Page 68 of Last Line of Defense

The gym at the sports complex smells like it always does: rubber, metal, and that accumulated sweat that’s seeped into the walls after thousands of hours of grueling workouts. I always sense an almost violent energy in this sanctuary: the sharp thud of iron weights hitting the floor, the stifled gasps of my workout partners, the squeak of sneakers pivoting on the gym floor, and a blaring reggaeton track that someone has cranked up full blast on their phone to motivate everyone.

I’ve been on the stationary bike for twenty minutes, pedaling as if the devil himself were chasing me, trying to convince myself that the unbearable burning in my knee is all in my head. I clench my fingers tightly around the handlebars, keeping up the pace as sweat trickles down the back of my neck and soaks my shirt. My quadriceps are starting to scream at me to stop, warning me that they’re going to cramp up, but I crank up the intensity. It’s my trademark: pushing forward. Even if it stings. Even if it feels like the joint is going to explode into a thousand pieces.

“Ease up on the resistance a little, Alicia. I know you—you’re going to end up unable to move,” Iván, my new physical therapist, tells me with a mix of professional firmness and good-natured encouragement.

His voice snaps me out of my mental loop all at once. Iván is leaning against one of the columns in the gym, holding a tablet, while he watches me out of the corner of his eye with that infinite patience medical staff tend to develop toward me after just two days of putting up with me. But he isn’t Clara. And that’s why this whole process feels so incredibly strange to me. It’s too sterile. Too proper. Too cold.

I let out a snort, lower the resistance on the bike, and gradually ease off the pedals until I come to a stop.

“Don’t get carried away…” I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my T-shirt. “Besides, I’m still deciding whether I like you or if I’m putting you on my blacklist.”

Iván bursts out laughing, taking it in stride.

“Hey, coming from the great Alicia Puertas, the fact that you haven’t told me to get lost is already a huge win. I’ll settle for you just tolerating me.”

I get off the bike, putting my right foot down first. As soon as my left foot hits the ground, my knee protests with a sharp spasm that shoots across the joint from side to side. I compose my face in a millisecond—a trick I’ve practiced to perfection. Anything to keep them from suspecting I’m not quite back to one hundred percent yet.

I pop the cap off my water bottle and take a long swig, the cold water freezing my throat as I let my gaze wander around the gym. To my left, the team’s defenders are killing themselves doing barbell squats. On the mats in the back, the wingers are stretching while whispering among themselves. The league is about to start, and you can feel the tension in the air. Although, to be honest, I couldn’t care less about the start of the season; I’ve got my sights set solely on Clara. Ever since my interview was published, social media and the news have erupted into an uncontrollable firestorm. My phone is flooded with press notifications, missed calls from unknown numbers, inflammatory tweets, and thousands of people weighing in on my private life and passing judgment without having a clue about anything.

I’ve had to read some real nonsense from cavemen, but, against all odds, the wave of support has been overwhelming, and at the club, I’ve been welcomed with open arms. Teammates from other clubs in the league, journalists fighting tooth and nail for me, and women’s soccer legends who admit to having gone through the same ordeal. But in the midst of this media tsunami, the only person who matters to me is her. And I know absolutely nothing about Clara.

I screw the cap back onto the bottle so angrily that I almost strip the threads.

“You’re in la-la land again,” Iván says, having slipped up beside me. “What a stir that interview has caused, huh?”

I let out a dry laugh, without a hint of humor.

“You have no idea. I’ve opened Pandora’s box.”

He looks at me sympathetically and taps his pen lightly against the treatment table.

“Come on, hop up here. Let’s test that range of motion before the coach walks in demanding to know if you’re good to play half an hour on Sunday.”

I huff and drag myself toward the treatment table, limping just a little despite my efforts to hide it.

“Coaches are all the same. All they care about are the three points.”

“Good thing I’m a physio,” Iván defends himself with a wry smile as he helps me lie back.

“Yeah, but you talk just like them, and that scares the hell out of me.”

Iván chuckles under his breath and begins to work on my leg with gentle movements. His hands are precise, skilled, professional. But they’re nothing like Clara’s touch. Clara’s hands are pure dynamite—warm, comforting, and able to read my body with just a light touch. I really should stop thinking about that—but I can’t help myself. Clara isn’t the club’s physical therapist anymore—that chapter is long gone. But everything leads me back to her.

“Well, the swelling has gone down quite a bit,” Iván says, focused on palpating my joint. “You’ve got a bit of strain on the tendon, but it’s in pretty good shape despite how it feels to you.”

“Are you sure? Because I still get spasms when I push myself a little too hard.”

“That’s the strain. So take it easy and don’t push yourself too hard. Keep a cool head.”

I’m about to fire off one of my usual sarcastic retorts when, suddenly, someone stops right next to the treatment table. I’d recognize that scent from a thousand miles away. Asleep, drunk, or in the worst possible state.

I lift my head very slowly, and when my eyes lock directly with Clara’s, the air gets stuck in my throat and I feel like I’m suffocating. She’s wearing dark jeans that look absolutely stunning on her, black leather boots, and a charcoal-gray coat that glistens with raindrops from outside. Her dark hair, slightly tousled by the wind, frames her face.

My heart skips a beat so violently that I think I’m going to faint. It’s an explosive mix of relief, a mad urge to kiss her, and a wild desire that leaves me trembling. All around us, the conversations in the gym fade away as if someone were turning down the volume with a remote control. My teammates start glancing over at us. Some of them are terrible at hiding it, craning their necks without a shred of shame. But I couldn’t care less; I only have eyes for her.

Clara takes a couple of steps forward with a confidence that disarms me.

“How’s that knee?” she asks, using a professional tone, but with a velvety quality that drives me wild.