Page 48 of Last Line of Defense

But it turns out to be a completely impossible task. The sexual tension and the memory of those kisses in the locker room are still burning on my skin, and every time I look up, I sense her dark eyes scanning my body, setting me on fire inside in a split second.

The coach finishes reviewing a couple of items on the schedule and the training times before dropping the day’s bombshell.

“All right, everyone, listen up for a moment. The club’s board has organized a week-long intensive training camp out of town before the official start of the league season,” Hugo announces after flipping through the leather folder they handed us right as we walked in the door.

Upon hearing the announcement, some of the players at the back of the room react with enthusiasm; others let out a sigh of resignation at having to pack their bags. As for me, I feel a knot tightening in my stomach.

“We’ll be leaving on the team bus this Friday afternoon,” Hugo continues, fixing his gaze on me for a couple of seconds that feel like an eternity. “The entire staff, including the medical team, is coming with us. We need to bond, maintain maximum focus, and have zero external distractions.”

The irony in Hugo’s statement nearly makes me burst into nervous laughter right then and there. Then the coach finishes the job:

“We’re going to share the same hotel and sports facilities throughout the weekend and the days that follow, so I’m going to ask all of you for absolute and rigorous professionalism both inside and outside the hotel.”

I’m not quite sure why, but as soon as he finishes saying the word professionalism, my treacherous mind runs wild, and I picture Alicia sneaking into my room late at night; I imagine us sharing every minute of the day together in a closed-off environment. It’s going to be a truly impossible mission for us to keep our distance, to do everything in our power to avoid getting caught, and to control this crazy urge we have to seek each other out, kiss, or touch as soon as we’re alone.

But the worst part of the whole meeting—the thing that confirms I’m in a monumental mess—is looking up from the folder and finding her eyes fixed on me from across the table. She looks at me with a defiant, dangerous, and brazen intensity. Because that look of hers doesn’t just mean she loves the idea of sharing a hotel with me twenty-four hours a day—it also means she couldn’t care less about the risk of having to do so under the watchful eyes of the entire team. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is going to be a thousand times more complex and explosive than either of us suspects just yet.

18

No Right of Reply

Alicia

Ravenhill FC’s famous preseason training camp is, basically, a form of torture designed exclusively to test every last bit of my resilience, my nerves, and my hormones.

From the outside, if you ask anyone in management, everything seems idyllic, simple, and highly professional: a secluded four-star hotel on the outskirts of the city, double sessions of intensive training, tactical briefings, group dinners, and a strict schedule packed with activities to keep us focused before the league kicks off. The coach is excited. He says the team has finally found its stability and that the city’s sports press has gone from talking about an internal crisis to running front-page stories about a possible historic comeback. They’re touting us as the heavy favorites for this year’s title, and—let’s not kid ourselves—a large part of that future success rests in my hands. But the truth is, I can barely pay attention to the front pages or the journalists’ praise. I’ve got my hands full just surviving twenty-four hours of forced coexistence with Clara and mentally juggling ways to control the wild urge to cover her with kisses at every turn.

The day starts early, with a gym session at 7:30 a.m. that hits me like a punch in the gut. The smell of burnt rubber, disinfectant, and stale sweat fills the room while half of my teammates shuffle their feet and yawn like lionesses among the pulley machines. I’m perched on one of the stationary bikes, my left knee hidden under a compression bandage, putting on an act of normalcy and concentration that even I don’t buy.

The pain, of course, is still there—constant, persistent, and nagging at me, reminding me that I’ve really screwed up. Every time I bend my leg to pedal a little faster, a sharp, electric jolt shoots through that damn joint and races up my thigh like a spark. But hey, at the end of the day, you get used to living with physical pain just the same way the rest of us mortals live with insomnia, bills, or anxiety: by ignoring it until it becomes physically impossible to keep pretending it isn’t there.

I look up from the handlebars just as the glass door slides open and Clara walks into the gym. And, for a change, something short-circuits inside my pants. My whole body reacts before my brain has time to slam on the damn emergency brake. She’s wearing the club’s official uniform, but it looks absolutely stunning on her: a fairly tight gray sweatshirt that highlights her jaw-dropping shoulders, and her dark hair pulled back into a high, tight ponytail that fully exposes the line of her neck. She walks without looking up from a tablet, reviewing data while murmuring something to one of the fitness trainers in a tone that’s thoroughly professional, focused, and unapproachable. At least, that’s what she’s trying to project.

But then, as if she had radar for my eyes, she looks up and catches me red-handed, staring at her. It’s only two seconds. A measly two seconds on the clock, but they’re more than enough to make every last muscle in my body tense up. Clara catches my gaze before looking away. She keeps walking with her chin held high as if absolutely nothing had happened, but I already know her weaknesses by heart and can spot the tiny cracks that appear in that ironclad self-control she puts on.

“Alicia,” she says as she passes by me, her eyes fixed on the screen of my bike without looking me in the face. “Don’t even think about increasing the resistance on the bike—I know you. Your knee is still swollen, and I don’t want you straining the tendon.”

I give her a half smile without slowing my pedaling, feeling my heart skip a beat and start racing at a thousand miles an hour.

“Good morning to you too, Clara. It’s such a pleasure to see you being so friendly first thing in the morning.”

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even give me a glance.

“Good morning.”

Those are the only words she deigns to say to me all morning, but I’m overcome by an absurd, overwhelming, and extremely dangerous urge to jump off my bike, grab her firmly around the waist from behind, and plant a movie-style kiss on her right there, in front of the machines and the entire staff. I shake that crazy thought from my head, muttering a curse under my breath, and keep pedaling furiously, even though my thoughts have already wandered far away from the gym.

The session moves along with joint mobility exercises, stretches, and strength training that leaves my arms shaking. I try my hardest to focus on what’s right in front of me—Alba’s absurd jokes and Irene’s scathing comments about the undrinkable coffee at the hotel breakfast—but I can’t help noticing that Clara is constantly hovering around the room. Watching me out of the corner of her eye. Monitoring my every move. Looking out for me from a distance. And the really messed-up part is that I’m starting to like it way too much—almost to the point of addiction—this exclusive attention she’s giving me.

During a break to hydrate, Irene comes running up to me with a bottle of water in her hand and one of those mischievous smiles of hers that practically screams gossip.

“Hey, Alicia, have you seen how Dr. Valle is looking at you? It’s like she’s waiting for you to explode right in the middle of the gym,” she murmurs, nudging me with her elbow.

I shoot her a quick warning glance and take a long swig from my bottle to buy some time.

“It’s her damn job, Irene. I’m the star forward and my knee’s a mess—she has to keep an eye on me.”

“Yeah, right. And I play wing for this club out of pure love for cardio and morning suffering,” she replies with a sarcasm that makes me cringe. “Come on, Alicia, don’t give me that. That woman looks at you with an intensity and a hunger that would make anyone forget how to walk in a straight line.”