Page 61 of Last Line of Defense

Julián narrows his eyes, visibly annoyed by the scolding she’s just given him.

“I assure you this has absolutely nothing to do with our personal discomfort, Alicia.”

“Of course it has to do with that—don’t give me that!” she retorts with such vehemence that she leans forward across the table. “The thing is, as soon as a female soccer player has a pair of balls and some backbone, she stops being a passionate player and instantly becomes a troublemaker. And if she goes and commits the terrible crime of falling in love with someone who works at the club, then you’ve got the scandal of the century on your hands.”

“Alicia, please,” Hugo interjects for the first time, raising his hands in a placating gesture, trying to play firefighter before the situation gets out of hand. “No one at this table is using those terms with you or judging your feelings.”

She turns her head toward the coach with catlike speed, glaring at him.

“You don’t need to say it out loud. Female soccer players like me have been hearing exactly the same little speech between the lines for years, Hugo. Every time a player strays even a millimeter from the damn straight line you people at the top draw, she’s immediately cast as the villain. And I’ve had that role assigned to me by decree ever since I set foot in this country.”

I feel something break painfully inside my chest as I watch her like this, unprotected, baring her claws and defending herself all on her own. Always alone against the world. My Alicia, so damn strong on the outside and so incredibly vulnerable on the inside.

The sporting director then shifts his gray eyes away from Alicia and fixes his gaze on me, adjusting his tie.

“Clara, you hold a position of the highest responsibility within the medical staff’s organizational structure. As a healthcare professional, you’ll understand perfectly well that this kind of situation puts the club in a very difficult position in terms of its reputation.”

And it’s at that very moment, seeing the coldness in his eyes, that I realize Julián’s masterstroke. They have no intention whatsoever of destroying me or firing me in some nasty way; I’m an excellent physical therapist and not easy to replace. They’re going to go after her—with a vengeance. If this gets out, the headlines in the English sports press won’t be about a real-life love story between two adult, independent women who fell in love at work. No way. Sensationalism sells better. The front pages will be all about Alicia Puertas—the perennial troublemaker, the problematic star who destabilizes the coaching staff, the player incapable of separating her romantic entanglements from her professional performance. The same old story all over again. It’s always her who ends up paying the price.

Suddenly, I notice that my breathing becomes slow, deliberate, and strangely calm. It’s a very strange sensation. It’s as if all the panic I’d been building up over the last few hours has suddenly dissipated.

I sit up straight in my chair, rest my forearms on the table, and stare intently at Julián.

“Everything you saw downstairs was solely and exclusively my responsibility, Julián,” I say in a firm voice.

Alicia turns her head toward me at lightning speed, her eyes wide with utter astonishment.

“Clara… what the hell are you talking about?” she whispers in a strained voice.

I gently shake my head, standing my ground without looking at her.

“No, Alicia. Let me speak now, please.”

I feel the weight of her gaze fixed on my cheek from the side as I focus all my attention on the sporting director. I feel my heart pounding a thousand beats a minute inside my rib cage, as if it were about to burst out of my chest, but I force myself to sound confident, professional, and completely detached.

“Alicia Puertas has never used our closeness or my position on the medical staff to gain any kind of personal advantage, preferential treatment, or alteration of performance reports. She has never influenced my professional judgment in the slightest, and she has never, under any circumstances, jeopardized the team dynamic or the club’s sporting discipline. The sole responsibility for having crossed that ethical line lies with me. I was the one who made the conscious decision to let my feelings get the better of me, and I was the one who failed to establish the necessary ethical boundaries as soon as I began to feel something much deeper for her.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it perfectly well!” Alicia interjects immediately, slamming her fist on the table so hard that the pens rattle, her voice breaking and brimming with overwhelming emotion. “You’re not going to take the fall for this all by yourself, Clara—I won’t let you. It wasn’t just you. We’re both in this—up to our necks. We’ve both felt it from day one, and we both want this badly.”

I turn to look at her for the first time since we entered this meeting bunker. Alicia is staring at me with anger, panic, and a vulnerability that makes me tremble inside. Good God. I love her so much that my chest physically aches.

“Yes, it was my fault,” I reply with infinite tenderness, holding her gaze. “As a member of the medical and professional staff, I was the one with the contractual and moral obligation to maintain distance and professionalism at all times. Not you.”

She shakes her head repeatedly, her eyes misted with tears of rage.

“I don’t give a damn about your contract, Clara. Under no circumstances am I going to let you shoulder the consequences of this all by yourself. I’m not going to sit here with my arms crossed watching you try to sacrifice yourself like a martyr to save my ass. Forget it.”

A small smile—somewhat sad and nostalgic—forms on my lips. It’s incredible. Even in the midst of this bloodbath, furious as hell and with her back against the wall, she’s still doing everything she can to shield me from the blow.

I fix my gaze on the sporting director again, resting my hands on the table.

“In women’s soccer—and really, in any job where we excel—we women continue to live under constant public scrutiny and moral judgment,” I say slowly, weighing and savoring every word so it sinks in deep. “We can be flawless for years, excellent at our jobs, but all it takes is a single slip-up in our private lives for everything else to stop mattering one bit. Alicia Puertas is the best forward this club has seen in many, many years. You know this perfectly well; the press knows it all too well; and the entire English league knows it. And I sincerely hope that the fact that she’s in love with me won’t be the excuse you use to deny her the chance to prove it on the field.”

The word “love” hangs heavy in the air of the room—weighty, resounding, and imposing. Alicia opens her mouth just a fraction, completely shocked by my confession. I turn to look at her, and for one wonderful second, I swear everything else disappears: the boardroom, Julián’s poker face, the tension in the air, and the fear of the future. Only she and I exist. Her eyes fixed on mine, her breath held, and that pure emotion that begins to chip away, piece by piece, at all that armor she always carries with her.

I give her the most tender smile, trying to convey peace through my gaze. What I’m about to do isn’t a desperate sacrifice. It’s a free, conscious, deliberate choice. My choice.

“So, to spare the organization further trouble,” I finally continue, turning my gaze back to the sporting director, “I am submitting my resignation with immediate effect.”