Page 49 of Last Line of Defense

I let out a brief laugh—almost a snort—and shake my head, trying my hardest to look indifferent.

“Don’t start getting all worked up over your Netflix dramas. I’ve got enough going on in my head already.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying what I see with these eyes God gave me. If that woman looked at me with that possessive expression, I’d have already lost the ability to speak—and probably to think straight. Have you noticed how she purses her lips every time you put your left foot down wrong? It’s as if the pain hits her directly instead of you.”

Her words pierce me right in the chest because I know, with absolute certainty, that she’s absolutely right. Clara doesn’t take her eyes off me. And I, being a masochist, am constantly watching her every move, every gesture, and every hint of concern that slips through that facade of strict professionalism.

After the gym, it’s time for tactical training on the grass of the outdoor field at the hotel’s sports complex. The sky is covered with thick gray clouds, and the gusty wind smells of an approaching storm and freshly cut grass. Unlike my teammates, who are running back and forth following the coach’s instructions on pressing as a unit, I’m just walking, constantly feeling Clara’s gaze from the sideline. This time, she doesn’t even bother to hide it in the slightest. Every time I slow down a little or take a small hop, she clenches her jaw brutally. Every time I jog and lose my balance, she frowns. And every time I decide to kick a ball with even the slightest bit of risk, she starts tapping on the tablet screen with such fury that it looks like she’s going to punch right through it with her finger.

When the session ends, Hugo gathers us in the center of the field for the closing talk, and Clara joins the staff huddle to speak to all of us. Her eyes linger on my face a second longer than usual.

“Good work this morning, girls,” she says in that clear, firm, melodious voice of hers that drives me wild. “Remember, everyone, the vital importance of recovery time and stopping by the physio room. It’s great to give one hundred percent on the field, but pushing yourself past the point of exhaustion only leads to disappointment and unnecessary injuries.”

Her words are directed at the entire team, of course, but the piercing glance she shoots my way as she utters that last sentence is meant exclusively for me. I feel a treacherous, burning heat rise up my neck.

Later, during lunch at the hotel buffet, Irene comes at me again; she sits down next to me with her tray and lowers her voice so the women at the next table won’t hear.

“Okay, Alicia, enough joking around. Is your knee getting better? I saw you limping pretty badly this morning.”

“Yeah, you pain in the neck, Clara’s exercise routine is really helping me,” I lie shamelessly, even though we both know full well that my knee is screaming for mercy.

Clara walks past our table with her tray and stops short for a second, looking down at me with medical superiority.

“Alicia, as soon as you finish eating, I want to check that joint. And I’m warning you now—I’m not going to accept a single one of your excuses today. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Doctor,” I reply with a cheeky smirk.

She raises an eyebrow skeptically, keeps her composure without saying anything else so as not to arouse suspicion, and continues on her way to the staff table. Irene gives me a sharp elbow to the ribs that almost makes me spit out my pasta.

“Girl, seriously, the sexual tension between the two of you is so thick you could cut it with a serrated knife. I don’t know how the hell you’re able to live and breathe with that hanging over your head.”

“Well, by living, Irene, just like the rest of us do in this life.”

· · ·

The afternoon descends upon the hotel, shrouded in a blanket of utter physical exhaustion. After dinner with the whole group, several of the girls insist that we go down to the hotel bar, where the resort has thrown together a small private party with music for the team. Honestly, I’m not in the mood for noise or parties. My knee is throbbing and hurting way more than it should, and my head is a total mess. But in the end, I go downstairs and let myself get swept up in the crowd, because staying cooped up within the four walls of my room means spending hours on end thinking about Clara, and that’s only going to cause me more problems and make me lose my mind over her even more.

The bar is packed, filled with soft pop music, warm neon lights, and a hubbub of overlapping conversations and loud laughter. The atmosphere is pretty relaxed. Several of the players start dancing near the cocktail bar while Hugo, who’s in a corner, pretends to look the other way so he doesn’t have to watch Irene guzzle mojitos. I just plop myself down on one of the leather sofas farthest from the entrance, a small bottle of mineral water in my hand, and try with all my might not to look for Clara. A total failure on my part.

I spot her almost immediately at the other end of the room, chatting animatedly with the rest of the coaching staff. She’s laughing out loud at something Lucía just said, and that damn sight strikes me as strangely irritating. Clara rarely lets her guard down like that in front of people, and suddenly discovering these fun, down-to-earth sides of her makes me want even more to get to know every single version of her.

Irene appears out of nowhere and plops down next to me on the couch, holding two cocktail glasses of a suspicious color.

“Here, take this. Even though it’s a nonalcoholic cocktail, it’ll do you a world of good. You look like you really need it.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the glass and taking a long swig of what turns out to be a cloying cherry syrup with more sugar than an entire bakery. “May I ask what you’re doing sitting here? Shouldn’t you be out on the dance floor giving it your all?”

“No way—I’d rather have a front-row seat to watch you devour Dr. Valle with your eyes.”

“Shut it, will you?” I whisper, giving her a nudge with my shoulder, though I’m totally unable to hold back a silly grin.

Around midnight, I decide I’ve had enough and return to my room completely exhausted. The hallway on the hotel’s third floor is shrouded in deathly silence, and the muffled sound of my footsteps on the carpet allows me to hear the weary rhythm of my own breathing. I swipe my key card through the lock, open the door, and freeze in the doorway. On the white bedspread lies a small white paper bag that wasn’t there when I left. I frown in confusion, walk slowly closer, close the door behind me, and look inside. I find a blister pack of strong anti-inflammatories, a new elastic knee brace, and a folded piece of paper. I recognize Clara’s firm, neat, elegant handwriting even before I start reading the first line:

“Partying until the wee hours isn’t exactly doing your knee any favors either. Please take this right now and get some damn rest. See you tomorrow.”

I slowly sit down on the edge of the mattress, holding the piece of paper between my fingers, and a huge smile slips out before I can stop it. It’s total nonsense and utterly absurd, but the simple fact of knowing that she’s been thinking about me and looking out for me while I was downstairs trying to find a humane way to get her out of my head… drives me completely crazy. Because Clara, despite her fears and her barriers, is still watching my every move and still looking out for me from the shadows, even if she has to keep her distance from me. And the real drama here is that I no longer know what I want most from her—her naked body on top of mine, everything else, or both.

I let out a slow breath through my mouth and run both hands roughly over my face. I can’t keep up this charade for even one more night. I can’t spend hours lying awake staring at the ceiling, imagining what it would be like to kiss her in every corner of this hotel, or picturing her lips slowly tracing the line of my neck, or desperately longing to cross the hallway, burst into her bedroom, and lose my mind and my senses between her legs.