Page 1 of Last Line of Defense

1

Safe Distance

Alicia

I arrive at the Ravenhill FC training complex in a black car that is, without a doubt, far too elegant for my state of mind.

It’s raining with dramatic intensity, as if the damned British weather were determined to warn me of what’s about to happen. The raindrops slide swiftly down the tinted window as I watch the complex spread out before me: modern glass-and-steel buildings glistening in the rain, perfectly green fields, pennants fluttering in the wind, and a row of journalists stationed at a safe distance. They look like birds of prey waiting for the slightest of my movements to snag the day’s headline.

We’re talking about one of the best clubs in the country. The place I’ve been dreaming of since I was seventeen. Despite that, as I look at it through the glass, I don’t feel the excitement I should. Just a sickening weariness that has settled deep in my bones.

I rest my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes for a second, catching my breath. Without realizing it, my right hand automatically moves to my left knee and begins to massage it through my sweatpants. It’s an unconscious gesture, almost a tic that I hate because it gives away my greatest weakness.

“Don’t make that funeral face,” Bruno says from the seat next to me, checking his phone for the third time. “It looks like we’re going to a funeral instead of signing the best contract of your career, Alicia. Cheer up, for God’s sake.”

I open just one eye and look at him with as much boredom as I can muster.

“It could be both. It all depends on how today’s medical exams go and how much they get on my nerves.”

My manager lets out a brief laugh—the kind that stems more from sheer resignation than genuine humor. Bruno’s been by my side for six years and has learned, after repeatedly contradicting me and getting burned, that it’s better not to try to correct me when I’m acting like a diva. He’s tall, dressed in an impeccable dark suit, and possesses a patience that borders on the supernatural. He’s one of the few people on this planet who doesn’t treat me like a ticking time bomb about to explode. Although, to be completely honest with myself, sometimes I am.

“Don’t get into a fight with anyone today—I’m begging you,” he pleads, finally tucking his cell phone into the inside pocket of his coat and looking at me with the eyes of a lamb about to be slaughtered. “I’m asking you as a friend and, above all, as a freelancer who wants to keep getting his well-deserved cut.”

“Don’t ask me to work miracles, Bruno. You know self-control isn’t my strong suit when people are picking a fight with me.”

“Alicia…” he insists in that heavy, paternal tone he uses when he wants to remind me that, behind the facade of an indomitable star, there’s also a human being.

I sigh heavily, sit up straight in my seat, and stretch a little.

“Fine, damn it. I’ll try to act like a normal, sociable, charming person. At least for the first two hours. Is that okay with you?”

“I’ll take that as a win,” he replies, though the arch of his eyebrows shows he doesn’t trust me one bit.

For a few seconds, I remain still, gazing at my own reflection in the fogged-up window. Twenty-six years old. Starting forward. Last season’s top scorer. Magazine covers, exclusive interviews, constant rumors, absurd suspensions, controversial red cards, and headlines that always say more about my strong personality and turbulent personal life than about my damn goals. “Talented. Troublesome. Difficult. Undisciplined. The untamable star. The queen of chaos.”

It’s mind-boggling how the press and the fans can sum up your life with four shitty adjectives—none of which come even close to the truth. No one talks about the superhuman effort it takes to push myself to new heights every day. No one talks about what it’s cost me to become the best in a world as messed up as soccer. And, of course, no one talks about the panic that washes over me when my left knee starts screaming and I think about the terrible day my body decides to say “enough.” As long as I keep scoring goals and shining on the field, no one gives a shit about that part. And I, for one, am not the type to serve up my weaknesses on a silver platter.

I leap out of the car, slinging my backpack over my shoulder in one swift motion. The cold, damp English air hits me squarely in the face, jarring me awake. It smells of freshly cut grass, wet earth, and that indefinable, electric scent of high-stakes environments where the pressure never lets up. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs.

“Welcome to your new empire, sweetheart,” I tell myself.

A small entourage greets us at the main entrance of the central building. There are staff members, part of the coaching staff, communications managers walking back and forth, two executives in expensive suits with perfectly rehearsed smiles, and several first-team players watching me with that exact mix of curiosity, admiration, and caution that usually accompanies signings considered “complicated.” I know that sidelong glance all too well. It says, “Let’s see how long it takes the new girl to cause her first scandal.”

A blonde woman, dressed to the nines and visibly enthusiastic, is the first to step forward and intercept me.

“Alicia! Welcome to Ravenhill FC. You can’t imagine how much we’ve been looking forward to finally having you among us,” she exclaims in a shrill voice as she squeezes my hand tightly between hers, as if she were sealing an international peace treaty.

I smile, putting on that professional facade I’ve perfected over the years of my career.

“Thank you. The pleasure is all mine. I hope I don’t disappoint you too soon,” I say with a mischievous wink.

She lets out a somewhat nervous laugh, and I immediately sense that she’s not quite sure whether what I just said was a joke or a threat. I probably don’t even know myself.

The introductions come one after another in a whirlwind of faces and titles. The sporting director, the assistant coach, the strength and conditioning coach, the press officer… Even two teammates from the locker room whose names I try to memorize on the spot, without much success. Everyone sounds exactly the same as at my previous clubs: they’re thrilled, overjoyed—my arrival is vital to the new project, the ambition, the damn future of the team. I nod, say just enough to be polite, and keep smiling. I learned a long time ago that these people aren’t interested in getting to know the real Alicia; they just want the useful version of me. The goal-scoring machine. The million-dollar investment. Pure, unadulterated performance.

But then, just as I’m starting to get incredibly bored, I see her.

She’s a few steps behind, slightly apart from the main group, with her arms crossed over her chest and an expression on her face that makes no attempt whatsoever to hide anything. Her hair is dark, almost black, pulled back into a low ponytail that reveals serene, angular, captivating features. Her skin is fair, and she has deep, dark eyes—the kind that don’t just look at you, but scan you from head to toe, evaluating every single one of your damn secrets. She isn’t smiling. Not even a millimeter. And maybe that’s exactly why I find it so hard to take my eyes off her.