Page 43 of Last Line of Defense

I start to change slowly, completely ignoring the sharp twinge in my knee every time I bend it to slip my leg into my shorts. The swelling has gotten worse overnight. But I couldn’t care less. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself as I pull my socks up to my thighs and angrily tighten the laces on my cleats. Of course I care—it’s just that I’m too pissed off at the world to hold back. And playing with fire when you’re angry is a lethal combination.

When I step onto the field, the coach is already rearranging the cones for the warm-up rondo alongside the rest of the coaching staff. He sees me coming down the sideline and raises his eyebrows instantly, stopping dead in his tracks with the whistle between his fingers.

“Alicia,” he calls out, stopping me with that paternal, warning tone I know all too well.

I keep walking straight toward him, digging my cleats into the damp grass without slowing down even a fraction.

“Coach.”

He sizes me up from head to toe, scrutinizing my posture and body language with far too much attention for my liking.

“May I ask what you’re doing dressed like that? As far as I know, you haven’t been medically cleared or authorized to join the group for training today.”

“Well, you’re in luck today. You should take advantage of the offer,” I reply cockily, holding his gaze without blinking.

Hugo lets out a long, weary sigh—the kind that practically blows your bangs out of your eyes—and runs a hand over his stubble as if he’s making a superhuman effort not to tell me to get lost.

“Look, Alicia, I’m really not in the mood to put up with your little stunts this morning, honestly. Please just turn around, go home, and rest. Your knee will thank you endlessly.”

“Yeah, well, it just so happens that I’m not in the mood to put up with lectures either. But I am in an excellent mood to smash the ball into the net, and no one’s getting me off this field today.”

Hugo fixes his full attention on me, narrowing his eyes as if trying to decipher from my expression what the hell is really going on. And I suspect that, deep down, part of him already knows. Old-school coaches like him can tell from a mile away when a player is willing to tear herself to pieces on the field because of some personal drama that has absolutely nothing to do with the ball.

“Clara hasn’t come down to the field yet,” he blurts out suddenly, lowering his voice so the others won’t hear. “And I seriously doubt she’ll give the green light to this madness.”

I let out a slow smile, laced with a coldness that chills even me.

“Don’t worry about that, Coach. If I get completely wrecked, she’s a fantastic professional and will work her medical magic as soon as she arrives with her medical bag, just like she always does.”

Hugo’s face hardens.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Alicia. Don’t play games with your health.”

“Who’s laughing? It’s not a joke,” I reply with a seriousness that kills the mood. “I just want to train. I need to burn off some adrenaline and move my legs before my head explodes.”

Silence settles between us for a few endless seconds that weigh as heavily as a dead body. Behind us, the rest of the team continues with their warm-up exercises while the gusty wind rattles the nets of the Ravenhill FC goals. Hugo takes a step closer to me, and his voice drops to an almost inaudible whisper.

“What the hell happened between the two of you? I’ve been putting up with watching you two devour each other with your eyes at every practice for weeks, and today you show up looking like you want to declare World War III on the first living soul who crosses your path.”

My jaw tenses so hard that my teeth grind together.

“That’s a private matter that’s nobody’s business. Just know that things are much better this way, and the entire club board is going to sleep soundly because of it.”

“It’s very much my business. Especially if my star forward wants to tear her knee ligaments on purpose just because she needs to vent over a romantic setback.”

I look away toward the empty stands because, if I keep listening to him speak in that sympathetic tone, I’m going to end up breaking down and bursting into tears right in the middle of the field. And I’d rather die than show weakness in front of the staff.

“I’m going to practice,” I insist, putting my hands on my hips.

“Alicia…”

“I’m. Going. To. Train,” I repeat, enunciating each syllable with a firmness that brooks no argument.

There’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to wait for his answer. I turn around and take off at a lousy jog toward the group before he has time to grab my arm and pull me out of practice. Finally, I hear him let out a curse and give in.

The practice starts off easy: continuous running around the perimeter, joint mobility exercises, and a round of one-touch passing drills. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s pretty bearable. My knee protests and sends me warning signals with every step, sure, but the body of an elite athlete has an incredible ability to fool itself and block out pain when you’re seething with rage. And I’ve been perfecting that self-destructive talent for as long as I can remember.

I run. I pivot. I pick up speed. With every stride, my body seems to scream at me on a loop: Stop, stop, slow down already, you fool. But I keep pushing myself because the physical pain, at least, is real, concrete, and makes sense. Not like the other kind. Not like the kick in the gut that comes from discovering that the woman of your life would rather let go of your hand the moment those in power bare their fangs.