud. And I’ve never in my whole fucking life been good at dealing with feelings. Because carnal desire is simple and straightforward: you talk about it, you indulge in it eagerly, you enjoy it, and you forget about it the next day without looking back. But this… this other thing is a direct threat to my single status.

I come to a sudden halt at the sideline, my chest heaving violently and my breathing completely ragged from the effort. The British sky remains just as gray and leaden, Ravenhill FC continues to operate at full capacity all around me, and everyone’s life goes on exactly as it did an hour ago. Except for me. I’m not the same anymore. Because something inside me changed completely and irreversibly in that shower.

I run a sweaty hand across my face, trying to catch my breath and, in the process, regain a shred of self-respect. Throughout my career, I’ve survived unbearable coaches with gigantic egos, hostile management that wanted to bring me down, and serious injuries that should have derailed my career far more than they actually did. And now, here I am, running alone like a madwoman in the drizzling rain, all because of a dark-eyed physical therapist and a former soccer player who’s far too attractive for my taste.

I glance sideways toward the club’s main building, toward the large glass window where Clara is probably still talking, laughing, and sharing secrets with Lara like a perfectly normal, mature person, while I’m out here having a hard time and acting like a teenager with raging hormones. I smile to myself, with an extremely uncomfortable and painful truth lodged right in the center of my chest. Maybe the real problem with all this has never been that Clara Valle has the power to ruin my life. Maybe the real fucking problem is that it’s starting to matter to me that she’s decided not to do it with me. Because just to have those hands and that mouth between my legs again, I’d be willing to give away everything I have.

8

The First Move

Clara

There are people who come back into your life in the kindest, most predictable way possible, and then there are those who burst in to test every single one of your limits. From the very day I met her, Lara Montes has belonged to that second category. It’s not because she’s a complicated woman—in fact, Lara has the exasperating and enviable ability to make even the most convoluted things seem like child’s play—but because her mere presence brings with it too many ghosts and memories from the past. The ones I’ve spent years trying to lock away in the darkest corner of my mind so I’d never have to open them again.

When I saw her walk into the Ravenhill FC training complex this afternoon—her blonde hair pulled back into a flawless high ponytail, exuding that natural, overwhelming confidence of someone who’s spent half her life calling the shots in a locker room—I had the firm, nagging conviction that the universe was having fun at my expense. Again. And I wasn’t wrong.

“Hey, don’t give me that unfriendly look, please,” she blurts out as soon as she approaches me, smiling from ear to ear as she wraps me in a warm hug, full of that blind trust that only years in the locker room can bestow. “Anyone would think you just came from identifying a body at the morgue, Clara. Snap out of it, girl.”

I hug her back, though I have to admit I’m putting a lot less enthusiasm into it than she probably deserves. Her high-end perfume—the same one she always wore at team gatherings—transports me for a millisecond to locker rooms packed with screaming players, title celebrations drenched in champagne, and endless nights when my life was infinitely easier.

“Well, knowing the heart rates some of our forwards are running at this season, I can assure you that possibility isn’t all that far-fetched,” I reply, forcing a half-smile.

Lara steps back just enough to cup my shoulders and study me closely, raising an eyebrow. She’s just as beautiful and radiant as the last time we crossed paths. She was, without a doubt, one of the best midfielders this club has ever had—one of those intelligent players who seemed to have a precision compass etched into their very being. Unfortunately, she had to retire from the field far too soon because of a devastating knee injury, and now she orbits the world of women’s soccer from a much more comfortable vantage point: she appears on television shows, provides tactical analysis, and writes articles for sports publications. She has that strange and wonderful privilege of being able to remain part of this world without having to endure the daily wear and tear of the field.

On top of that—as if the sports connection weren’t enough—she’s happily married to Adrián, Charlotte’s older brother. And that’s exactly where the real crux of the problem lies. Lara isn’t to blame for absolutely anything—she never has been, poor thing—but there are people who remind you of an entire era of your life just by saying your name. An era that hurt too much.

“So, what are you doing here?” I ask curiously as we start walking together down the central hallway toward the staff cafeteria. “Don’t tell me you’re here on behalf of management to check whether I’m still an unbearable head of the medical team.”

“No way, you’re so suspicious. I’m here for a mandatory meeting with the communications department about some rights issues, and since I was here anyway, I wanted to see firsthand whether someone in England has finally shown up who’s capable of taming you,” she replies with a light, singsong laugh.

“Tough luck, Lara. I’m still a completely hopeless clinical case.”

“Well, I’ve known that since I was twenty,” she says, amused, winking at me with utter mischief.