Page 37 of Last Line of Defense

Alicia stops dead in her tracks halfway to the door and turns to look at me with an intensity that melts my insides.

“So what are you suggesting, then? That we keep pretending there’s only professional tension between us? That every time we run into each other, we look at the floor and act like nothing’s going on between us?”

“No,” I reply instantly, taking that final step and gripping her forearm firmly to stop her from walking through that door and escaping. “I’m not suggesting we pretend, Alicia. What I’m suggesting is that whatever is blossoming between us shouldn’t be confined solely within the walls of this damn rehab center. I don’t want what we have to be limited to just this world within these four walls.”

The silence my words create becomes absolute, deathly. I don’t take my eyes off her for even a second. Neither does she.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. I feel in my stomach the exact same vertigo as someone jumping from a helicopter without the faintest idea whether the parachute will open or where they’ll land.

“Let’s do something. Stay over at my place tonight.”

Alicia stares at me intently for a few eternal seconds that feel like a lifetime, and then, slowly, she flashes that mischievous smile of hers—the one that always seems capable of throwing my plans into disarray and turning my life upside down in a second.

“Oh, Dr. Valle, Dr. Valle…” she murmurs, taking a step forward, closing the distance until our jackets brush against each other and seeking out my free hand with her fingers. “You’ve spent weeks trying to control everything you feel for me, and now, out of the blue, you come at me with this indecent proposal…”

I let out a brief laugh, completely defeated by her charms, and clasp my fingers tightly around hers.

“I know. I’m a total mess of a woman.”

She moves a millimeter closer, breaking down any physical barrier. She brushes my cheek with her knuckles, and in that tiny, absurd, and infinitely intimate gesture, I finally realize that I have no way out. I can’t keep running anymore. Not from her. Not from this beautiful thing we have.

14

The Moment of the Debut

Alicia

After the proposal Clara just made to me, something inside my chest shatters into a thousand pieces and then reassembles itself at breakneck speed. Her words linger in the air of the Ravenhill FC rehabilitation room, heavy, laden with a tenderness so unusual for her that it tears me apart inside. It’s impossible to say no to her when she looks at me with that intensity of a wounded cat.

I don’t say yes; I don’t need to. I simply take her hand and nod, holding her gaze. At that very moment, I’m fully aware that we’re crossing a colossal red line—the one that separates the purely professional from the personal.

It takes me barely a few minutes to gather my things and join her in the hallway. We leave the sports complex through the back door, like two teenagers pulling a prank, in silence but with a sexual tension lodged beneath our ribs that almost prevents us from breathing.

The drive through the city streets in her car is ridiculously short, though every damn stop at a traffic light feels like an eternity to me. I spend the ride pressed against the window, watching the rain fall, feeling the weight of her sidelong gaze fixed on my profile, while my heart races at a thousand miles an hour in a mix of nerves, anticipation, and a wild desire that no longer fits inside my chest.

The building where Clara’s apartment is located is discreet, elegant, and has a classic facade—one of those apartment buildings that cost an arm and a leg yet go unnoticed by the press. We climb the stairs barely speaking to each other, but she keeps brushing the back of my hand with a deliberate touch that sets me ablaze. When she finally inserts the key and opens the door, I feel as though I’m desecrating a private sanctuary—her floating fortress. A place she’s jealously kept hidden from the rest of the world until today and, above all, from the clutches of any woman. The apartment is enormous, open-concept, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the grayish light of an English afternoon. And it smells incredible: a very subtle citrus note that envelops me and fills my nostrils.

The first thing that catches my eye and makes me stop in my tracks is the wall at the back of the living room. There’s a gigantic dark-wood cabinet with glass display cases that’s absolutely mind-blowing. It showcases an impeccable collection of soccer trophies: gleaming cups from the various clubs where she’s served as head of the medical team, medals that sparkle beneath the spotlights, and plaques of appreciation commemorating historic victories. Right next to it, several framed photographs show a younger Clara celebrating official titles surrounded by players drenched in champagne, or giving presentations at sports physical therapy conferences. There are also shelves crammed to the brim with dense sports medicine textbooks, massive volumes on human anatomy, and, to my surprise, an entire shelf dedicated to romance and mystery novels. The contrast is striking—and even amusing: Dr. Valle’s scientific rigor coexists with her passion for soccer and those little literary indulgences that reveal a much more human Clara, made of flesh and blood. This is her true world, a far cry from the impersonal, cold hallways of Ravenhill FC.

“Welcome to my chaos,” she murmurs behind me, locking the front door. Her tone of voice has changed dramatically in five minutes. She’s no longer the serious, distant, controlling head of the medical team who scolds us for not stretching; now she’s a woman who’s finally giving herself permission to let her guard down and show herself as she truly is.

She sets her car keys on a low table and, without giving me time to react or take in the size of her living room, approaches me from behind almost soundlessly. Her fingers brush my shoulder with a delicacy that stands in stark contrast to the firmness with which she pulls my backpack off my shoulder—nothing like the massages she gives my knee. The weight of the backpack disappears, but the knot of anticipation in my stomach remains firmly lodged just below my sternum. Then she reaches for my club jacket; her hands slide the zipper down with an exasperating, deliberate slowness, as if she were plucking the petals off a flower. I feel her hot, rapid breath against the back of my neck the moment the jacket gives way.

I move a hand’s breadth closer to the trophy cabinet, pretending to be deeply interested in her medals to buy some time and calm the whirlwind of hormones that has me trembling. But she gives me no respite and follows me, pressing her chest against my back.

“Well, well…” I say, my voice a little hoarse, almost a whisper. “So it turns out the press is right after all—you really are the best physical therapist in the country…”

“Did you have any doubts about my worth?”

Her lips suddenly press against the curve of my neck, making me flinch. First she gives me a soft kiss—the kind that warms you up—but immediately her teeth brush against the sensitive skin just below my ear, giving me one of her possessive little bites. The kind that—whether from the shower scene at the sports complex or what happened in the restaurant restroom—I need as much as the fucking air I breathe. A shiver runs up and down my spine. I close my eyes tightly and let out a ragged sigh. Clara’s hands grip my hips, pulling me back with absolute determination to press me completely against her curves. I can feel the intense heat of her body, the frantic beating of her heart synchronizing with mine to the rhythm of a war drum.

“Clara…” I whisper, watching our blurred reflection in the glass of the trophy case. “Can we stop talking?”

She spins me around in her arms with one swift movement, seeking my mouth with an urgency I can no longer—nor do I want to—hold back. The kiss is deep from the very first second, charged with all the raw tension we’ve been building up since this all began. Our tongues meet with ravenous hunger, devouring each other with an intensity that makes Ravenhill FC, the English league, and the entire world vanish. My hands tangle in her hair, pulling hard to press her even closer to me—if that’s even physically possible. Clara lets out a muffled moan against my lips, a hoarse sound of pure need that ignites a liquid fire between my legs.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” she asks me, breathless, her lips pressed against mine, even though my body has already made the damn decision for both of us.

I mean, it’s not like this is the first time we’ve hooked up—let’s be honest. But fucking the head of the medical team in the locker room showers or up against the bathroom wall is a whole different story from doing it on the couch in her own home. This feels a thousand times more intimate, more personal, and more dangerous.