Page 42 of Last Line of Defense

I look her straight in the eyes, making the hardest decision of my life.

“Maybe… maybe the most sensible thing—and the best thing for both of us—is to stop this before it ends up destroying everything around us.”

Alicia doesn’t react right away; she freezes completely, and honestly, that lack of reaction is what hurts me most of all. Because when she finally does react, there are no screams, no loud accusations—just a silent pain that flashes across her eyes and tears me apart.

“Sure…” she says in a whisper. “In the end, this was exactly what you were looking for. An excuse to run away.”

“Alicia, listen to me…” I try to reach out to stroke her arm.

“No. Don’t even think about touching me.”

She shakes her head with astonishing coldness and takes a giant step back, breaking any physical contact. She turns away, gathers her things, and faces me again.

“I suppose I should even thank you. It’s always good to find out as soon as possible who’s willing to stick by your side when things get rough and who prefers to jump ship at the first sign of trouble.”

“It’s not about choosing between you and my job!” I try to explain, my voice completely broken by my held-back tears.

“Well, look, it sounds exactly like that. Tell me one thing, Clara… what exact part of your statement ‘this could destroy our lives’ doesn’t imply a fucking conscious choice on your part?”

She strides toward the door, and it’s right at that moment that I finally understand that fear, no matter how much it disguises itself as prudence or common sense, is still the same cowardly fear as always. And that, in one of life’s ironies, I’ve just done the very thing that scared me the most: repeating my own past, but this time playing the role of the executioner who runs away first out of cowardice.

Alicia turns the doorknob and flings the office door wide open. She turns on her heel one last time and gives me a very subtle, icy smile—the kind that makes your blood run cold:

“Don’t worry. Breathe easy. I’m going to make this ridiculously easy for you. I’m not going to tarnish your impeccable professional record.”

The door to the rehabilitation room closes behind her with brutal gentleness, and I’m left standing there. Completely alone. Surrounded by a silence that buzzes in my ears and with the painful certainty that I’ve lost absolutely everything in just a few minutes.

16

Below Zero

Alicia

The worst part about having your heart shattered into a thousand pieces isn’t the stabbing pain. It’s the humiliation. It’s that invisible sense of ridicule that turns you into a clown when you realize you’ve let down all your defenses for someone who’s still weighing risks, measuring consequences, and setting boundaries. Meanwhile, you’re already in way over your head, too deeply involved to pretend this is just a meaningless game.

I hate feeling this way. I detest it with an almost physical intensity, as if a giant fist were mercilessly crushing my ribs, leaving me gasping for air. For years, I’ve built an armored bunker around a ridiculously simple idea: not needing anyone. Zero strings attached, zero drama. But then Dr. Clara Valle came along, and I—who’ve always been the type to run away before things got complicated—did the exact opposite: I fell in love like a teenager.

Maybe it would be best to stop before this destroys everything.

That damn phrase has been echoing in my head since yesterday morning. Everything. What a curious word—so elastic and so utterly cruel. For Clara, that “everything” means her job, her reputation, and the perfect balance she’s spent years building so she’d never lose control of her life again. But for me… for me, that “everything” had started to become her. And that’s exactly what’s twisting my insides.

I can’t sleep a wink all night. I don’t even try, to be honest. I spend the long, dead hours sprawled on the couch in my apartment, with the TV on in the background and the volume turned down, a can of beer that’s gone warm on the table, and my left knee throbbing at a satanic pace. It’s as if my own joint wants to remind me every second that my body is tired of fighting against itself. Physical pain is easy to bear; I’ll admit that. The other kind—the one that’s settled right in the middle of my chest and is robbing me of oxygen—that’s a hell of a lot harder to deal with.

Because Clara has doubts about us, and the worst part is that I understand her. I, too, would run away at lightning speed from someone with my track record.

I let out a bitter laugh and sit up abruptly from the couch, running my hands roughly over my face as if I could wipe away these thoughts with a slap. No, I can’t let that happen. If Clara wants some distance, she’s going to have to learn something about me: the word “retreat” has never existed in my vocabulary. And certainly not when my body is still steeped in her scent and the memory of her fingers burns my skin in places no one else has ever known how to touch that way.

· · ·

The next morning, I show up at the Ravenhill FC training complex well before most of my teammates arrive. The morning air smells of freshly cut grass, and the gray sky hints that it might rain at any moment. I stride across the parking lot, the hood of my club sweatshirt pulled low over my eyebrows, an electric tension coursing through every muscle. I’m carrying an explosive mix of rage, wounded pride, and pain pumping through my blood—a rush of adrenaline that propels me toward the field as if I were about to play in the Champions League final.

As soon as I walk into the locker room, the couple of teammates who are already there look up from their phones, their eyes wide as saucers, completely blown away.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Alicia Puertas herself, up early. Now that’s a historic milestone for the club,” Marta jokes from her bench, adjusting her shin guards with a smile that tries to lighten the tension in the room.

“Mark the date on your calendar, come on,” I reply as I toss the official backpack into my locker with a sharp thud that echoes throughout the locker room—much louder than necessary. “Maybe a meteorite will fall tomorrow and wipe us all out.”

A couple of soft laughs can be heard among the lockers. I force a wry smile too, though the gesture comes out so automatic, fake, and stiff that it’s painful to watch. Inside, I’m an open wound oozing frustration with every heartbeat.