Page 45 of Last Line of Defense

“Because yesterday you doubted us and how important this is—what’s happening to us, Clara,” I cut her off in a whisper, my voice very low but laden with all the shit and pain I’ve been bottling up alone all night. “Because to you, this is still just a whim, something you can stop with the push of a button before it spills over and destroys your precious, perfect professional balance. And no, Clara, you’re wrong: there’s no way in hell to stop this now, because you’re buried deep under my skin.”

Clara rises very slowly, centimeter by centimeter, and her fingertips brush against the skin of my arm with such tender delicacy that it stands in stark contrast to the tension vibrating between us.

“It’s just not as easy as you think, Alicia. I’m afraid of what this scandal could do to both of us if it reaches the higher-ups. Especially to you. You’re the star player on this team. If your whole career goes down the drain because of me…”

“Because of you?” I interrupt her, letting out a dry, completely humorless laugh. “What are you talking about? Do you really think I’m made of glass and that I’m going to shatter over a few hallway comments?”

Lucía, who’s been watching the whole thing from the sidelines, takes a couple of steps toward us with a worried look on her face, but stops short when she senses the magnetic tension and dramatic intensity of the scene we’re creating.

“Girls… it might be a lot smarter if you talked about your stuff inside instead of out here,” she suggests in a soft voice, trying to act as a shield.

“I’m perfectly fine, Lucía, thank you,” I reply without taking my eyes off Clara for even a millisecond. “I just need this woman to be brave for once and tell me the truth to my face. Do you want us to call it quits? Is that really what you want?”

Clara swallows hard, and for a fleeting moment, I can clearly see her entire facade of serious professionalism and iron self-control cracking.

“The only thing I want in this life is not to be the reason you get hurt, Alicia,” she admits in a whisper, her eyes misting over. “What my heart craves is to wake up every morning by your side and not have to go around hiding like a criminal because of how I feel about you. But the world of soccer is really messed up and completely unforgiving. And I… I’ve already been shattered into pieces once before, Alicia. And I swear, I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to put myself back together if I break again.”

Her words hit me right in the chest, much harder and more painfully than any badly timed tackle by an opposing defender. In a fit of pride, I decide to take a step back, move away from her, and make a show of returning to practice even though my leg is shaking like jelly. But Clara reacts quickly: she reaches out and grabs my wrist with a gentle yet firm grip that stops me in my tracks.

“We’re going inside right now. And this time, I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Neither will I.”

As I limp toward the locker room, leaning almost entirely on her shoulders and letting her guide me, I feel that awful weight that was suffocating my chest begin to lift a little. The embarrassment, the humiliation, the panic of losing her… all that crap is still there, hanging in the air. But she’s also holding me, and that seems to be enough for me to keep fighting for what matters to me beyond soccer.

17

The Aftermath of the Storm

Clara

There are moments in life when you’re unable to tell where fear ends and love begins. And that, without a doubt, is the most dangerous part of this game. Because while fear tries to protect you from what’s beyond your control, love… love makes you reckless. It pushes you to run with your eyes closed toward what you know all too well could destroy you. And I, who have always been the queen of caution, find myself in over my head in that very situation because of Alicia.

I realize it the very moment I see her double over on the training field, gritting her teeth and making a superhuman effort to stay steady on her cleats, even as sharp pain is already shooting through her leg like lightning. I realize it when I feel the air stop flowing into my lungs, when the clamor of the training session fades away around me, and my own body reacts before my mind does, telling professional ethics to go to hell.

I know that being cold and professional with her is over; I’ve crossed every ethical line. Seeing her tear herself apart on the field hurts me to the core, and I can’t bear the thought that she’s taking out on her own body all the anger and frustration that I myself caused yesterday with my doubts.

We arrived at the locker room a couple of minutes ago. Alicia is standing tall out of sheer pride, though the stiffness in her movements and the way she drags her left foot are obvious even to anyone who doesn’t have the faintest clue about sports injuries. I know every side effect and every disastrous consequence of straining an inflamed joint like hers inside and out, and that’s precisely why panic is eating away at me.

“Please sit down,” I ask, gesturing with my hand.

She slumps down onto the wooden bench, leans her back against the lockers, and lets out a dry, sharp, almost mocking laugh that I don’t find the least bit funny.

“How romantic, Dr. Valle—I’m going to melt right here with emotion.”

“Alicia,” I repeat, my tone coming out much harsher and sharper than usual, echoing off the four walls.

She notices it immediately. Her dark, defiant eyes lock onto mine for an eternal second, and through her gaze, I can see in crystal-clear detail everything that shattered into a thousand pieces during our last conversation: the monumental anger, the disappointment, the pent-up desire, the love that burns between us, and that absurd need to touch each other.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, looking down at her feet. “You don’t need to make such a scene or worry so much about me.”

“Don’t give me that.” That’s the first thing I want to shout, but I swallow my pride, bite my tongue, and simply crouch down in front of her, planting one knee on the locker room floor. I hold her left leg with extreme gentleness just below the knee to assess the extent of the damage. The intense heat from the swelling seeps through the fabric of her sock and burns my fingertips. It’s bad—really, really bad. I take a deep breath through my nose to maintain my professional composure and keep my hand from shaking in front of her.

“It’s over,” I declare, looking at her kneecap. “No more training today, tomorrow, or for the remaining weeks leading up to the start of the season.”

“That’s not for you to decide, Clara,” she replies through clenched teeth, her jaw so tense that the muscle in her cheek twitches.

I look up slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until I lock eyes with her firmly.