Page 4 of Last Line of Defense

Our gazes lock in an eternal standoff. Something small, fiery, and utterly electric vibrates in the air between us, but I force myself to shake the thought from my head. I don’t have time for these distractions. I didn’t come to England for this. I don’t want romantic complications. I don’t want beautiful women with the gaze of a lineswoman and cold hands throwing my life off balance. I just want to play soccer. I want to stay on my feet. I want to remain the country’s indispensable striker long enough that no one notices how much I’m falling apart inside.

Everything else is just background noise. Although I have to admit that the background noise, in this particular case, has cat-like eyes and a butt that could stop anyone’s heart.

The communications director keeps spouting her memorized speech about the values of Ravenhill FC, but I’m barely paying attention. I look out through the large interior windows at the immaculate turf of the main stadium, the empty stands that will soon be roaring, and the almost obscene perfection of this dreamlike place.

“My new club. My new big opportunity. Or my new and utter disaster, most likely,” I think with a wry smile.

I smile to myself because if there’s one thing I’m certain of in this life, it’s that I’m going to succeed here, no matter what it takes. Even if I have to fight half the locker room to lay down the law. Even if my left knee decides to give out on me in the middle of the season. And even if the strict Dr. Clara Valle keeps staring at me as if she could read, through my eyes, every single fear I’ve been hiding for years behind my tough-girl facade.

Especially because of that last part. Because if that brunette thinks she’s got me figured out and knows exactly how to handle me… she’s about to find out just how damn wrong she is about me.

2

Diagnosis of a Provocation

Clara

I’ve always been firmly convinced that work can save absolutely everything. I’m not saying this in a romantic, corny, or heroic way—far from it; I’m saying it from a purely practical, orderly, and measurable perspective. While other people waste their time seeking refuge in idealized love, in family, or in that almost childish and desperate need to belong to a group, I find my sanctuary in the daily routine. In the perfect functioning of a newly recovered joint. In the mathematical certainty that the human body, no matter how complicated and stubborn it may seem, always ends up responding and revealing everything the patient tries to keep hidden.

Control. Discipline. Emotional distance.

For far too many years now, these have been my three golden pillars. My safe haven. My way of ensuring that I won’t make the same stupid mistake from the past again. Because yes, there was a time when I, too, was vulnerable—a time when I confused closeness with trust and professionalism with invulnerability. There was a time when I made the blunder of allowing someone to cross my red line and turn my work—my only stable place in the world—into a veritable house of ruins.

Her name was Charlotte, and for nearly three wonderful—and then hellish—years, she was the head coach of the soccer team where I worked as a physical therapist. She was brilliant, magnetic, overwhelming, and dangerously persuasive. The kind of empowered woman who walks into a room and, without lifting a finger, captures the attention and gazes of everyone present. Including mine, of course.

Our relationship simmered slowly. First came the typical professional conversations after intense practices, then mid-afternoon coffees as we discussed the players’ performance… and suddenly, boom, there it was—that electric chemistry that arises when two people share the same obsessive passion for excellence. Then came the brushes of hands laced with cheap excuses, the secret dinners that should never have happened, and, finally, the arrogant stupidity of believing that love can coexist with power dynamics without eventually devouring everything in its path.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t meant to be. When it all blew up, it wasn’t a normal, civilized breakup; it was a full-scale demolition. She, being very clever, pulled some strings to protect her position at the club. I, on the other hand, lost mine overnight, and the hallway rumors took care of the rest of the dirty work: false favoritism, inappropriate relationships, fabricated conflicts of interest. No one ever gave a damn about what was true and what wasn’t. In high-level professional sports, people’s perceptions often carry far more weight than the actual facts.

But you learn from your mistakes, and I learned quickly. From that very moment on, I vowed to stop repeating self-destructive patterns. I’ve never again mixed work with sex—not even as a joke. I don’t give up a single millimeter of my personal space beyond what’s strictly necessary. And, above all, I’ve removed from my radar people who come carrying a load of trauma and problems on their backs.

That’s exactly why, the moment I open Alicia Puertas’s medical file, I know full well that this woman is going to hit me like a punch in the gut.

It’s been only a few hours since our first—and rather intense—encounter at the official reception, and I’ve already taken refuge in the medical wing of the sports complex. It’s by far my favorite spot in the entire club and probably the only corner of Ravenhill FC where everything still runs exactly the way I like it. I find the clean smell soothing, the impeccable order of the cabinets, the soft, almost hypnotic hum of the electrotherapy machines, and the perfectly aligned, neatly made treatment tables. In here, everything follows a logic.

I set my steaming cup of coffee down next to the computer and review, for the umpteenth time, her record. Twenty-six years old. Center forward. A brilliant, undeniable athletic career, but accompanied by a media reputation that’s far noisier and more problematic: serious conflicts with her former coaches, heated arguments with her teammates in the locker room, two disciplinary sanctions for disrespect, a federation suspension for leaving an official training session early, and, to top it all off, a knee injury suspiciously poorly detailed in the transfer reports from her last club. Too many loose ends. Too many medical gaps that smell fishy to me.

“Oh my goodness, Clara, the look on your face makes it seem like you’re reading the detailed biography of a serial criminal,” Lucía remarks, poking her head through the door with a grin from ear to ear.

Lucía has been part of my medical team for two seasons now, and she’s one of the very few people in this complex capable of poking fun at my rigidity without suffering the consequences of my bad temper. Her tone always exudes that Spanish lightheartedness I never allow myself to enjoy—and that, deep down in my rigid soul, I envy her so much for.

I look up from the computer screen and raise an eyebrow with my best unfriendly expression.

“It depends on how much we value punctuality, obedience, and respect for contracts, Lucía. To me, this looks a lot like that.”

She laughs mischievously as she approaches my desk with a blue folder under her arm, swaying gracefully.

“Ah, okay, so it’s official now. I had a feeling something was off with you first thing this morning. You’ve got that typical look of yours that says, ‘This girl is going to be a major headache.’”

“I like professional people—the kind who come to do their job and don’t turn their lives into a reality TV show on social media,” I reply, closing Alicia’s digital file with a sharp click of the mouse.

Lucía sets the folder on the table and leans casually against the edge, crossing her arms.

“Well, you have to admit she’s incredible on the field, Clara. One of the best forwards this league has seen in years. Her accuracy is terrifying, and she makes all the difference with her first touch. The club has really gone all out for her.”

“They also say a lot of other things about her that have nothing to do with soccer,” I murmur, mimicking her gesture and crossing my own arms over my lab coat.

“And the gossipmongers also say… that she’s ridiculously hot, let’s be honest,” Lucía adds, letting out a mischievous giggle that drives me up the wall.