Page 21 of Last Line of Defense

We order two lattes at the bar and sit down at a high table next to one of the huge glass windows overlooking the main training field. Outside, the British sky threatens to break into a heavy downpour at any moment; inside, the club’s facilities exude that calm so typical of the end of the official workday. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles strangely with the scent of damp, freshly cut grass seeping in through the ventilation ducts.

Talking with Lara is always a strange experience for me. It’s easy. Too easy, to tell the truth. With her, I don’t need to make any effort or put on my professional armor. We jump from one piece of gossip to the next with the absolute ease of people who know each other so well that it’s now physically impossible to hide the cracks, the flaws, or the bad days.

She tells me about Adrián, about the beautiful country house they just bought on the outskirts of town, and about how they’re trying to juggle their chaotic work schedules to fully immerse themselves in the process of becoming parents. She also tells me—laughing hysterically and gesturing with her teaspoon—about a disastrous interview she had to conduct last week with a men’s league coach who was trying to pass himself off as an intellectual.

“Just picture the scene, Clara,” she says, stirring the foam in her cup, “the guy goes on and on in this high-and-mighty tone while analyzing a simple corner kick. I swear I almost fell asleep right on top of the microphone during the live broadcast. What a bore.”

I tell her just enough about how things are going day to day at the training center: the grueling pace I’m keeping with the team, how the new players have had to adapt to my strict medical protocols, and the inevitable tensions building up in the locker room as the start of the season approaches.

“So, basically, everything’s exactly the same as when I hung up my cleats,” she concludes, resting her chin on her palm and glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Well, with a little more ice in the treatment rooms and a lot less patience on my part—yes, I won’t deny it,” I admit, taking a sip from my cup.

Lara sips her coffee slowly and fixes me with that clear, direct gaze that always—absolutely always—precedes one of her uncomfortable questions. With her, there’s no room for evasions or white lies.

“And now that we’ve gone through the motions, tell me something that’s actually interesting. Come on.”

I sigh deeply, letting my shoulders slump.

“There’s nothing interesting in my life, Lara. Work, patients, and the treatment table.”

“Clara, for heaven’s sake… I’ve known you for far too many years, and that perfect answer is hiding something big. Spit it out already.”

I look away toward the large window to avoid her probing gaze. And that’s where I make the biggest tactical mistake of the afternoon. Because right in the middle of the main field stands Alicia, circling it with such brutal, defiant intensity that, even from the distance of the café, it looks like a fucking declaration of war. Her athletic body—despite the inflammation in her knee that she stubbornly insists on ignoring in an almost suicidal manner—exudes a strength and contained power that immediately makes my pulse race. Although, to be completely honest with myself and my hormones, what’s really making my heart race is the crazy, absurd urge I have to lock myself away with her again and bury my fingers between her legs.

Lara, who’s as sharp as a tack, follows the exact path of my gaze and flashes a smile of pure mischief that I don’t like one bit.

“Well, well…” she says, drawing out the words so slowly that it gets on my nerves. “Now we’re really getting to the real reason for your stress, my friend.”

“Don’t start, Lara, I’m warning you,” I cut her off immediately, stiffening in my chair.

“Who’s that running as if she wants to tear up the lawn with her cleats?”

“A constant, daily source of problems for this club.”

“That’s not the description I was expecting, but… it’s interesting.”

I lean back in my chair and exhale all the air I’ve been holding in my lungs, giving in.

“Her name is Alicia Puertas. She’s our new star forward for this season. An incredible talent with the ball at her feet, absolutely no patience, and a deeply conflicted relationship with anyone who represents even the slightest form of authority at the club.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, I already like her,” Lara says, bursting into a hearty laugh.

“She takes years off my life every morning.”

“Exactly—that just confirms that you’re much more interested in her than you’re letting on.”

I shoot her the sharpest glare in my entire repertoire, but she doesn’t bat an eye. On the contrary, she leans slightly forward across the table, resting her elbows on it with interest.

“She has a pretty serious patellar tendon injury,” I continue, speaking rapidly, deliberately ignoring her romantic hint. “And she’s doing everything humanly possible to convince the rest of the team that she’s at 100 percent. If she keeps pushing herself that hard, she’s going to end up destroying her knee before the season even starts.”

“And that worries you in a way that goes beyond medicine,” she states emphatically.

It’s not a question. It’s an absolute certainty.

“It’s my job, Lara. I’m paid to look after the team’s health,” I reply, trying to sound professional.

“Sure, honey, of course,” she says. And that damn “sure” lays bare too many truths that I don’t want to face head-on.