Page 3 of Last Line of Defense

Her tone is so firm, so professional, and so absurdly authoritative that it turns me on like hell. I catch myself tracing the perfect line of her jaw and the way her pupils don’t give an inch in my presence. This woman’s got guts—I like that.

“Understood, boss,” I reply, though I notice my own voice hardens a little, marking my territory. “Although I’m warning you right now that I’m a pretty stubborn woman. It’s going to take some work to tame me.”

“I know that perfectly well,” she fires back without batting an eye. “I’ve read your medical history and your reports from the last three years cover to cover. Two meniscus surgeries, three setbacks from rushing back too soon, and a rather worrying—and stupid—tendency to downplay the pain in front of the coaches so you don’t lose your starting spot.”

Low blow. That comment hits me right below the belt and stings, but not over my dead body am I going to let her see it affected me. I smile even more broadly, playing dumb.

“Well, well… I see you’ve done your homework, Dr. Valle. I’m incredibly flattered by all this attention.”

“It’s my job. I’m not paid to have fans, but to keep the players in the game.”

The communications director comes to the rescue, clearly relieved to be able to step in and change the subject before things really start to heat up.

“Well, I think that after such an… intense and productive welcome, it would be best if we started with the guided tour of the indoor facilities. Does that sound good to you all?”

The whole damn group seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Everyone except me. Because as we start walking toward the hallways leading to the indoor training fields, I feel Clara’s imposing presence just a few steps away. And I hate with every fiber of my being the realization that my body is acutely aware of her every movement, her scent, and her footsteps behind me.

· · ·

During the indoor tour, the storm outside seems to die down a bit, but inside me there’s a hurricane. I walk beside Bruno, who keeps nudging me warningly every few moments, but my attention is constantly and inevitably drawn to Clara’s silhouette. I hear her explaining various technical details about the new hydrothermal recovery center to the assistant coach in a professional tone. At one point, she steps forward and stands beside me as she points to some modern stainless-steel booths.

“This cryotherapy area is going to be absolutely key for you and for the longevity of your knee,” she says quietly, leaning in slightly so no one else can hear her. “If you follow my recovery plan to the letter, I guarantee I can help you extend your career at the highest level for a few more years. If you decide to go it alone… well, we both know perfectly well how these kinds of stories end in women’s soccer. With a premature retirement and a knee replacement before you turn thirty.”

I come to a sudden stop in the middle of the hallway and turn to look intently into those eyes that have been driving me crazy for the past ten minutes.

“Are you always this blunt with new recruits, or is it just that you really like me?”

“I’m only direct when I think the player in question is worth the effort,” she replies without the slightest hesitation, shoving her hands into the pockets of her lab coat in a cocky manner. “And you’re worth it, Alicia. Even if you’re a walking headache and a rebel without a cause.”

A low chuckle, full of genuine amusement, escapes my chest. I love this woman.

“Well, well. A compliment wrapped in an insult. I love your style.”

She shakes her head from side to side, as if talking to a lost cause, but I clearly catch the hint of a beautiful smile at the corner of her full lips. Gotcha, brunette!

“Don’t get used to it, Alicia. My only job here is to keep you useful on the playing field, not to feed your already inflated ego.”

“What a shame,” I murmur, giving her a cheeky once-over. “Because my ego has a huge appetite, and it loves being fed by women as beautiful as you.”

Bruno, who’s walking a few meters ahead of us talking to the sporting director, spins around suddenly when he hears me and shoots me a look that clearly says, “Shut the fuck up right now or I’ll kill you.” I completely ignore him—of course I do.

We continue walking through the hallways of the club’s private clinic. Clara explains the rigorous post-game recovery protocols to me in great technical detail, but I’m unable to focus on the medical aspects. All I can focus on is the way she moves, the overwhelming confidence in her gestures, her clean, well-manicured hands, and the delightful way her voice softens just a tiny bit when she talks about her profession. You can tell she’s passionate about what she does. In a moment of inattention, while we’re waiting for the security guard to open the door to the main gym for us, she stands right next to me.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to adapt to this team’s discipline?” she asks in a whisper, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’m serious, Alicia. This club values discipline, order, and a low profile above any individual talent. And you’re not exactly low-profile.”

I turn toward her, coming within a few centimeters of her face. We’re so close that personal space disappears, and I can clearly smell her perfume: an exquisite blend of citrus, lavender, and something purely magnetic.

“I’ve played in locker rooms far worse than this and with coaches who were real iron-fisted sergeants, Clara. That’s not the million-dollar question here. The question is whether you all—and especially you—will be able to adapt to me.”

Clara spins on her heels to face me fully. She holds my gaze with an intensity that makes me swallow hard.

“I’m not your enemy, Alicia. Get that through your head starting today. But let me make it very clear that I also don’t intend to be your accomplice or cover up your mistakes when you decide to break the medical team’s rules. If you want this to work—and for your knee to hold up to the pace of the Premier League—you’re going to have to trust me completely.”

For one damn moment, the background noise of the crowd, the voices of the executives, and the hum of the hallway lights fade away. It’s just the two of us, face to face, under the latent threat of sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“Trusting people isn’t exactly my strong suit,” I admit in a low voice, letting my swagger slip for a second.

“I know,” she says, and for the first time, I notice a hint of genuine gentleness and understanding in her tone. “But being in here, up front, you’re not going to have any choice but to do it.”