Page 75 of Last Line of Defense

I feel the tension spike suddenly. My fingers dig into the dashboard, and I notice my breathing becoming shallow.

“Stay calm, Clara. Don’t look to the sides—look at me,” Alicia orders in a voice of absolute coldness and control.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s completely unflappable. Her hands are firmly on the steering wheel, her jaw clenched, and her gaze fixed on the security barrier that the club guards are struggling to open through the crowd. There isn’t a single flicker of doubt in her eyes; it’s the same expression of total concentration she wears when facing stoppage time in a final.

The car drives through the gate, which closes immediately behind us, leaving behind the shouts of reporters calling out leading questions about “the locker room scandal” or “the team’s ethics.”

Alicia parks in her reserved spot, turns off the engine, and turns toward me. She takes my hands—which are trembling slightly—and kisses them with a calmness that strikes me as almost miraculous given the storm raging outside.

“Are you okay?” she asks me with infinite tenderness.

“Yes,” I nod, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that… it’s shocking to see how aggressively they’re hunting for a scoop. It’s as if their whole lives revolve around destroying something beautiful.”

“Those jerks don’t give a shit about soccer, and they don’t give a shit about us either, Clara. They’re just looking for cheap thrills,” Alicia declares, letting out a small, scornful laugh. “But they’ve picked the wrong opponent. Now, come with me. I want you to be there when Iván tapes my knee. Your judgment is still law to me.”

· · ·

The inside of the facility feels like an armored bunker. Security has reinforced the entrances, and the atmosphere in the hallways is one of absolute focus. As we enter the medical department, Iván greets us with a relieved smile that lights up his face; the poor guy has noticeable dark circles under his eyes from the responsibility that’s fallen on him, but he maintains his composure impeccably.

“Clara! Thank goodness you’re here,” he greets me, giving me a quick hug. “Hugo’s been pushing me all morning to find out if Alicia’s tendon elasticity levels are at one hundred percent. I don’t trust my own reading of the ultrasound; I need you to take a look.”

“Don’t worry, Iván. I’m not your boss anymore, but I’m still your colleague,” I say with a smile, taking off my jacket and rolling up my shirt sleeves with a gesture that feels extremely familiar to me. “Get on the exam table, Alicia. Let’s see how that kneecap responds.”

Alicia climbs onto the exam table with a nimble leap, now wearing only workout shorts. I stand beside her, applying a little conductive gel to the joint. At the touch of my hands, I notice her muscles tense up out of pure instinct, but as soon as my fingers begin to firmly palpate the fibers of the patellar tendon, she relaxes, fixing her dark eyes on mine with blind trust.

I examine the ultrasound screen carefully, sliding the probe over the affected area. Iván looks over my shoulder, holding his breath.

“Look here, Iván,” I say, pointing to the grainy image on the screen. “The tissue has regenerated completely. There’s no trace of the chronic inflammation she had two months ago. The tendon thickness is optimal, and the vascularity has returned to normal. You’ve done a superb job with her maintenance.”

“Are you sure?” Iván asks, finally breathing a sigh of relief. “Will it hold up under the pressure of the full ninety minutes the coach wants?”

“She’ll handle it, and she’ll ask for extra time if she needs it,” Alicia chimes in with that cocky attitude of hers, patting her thigh. “I’ve told you a hundred times, you bunch of hypochondriacs: I’m in perfect shape.”

“Shut up, will you? We’re the professionals here,” I snap at her with a smirk, wiping the gel off with a towel. “Iván, apply the neuromuscular tape in a spiral around the tibial plateau. That’ll give her extra stability and take some of the mechanical load off the tendon during sharp turns.”

I watch as Iván executes the technique with precision. I feel a pang of nostalgia as I realize that this is no longer my domain, that my time within these walls has come to a definitive end, but when I look at Alicia, who watches me with absolute devotion from the treatment table, any hint of regret vanishes into thin air. I’ve lost a job, yes, but I’ve gained the freedom to love her unconditionally.

A few minutes later, the coach pokes his head through the clinic door. He’s holding his whistle in one hand and the tactical board under his arm.

“Dr. Valle. It’s a pleasure to see you here, even if it’s just for a visit,” he greets me respectfully. “Alicia, out onto the field. The warm-up drill starts in two minutes, and you know I don’t tolerate delays—not even from the team’s star player.”

Alicia jumps off the exam table, energetically laces up her cleats, and adjusts her shin guards. Before heading out the door, she stops in front of me—ignoring the presence of the coach and Iván—grabs the back of my neck with a firm hand, and plants a loud kiss on my cheek that makes me smile.

“Stay and watch practice from the stands, Clara,” she asks me in a whisper full of enthusiasm.

“I’ll be there. Go on, hurry—don’t keep the coach waiting.”

· · ·

I take my place in the small side bleachers at training field number three, sheltered by a metal awning from the intermittent rain that insists on soaking the grass. From up here, the view is perfect. The closed-door training session is a choreographed display of brutal intensity. The coach has set up an eleven-on-eleven scrimmage in a confined space to practice pressing after a turnover.

It’s a sight to behold to see Alicia in action when she’s pain-free. She moves across the field with a lightness that seems almost unreal. Her stride is powerful, symmetrical, and free of that defensive stiffness she displayed weeks ago when she feared her knee would give out. During one play, she receives a long pass from Sonia, cushions the ball with her chest and guides it onto her left foot, executes a subtle hip feint that leaves the reserve team’s defense rooted to the spot, and unleashes a crisp, angled shot that flies into the top corner of the net.

“Yeah, damn it, that’s the kind of start I want tomorrow!” roars the coach from the sideline, clapping enthusiastically.

Alicia turns toward me in the stands, gives me a thumbs-up with a gesture of absolute camaraderie, and flashes me that radiant smile that fills my chest with a sweet warmth. Her teammates gather around to high-five her, sharing jokes and welcoming her into a tight-knit unit that feels indestructible.

I watch the scene and realize that the team has achieved what the front office feared so much: shielding itself from the storm outside. All the aggression from the photographers at the entrance, all the sensationalist headlines flooding the gossip columns of British newspapers, crash against the reality of this training session. Here, there’s no scandal, no conflict, no weakness. There is a team of women united by a common goal, protecting their star and affirming the path we’ve chosen.