Page 40 of Last Line of Defense

“I understand exactly what you’re getting at, Julián.”

It doesn’t take long for the name at the center of the controversy to come up. Of course it doesn’t.

“Alicia Puertas is a player who is, shall we say… naturally confrontational. She’s had problems at absolutely every club she’s played for in her career. And according to certain rumors—which reached my desk directly from her previous stint in Spain—she had a rather serious romantic entanglement with her coach at her last club. That was, in fact, the real reason there was so much back-and-forth with contracts and terminations surrounding her before we brought her to England.”

I feel an icy chill run up and down my spine. And it’s not because of Alicia’s dirty laundry or the rumors—I’m already familiar with all the versions of her past circulating in the sports press; I’m frozen by the brutal clarity of the message he’s delivering to me. The coach and a couple of players in the locker room must have noticed the sparks flying between us during practice, and the people upstairs aren’t blind either.

“And you know firsthand how the soccer business works, Clara,” the sporting director adds, leaning forward slightly. “When a player has a reputation for getting involved with coaches or being a troublemaker, any sign of excessive closeness on the part of the staff is interpreted by the public as a thousand times worse than it actually is. And at this club, we’ve spent a fortune this season, and we don’t want scandals that shake up or divide the rest of the team in the locker room. We want Ravenhill to make headlines for its titles and results, not for gossip about its stars.”

“I know, but what gets published in the press rarely tells the whole story or the truth about people, Julián.”

My voice comes out much colder and sharper than I intended, and Julián holds my gaze with a firmness that’s almost frightening, completely unfazed by my retort.

“That’s precisely why I’m having this mature conversation with you, and why I haven’t summoned you directly to Human Resources with a disciplinary file sitting on the table.”

A dense, heavy silence settles between us, measured down to the millimeter. The kind of silence that heralds a storm.

“You’re an excellent professional in your field, one of the best physical therapists this club has had in a decade. And I assure you that I would absolutely hate for a completely unnecessary distraction to seriously jeopardize your job and your impeccable career here.”

Bam. There’s the threat—the warning of dismissal disguised as a pat on the back and professional consideration. I nod slowly, barely managing to swallow.

“I understand perfectly, Julián. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He jumps up from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket and bringing the meeting to a close. “Sometimes, Clara, knowing exactly when to put the brakes on something is also part of a woman’s intelligence and professional strategy. And I know full well that you’re a mature person who knows exactly where you stand, what uniform you wear, and the crucial work you do for this organization.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Well, that’s all I have to say. I hope you have a good day.”

“You too.”

I walk out of that damn conference room with a knot in my stomach caused by sheer panic. Because the past has a twisted and unbearable way of repeating itself in my life when I least expect it, and because, for the first time since Alicia burst into my life like a whirlwind, I’m having doubts. But I don’t doubt how I feel about her when she’s near me—that much is crystal clear to me; what I seriously doubt is whether loving her this intensely is compatible with keeping my job, or whether it’s going to end up destroying both our lives and careers.

I stride through the club’s hallways, trying to compose my features. I pause for a second by a large window in the hallway, pressing my forehead against the glass and gazing at the impeccable grass of the main field, bathed in the midday light. Her clear laughter from the night before in my kitchen comes to mind, the sweet way her fingertips traced invisible lines across my back on the couch while we talked about trivial nonsense. How on earth can something so damn real and beautiful become so fragile and shatter into pieces in a matter of a couple of hours because of a rule?

I come face-to-face with Alicia an hour later, right in the physical therapy room.

She’s sitting on her usual treatment table, her injured leg bent, tapping away on her phone with that expression of utter indifference she always has. As soon as she hears me come in and turn the doorknob, she looks up from her phone and instantly picks up on the emotional wreckage and funeral-like expression I’m carrying inside.

“Well…” she says slowly, setting her phone down on the side table with deliberate slowness. “That look on your face doesn’t bode well. What’s going on?”

I close the door behind me with the utmost care, bolt it so no one can interrupt us, and walk over to her with my arms crossed.

“I haven’t exactly had the best start to my day, to tell you the truth,” I reply in a whisper, standing in front of the treatment table. “I just came out of a pretty tense meeting with the club’s sporting director.”

She frowns immediately, loses her relaxed posture, and sits up a little straighter on the table, fixing her gaze on me.

“With Mercer? What the hell happened?”

I take another step closer, enveloped in an uncomfortable silence. I don’t have the faintest idea how to bring up the subject, and for me, that’s already an unmistakable sign that things are really bad.

“There are rumors going around the club, Alicia.”

She lets out a brief, dry, and rather bitter chuckle that sends a chill down my spine.

“Big surprise. There’s always gossip and bullshit rumors swirling around me on every team, Clara. Which one of all the lies is making the rounds in the Ravenhill hallways this time? Because I assure you, I’ve got quite an extensive collection in my history.” Her tone shifts in an instant. There’s no trace left of her usual irony; now I sense only a deep weariness, that of someone who’s sick of fighting ghosts.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with cold air, and sit right on the edge of the treatment table, very close to her legs, but making a conscious effort not to touch her.