Page 5 of Last Line of Defense

I shoot her a look so cold and cutting it could have frozen the Strait of Gibraltar itself in the middle of August. She, used to my antics, immediately raises both hands in surrender, though her eyes continue to sparkle with pure amusement.

“Hey, I’m not the one saying it! Half the locker room is saying it. Last night in the girls’ WhatsApp group, that’s all anyone was talking about. Things like, ‘Have you seen how she moves on the field?’ or ‘It’s like the ball is glued to her cleats—it’s magic.’ And then, of course, there were the racy comments about her physique, her back… well, you can imagine. The girls are all worked up.”

I sigh heavily and roll my eyes, feigning a lack of interest that’s far from real. Because the real problem—the one that’s gnawing at me from the inside—is precisely that. I’ve thought the same thing, too. Yesterday, the moment our eyes met, there was something about Alicia Puertas that I found absolutely impossible to ignore. I’m not just talking about her undeniable physical beauty—because it would be idiotic to deny that the girl is a magazine-cover stunner. I’m talking about her damn ego, that overwhelming confidence with which she walks, knowing she’s the center of the universe and desired by everyone, and using that wild magnetism to control every damn thing that revolves around her. Chaotic, attractive, insolent, and dangerous. Exactly the kind of destructive woman I’ve been avoiding for years to keep my sanity intact.

“Your appointment for the official medical exam is at nine o’clock sharp,” I say sternly, deliberately steering the conversation back to professional matters and pointing to the large analog clock on the wall. “It’s twelve past nine. That doesn’t seem like a very professional way to start your time at this club, to say the least.”

Lucía peeks out into the glass-enclosed hallway for a moment and shakes her head, amused by the situation.

“Well, so far there’s not a trace of the star down the hallway. Maybe she got lost among all those luxury suites… or maybe—just maybe—she’s deliberately testing how far she can push you on her first day.”

“What a huge surprise—I wasn’t expecting that at all,” I say sarcastically, though inside I can clearly feel the twinge of irritation starting to rise in my chest. Nobody messes with me in my own clinic.

Just at that moment, the double doors swing open, and Alicia strides into the medical wing as if she owns the place. She’s carrying a designer gym bag slung casually over her shoulder, dark sunglasses dangling from her right hand, and that insolent, brazen calm of someone who’s always late, convinced that the rest of the world is obligated to adapt to her schedule.

Alba, the team captain, and Sonia, our left wing, are waiting for the preventive taping session to begin; they both look up at the same time when they see her enter. Lucía hides a knowing smile by covering her mouth with her folder. I, on the other hand, remain rooted to the spot, cross my arms, and stare at her with a coldness that puts Antarctica to shame.

Alicia fixes her eyes on me first. Then she deliberately looks over at the wall clock. Afterward, she locks her gaze back onto mine. And she smiles. With that half-smile—askew, mischievous, and confident—that’s incredibly annoying and alluring in equal measure.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says with astonishing nonchalance, as if she hadn’t just thrown my entire morning schedule into disarray. “You know what they say: true stars make people wait and always allow themselves the luxury of arriving a little late. British traffic, girls—a nightmare, as you know.”

Alba lets out a spontaneous laugh that she quickly tries to cover up with a fake cough when I fix my gaze on her, and Sonia suddenly decides that inspecting the paint on the left wall is the most exciting activity in the world. I don’t move. I don’t smile. Not even a millimeter. I rise from the stool unhurriedly, adjust my white coat, and walk slowly toward her until I’m a meter away, maintaining just the right professional distance.

“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but in here there are no privileges or VIP passes for absolutely anyone,” I reply in a firm, perfectly steady, sharp voice. “Let me remind you—in case the applause made you forget—that even the brightest stars in the sky can fall flat on their faces if they don’t do their daily work properly. And in my department, punctuality isn’t a whim; it’s a sacred rule.”

Alicia holds my gaze without flinching in the slightest, taking an imperceptible step forward that closes the distance between us. Her eyes—which I now realize, under the bright lights, are an intense, feline, spectacular green—reveal a deep, genuine weariness that she’s desperately trying to hide beneath layers upon layers of cheap swagger.

“Well, well, Dr. Valle…” she murmurs in a voice that’s pure velvet, tilting her head slightly to one side with a mocking air. “We’re hitting the ground running, huh? With all that intensity you’re throwing around, I’m almost starting to suspect you’ve missed me.”

I hear Lucía duck her head behind me to stifle a laugh, and I force myself to take a deep breath through my nose, mentally repeating my personal mantra as if it were a lifeline: Control. Discipline. Distance. Don’t take the bait, Clara.

“Never confuse purely professional demands with personal interest, because you’d be very much mistaken,” I reply dryly, fixing my gaze on her.

Her cheeky smile widens a little more, becoming lazier and more feline.

“What a shame. You’re so pretty, and that uniform looks so good on you. I was already getting my hopes up in the hallway, believe it or not. I thought you’d at least give me a slightly more… warm and welcoming reception, Doctor.”

Oh my goodness. I’ve met plenty of self-centered and exhausting players throughout my career, but Alicia is in a league of her own; she seems like she was designed in a lab specifically to test my nerves, my patience, and my blood pressure. I force myself to keep a straight face and not react to her provocations. I’m not going to make a fool of myself in front of the girls on the team. And certainly not in front of her, when she’s just waiting to see me lose my cool.

“Let’s get started right away with your medical and functional evaluation,” I say firmly, picking up her medical file from the table and pointing with my pen to the adjustable exam table at the back of the room. “So, if you’d be so kind, please lie down and let us do our job. Alba, Sonia, go into the next room with Lucía; she’ll take care of your neuromuscular taping right now.”

The players nod and hurry off with Lucía toward the other area of the clinic, though I can clearly sense them nudging each other and exchanging glances full of pure gossip. We’re left alone.

Alicia drops her gym bag onto a chair with a dull thud and walks toward the treatment table with that elegant, rhythmic, feline stride typical of someone who has spent years pretending to the media that her body is indestructible and that she owes no explanations to anyone. I watch her walk in absolute silence, clinically analyzing every phase of her gait: every step, every small, unconscious shift of weight to the right, every automatic protective gesture. The slightest stiffness she shows when rotating her hip does not go unnoticed by me. I don’t need to see a state-of-the-art MRI to know perfectly well that the structures around her left knee are under serious strain.

She sits on the edge of the high examination table and begins to untie the laces of her sneakers slowly and deliberately. In a brief moment of inattention, as she stares intently at her hands, I see a flash of genuine fear, of pure vulnerability, flicker in her eyes. And during that damned second, free from the cameras, I don’t see the indomitable media star of the Premier League; I see a woman who has probably been carrying the weight and terror of an injury that could end her professional career all on her own for far too long.

I open the confidential medical file her former club sent us and set it on the side table, right next to my work tablet. I stand facing her.

“I want absolute and brutal honesty from this moment on, Alicia. If you try to hide from me that something hurts, if you lie to me, or if you downplay your symptoms so I’ll clear you to return to play prematurely, you won’t be helping yourself, and you’ll seriously harm the interests of the entire team—are we clear?” I ask her in a serious tone, crossing my arms. “This isn’t a child’s game or a press conference where you have to make a good impression.”

She stops moving her hands, lifts those expressive green eyes toward me, and fixes me with a defiant stare, resting her palms on the padded edge of the examination table.

“What if I decide to tell you the truth?” she asks me in that defiant, cocky tone she seems to use to get everything she sets her mind to in life. “Are you going to send me straight to the bench indefinitely before I even make my debut with the team? Are you going to leak to the newspapers that I’m the new star player who arrived injured and that no one will want me on the market anymore?”

The question hangs in the air of the room with a dense, suffocating weight. Lucía, sensing the gravity of the moment, moves discreetly into the adjoining room and closes the doors to give us complete privacy.

“If you tell me the truth,” I reply, softening my voice slightly and holding her gaze with complete calm, “at least we’ll have a real chance to put a stop to whatever it is you’re dealing with and devise a specific plan so you can keep playing at the highest level for many years to come. Get this through your head: I’m not your enemy at this club, even if my persistence makes it seem otherwise. My only job here is to fix what’s broken and protect your health—not to punish you or bench you on a whim.”