Page 2 of Last Line of Defense

I don’t know her name yet, but I know immediately—thanks to a sixth sense I have for these things—that this woman is going to be a huge problem in my life. And it’s not a rational conclusion—far from it. It’s a physical reaction, direct, like an unexpected soccer ball to the pit of your stomach that knocks the wind out of you. She’s attractive in a furious, irritating way, and that, given my situation, is extremely dangerous.

Bruno notices where my eyes are wandering and leans slightly toward my ear, muttering under his breath without losing his smile for the photographers.

“Be careful,” he whispers in a warning tone.

“Watch out for what?” I ask, without taking my eyes off the brunette for even a millisecond.

“That hungry-wolf look you get when something interests you too much, Alicia. They’re watching us.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Bruno. I’m just taking stock of the situation.”

“I know you like the back of my hand,” he insists, giving me a subtle nudge.

“Too well,” I think to myself.

At that moment, the blonde PR woman turns to the mysterious brunette and motions for her to come over.

“And, of course, I’d like to introduce you to Clara Valle, our head physical therapist and the undisputed leader of the club’s medical team. She and her assistants are going to make sure you stay in one piece and don’t destroy our hopes of winning the league this year.”

Clara moves without any hurry, taking a few steps forward with such natural elegance that I find it almost insulting. She extends her right hand toward me and holds my gaze with an overwhelming calm that borders on pure provocation. Her voice, when she speaks, is deep, clear, velvety, and ridiculously sexy.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person, Alicia.”

Let’s be clear—she doesn’t mean it as a compliment. Not at all. Her tone sounds like a warning, pure and simple—the kind that makes your hair stand on end.

I shake her hand, gripping it firmly. Her skin is cold, but the contact sends a jolt through my stomach that throws me off balance.

“Well,” I reply, tilting my head slightly to one side and holding her gaze. “I hope I don’t disappoint you, Clara.”

Her expression doesn’t change one bit. She remains as serious as a police officer.

“That’s going to depend a lot on you, on your attitude, and on how much you cooperate.”

I feel a cheeky smile form on my lips all by itself—one of those smiles that, in my life, usually precedes a terrible decision. There it is: that damn preconceived judgment. The typical “I know exactly what kind of troublemaking girl you are.” I recognize that little game instantly. I’ve been putting up with it for years from coaches, managers, and sports doctors who are convinced they can pigeonhole me before they’ve even exchanged two words with me. And if there’s one thing in this world I enjoy more than scoring a spectacular chip shot in the ninetieth minute, it’s dismantling the damn smugness of people who think they know it all. Like her.

“Don’t give me that serious look,” I say in a soft voice, almost a coo, still holding her hand. “I promise I’ll be a good girl and I won’t give you any headaches.”

I can clearly hear Bruno let out a panicked sigh beside me. Clara, on the other hand, doesn’t take her eyes off mine for even a single millimeter. In fact, she tightens her grip before letting go of me.

“I’m not worried about headaches, Alicia,” she replies with astonishing calm, her gaze sweeping over my body without the slightest pretense. “I’m worried about players who think they’re above the club’s rules and end up destroying themselves out of sheer stubbornness and ego.”

The words land between us with the precision and sharpness of a Swiss Army knife. I slowly pull my hand away, smirking inwardly. This is getting interesting.

“Then you can breathe easy. I detest poorly enforced rules—the ones that make no sense. The ones that make medical and athletic sense, I follow to the letter.”

Clara arches a dark eyebrow with exquisite subtlety.

“Oh, really? And may I ask who decides which rules make sense here? You?”

“Normally, yes,” I admit with a boastful half-smile, subtly shifting all my weight onto my right leg—the good one—so as not to give anything away. “But hey, I’m completely open to you convincing me otherwise. If you can, that is.”

Bruno clears his throat so forcefully that it looks like he’s about to choke. The communications director looks up at the ceiling, visibly uncomfortable with the tension in the air, and interjects in a conciliatory tone that’s actually pretty funny.

“Clara… please. I’m absolutely certain that you and Alicia are going to make a great team. Her knee needs the best possible care, and you are, without a doubt, the best specialist we have in the country.”

Clara doesn’t take her dark eyes off mine, not even to blink.

“I hope so. Because in my department, I won’t tolerate my treatment guidelines being ignored. Here, what my medical team and I prescribe is followed. No complaints, no sulking, and no diva-like negotiations in the locker room. If you feel a twinge, you tell me. If it hurts when you put weight on it, you tell me that, too. And if you think you can skip recovery periods or high-intensity workouts just because one day you wake up ‘feeling good,’ you’re wrong. It doesn’t work that way with me.”