Page 44 of Last Line of Defense

I clench my teeth until they hurt and shift into high gear for a high-pressure drill three-quarters of the way down the field. And that’s when the sharp pain hits me like a stab. My left leg locks up as I plant my foot after a sudden change of direction to block the ball’s path. I hear Marta shout my name in concern when she hears my groan of pain, but I completely ignore her. Another run. Another sprint into open space. Another brutal jolt that makes me see stars in broad daylight. Cold sweat runs down my back, and the air burns my lungs as if I were swallowing shards of glass.

Stop, Alicia. I’m not going to let you ruin your soccer career just because of a stupid burst of pride.

Clara’s voice echoes inside my head with a clarity I find unbearable. It’s coming a little too late, because right now, my wounded pride is the only thing keeping my eyes open and my cleats planted on the grass.

During a small-sided scrimmage, I receive a long pass from Marta, control it with my chest, and sprint toward the goal. Under normal circumstances, I would have had a blast with a play like this: feeling the speed, the killer instinct in front of goal, the sensation of having absolute control over the game. But this morning, my body is acting on its own, and my head is stuck in a black hole. And my knee, of course, ends up giving out right in the middle of the run.

The pain shoots through my joint so savagely and excruciatingly that I have to bite my lower lip until it bleeds to keep from letting out a scream, but it’s useless; the cry of pain bursts from my soul anyway. I hear the coach’s whistle blow with deafening urgency.

“Alicia! That’s enough! Stop!”

I come to a screeching halt near the edge of the box and rest both hands on my knees, hunched over, as I try with all my might to catch my breath. The pain rises like liquid fire from my kneecap up through my quadriceps, making my legs tremble. And yet, the worst part of the scene is feeling the tears of sheer helplessness welling up behind my eyes—because of accumulated exhaustion, pent-up rage, and watching everything slip through my fingers without being able to do anything to stop it.

I shut my eyes tightly for a second and hear the footsteps of soccer cleats running at full speed toward my position.

Breathe, Alicia. Take a deep breath and please don’t break down here in front of everyone.

“It’s over,” Hugo declares firmly, grabbing my arm tightly to force me to stand up straight. “This isn’t negotiable.”

“No… let go, I can keep going,” I protest, trying to break free from his grip with a halfhearted shove.

“Alicia, look me in the eyes.”

I don’t want to look at him because I know that if I do, he’ll see in my face just how fucking broken I am inside.

“I’m fine, damn it…” I lie shamelessly, but my voice comes out so shaky, broken, and pathetic that not even a five-year-old would buy it.

The coach lets out a tremendous curse under his breath.

“You’re being completely irrational! Damn it.”

I try to fire off one of my usual comebacks, but my voice won’t come out. The pain keeps throbbing with savage intensity inside the joint, and I’m forced to shift my entire weight onto my good leg to keep from falling flat on my face. Several teammates are watching us from a distance with sympathetic expressions.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt in a sharp motion to remove the sweat mixed with tears and force a defiant smile.

“I don’t need anyone to carry me; I can walk on my own.”

“Of course you need help—don’t be ridiculous,” replies a voice behind me that isn’t the coach’s.

My whole body reacts before my brain does and tenses like a bowstring. I’d recognize Clara’s tone of voice even if I were in the middle of a packed Wembley Stadium full of screaming people, even amid the noise of bouncing balls and the distant shouts from practice.

I turn around agonizingly slowly, and there she is, right in front of me. Standing a couple of yards away, her hair tousled by the wind, her official tracksuit jacket half-open, and that damn expression of hers—so familiar—that seems to waver between a mad desire to crush me against her chest and the urge to strangle me with her own hands. Only this time, deep in her eyes, I see something different: panic. Real fear. Pure, unadulterated concern.

Our gazes meet, and the emotional impact is instantaneous, like a train wreck. All the monumental anger from the day before, all the disappointment, all the absurd and unhealthy need I have for her hugs… It’s still there. Intact. Painfully alive right there on the grass.

Hugo looks at her with relief, like a student handing the teacher the hardest exam of the year and leaving it up to her to figure it out.

“She’s all yours, Clara. Let’s see if you can work a miracle and make her come to her senses once and for all.”

Clara doesn’t even bother to answer him; she doesn’t even look at him. She just keeps her eyes fixed on mine as she walks with a steady stride until she’s standing just a few centimeters away from me.

“Can you tell me what the hell you’ve done?”

“Training,” I reply with a dryness that stings, looking down at the ground because I can’t hold her gaze without breaking down. “Something that—in case you’ve forgotten—is part of my fucking job at this club.”

She shakes her head, visibly shaken by my tone, and crouches down, bending her knees to examine the joint visually without actually touching my leg yet. The brush of her ragged breath so close to my thigh sends a brutal chill through me that has absolutely nothing to do with the freezing morning wind.

“Don’t give me that nonsense, because that wasn’t training,” she whispers, lifting her head to force me to look at her. “You were really pushing yourself on the field, and you’re doing it because yesterday I…”