Page 39 of Last Line of Defense

Clara

Three days. Only three damn days have passed since that electrifying night in my apartment, and in some strange and terrifying way, everything has changed radically inside me and around me. I’m starting to get used to Alicia’s constant presence in my life, and as dangerous and reckless as it may seem to my rational side, I love it.

I’m fascinated by the way my body springs into action on autopilot, hoping to find her around every corner of the sports complex. Or the absurd ease with which a grueling workday becomes bearable the moment she appears leaning against the doorframe of the medical office, giving me that sassy smile that always seems to hide both a wicked threat and a promise at the same time.

Together we’ve created a sort of bombproof bubble of normalcy. An idyllic bubble where I feel comfortable, safe, and free from the excruciating fear of failure that I’ve been carrying with me ever since what happened in the past. To the rest of the world, we keep working our butts off and pretending that nothing is going on here. We play the roles of the club’s head physical therapist—serious and strict—and the star forward whose knee is too proud to let itself heal. But between us there’s a brutal electric current, and only the two of us know its exact voltage.

Our daily lives have become filled with little moments of friction when no one is watching—fingers that foolishly seek each other out, as if by accident, while Alicia does her quadriceps extensions on the treatment table. Glances that linger a couple of seconds too long in the middle of the gym, defying danger. Or those treacherously stolen kisses in the empty hallways on the ground floor—the kind that leave you breathless and with that delicious frustration of someone who knows perfectly well she won’t be able to extinguish the fire inside until we see each other again somewhere safer.

It’s absolute madness. And precisely because it’s so forbidden, it’s becoming damn addictive.

This morning I arrived at the Ravenhill FC facilities much earlier than usual. I needed to thoroughly review some medical reports from the latest ultrasound before Alicia’s rehab session and, above all, sort out the mental chaos I’ve been carrying around. I barely slept a wink the night before. We had a light dinner together at my place—a ridiculously domestic scene for two women who, just weeks ago, were capable of screaming at each other or devouring each other with kisses anywhere.

Seeing her walk around my house so naturally, as if she’d always belonged there, or enjoying a conversation while I washed the dishes and she dried them. It was too easy and too intimate. And for me, when things come too easily in love, they always end up scaring me twice as much because I sense the fall before it happens.

I walk into the medical office, clutching the still-scorching coffee thermos in my hands, and run into Lucía, organizing the staff files.

“Good morning, boss,” she greets me, raising an eyebrow with a mischievousness you can spot from a mile away. “You look like you got exactly zero hours of sleep last night.”

“Your diagnostic skills are starting to worry me,” I reply, forcing a half-smile as I set my bag on my desk and take a long, desperate sip of coffee.

“What can I say? I work side by side with you—some of your keen eye was bound to rub off on me.”

“Has Alicia stopped by yet?” I ask, trying to sound casual, though my pulse betrays me.

“She hasn’t stopped by yet. But Hugo is here. And get this—the sporting director showed up first thing this morning, too.”

That news makes me look up from the report abruptly, fixing my gaze on her.

“Julián Mercer? What on earth is he doing here so early?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but he got here half an hour ago and he’s got a look on his face that…”

I let out a short, heavy exhale through my mouth. Fantastic. Just what I needed. What if someone saw us and let it slip? No, that’s impossible—we’ve been meticulous about staying discreet… though in this line of work, the impossible is always the most likely.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out the real reason for his surprise visit. Midmorning, while I’m reviewing some progress charts in my office, Julián appears in the doorway, impeccably dressed and with a stern expression that doesn’t bode well.

“Clara, I need to talk to you for a moment in private, please.”

I don’t ask him why. Deep down, I already know.

We end up locked in one of the small meeting rooms in the main building—one of those with glass walls that look like interrogation rooms. Julián commands respect just by stepping into the room, and everyone at Ravenhill FC, as absurd as it may seem, fears him when he cracks the whip. He’s the typical corporate shark who’s been in professional soccer his whole life and cares a thousand times more about the balance sheet, sponsorship money, and the league standings than he does about the actual well-being of the players themselves. Everything about his body language is coldly calculated: his posture, his tone of voice, even the icy way he fixes his gaze on you before dropping the bombshell. He motions for me to sit down with a courteous yet authoritative gesture of his hand.

“Clara. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

“You’re welcome, Julián,” I reply, settling into the leather chair directly across from him and clasping my hands to hide the tremor.

The conversation starts with the usual polite small talk. How the medical staff’s performance is impeccable, how recovery times are going smoothly, how the team’s overall condition heading into the season is magnificent… A flawless charade that keeps all my senses on high alert. Until, as expected, one thing leads to another and he hits the nail right on the head.

“You see, I wanted to talk to you about a rather sensitive matter,” he says, interlacing his fingers on the wooden tabletop.

I slowly cross one leg over the other and shift in my seat, making a superhuman effort to stay calm.

“I’m listening, Julián.”

“I want us to talk very seriously about the strict boundaries that must always exist between the medical staff and the first-team players,” he says without taking his gray eyes off mine even for a moment. “Look, I’m not accusing anyone in particular—let’s be clear about that. But in an environment as closed-off, competitive, and prone to gossip as a soccer club, malicious rumors spread a thousand times faster than good results on the field. And when those hallway whispers directly affect a certain type of player, the situation ceases to be a private matter and therefore becomes completely untenable for the board.”

I don’t bat an eye. I don’t react in the slightest. At least, not on the outside—because on the inside, my breakfast is churning.