Page 72 of Last Line of Defense

We kiss again, this time with an infinite tenderness that brings tears to my eyes. Tonight, in my living room, amid confidences, sweat, and caresses, what we share becomes something unshakable, real, and deeply ours. And that’s when I realize that our future, no matter how chaotic it may seem, has a fixed course: her.

28

The Moving Pact

Alicia

Waking up to the soft patter of rain gently tapping against the bedroom window is a delight—let’s not kid ourselves. But when that awakening includes Clara’s naked body pressed against mine, with one of her legs tangled between mine and her slow, steady breath caressing my collarbone, it’s like touching the sky with my hands.

I lie still for a few minutes, holding my breath so as not to break the spell. The grayish morning light filters timidly through the slats of the blinds, tracing lines of light across her back. Her hair is tousled, her lips slightly swollen from last night’s wild kisses, and she has that peaceful expression she so rarely shows when she’s wearing her work uniform.

I try to shift a little to stretch my left leg, but my knee—that eternal pain in the neck—protests with a subtle crack. Instantly, I feel Clara stir beside me. She wrinkles that perfect little nose of hers, lets out a sleepy grunt that melts my insides, and, without opening her eyes, slides a warm hand up my thigh until it rests right on the joint.

“Your kneecap cracked. And the tendon’s tight,” she murmurs in that hoarse, just-woke-up voice that gives me goosebumps. “If I find out you’ve been acting crazy in your sleep, I’ll put you on a stretching regimen you’ll never forget.”

“Good morning to you, too…” I reply, letting out a hearty laugh and wrapping my arm around her waist to pull her closer to me. “You’re so obsessed with physically examining me the moment I open my eyes. Can’t you just hug me like a normal person and tell me how irresistible I am?”

Clara half opens one eye and leans against my chest with a sidelong smile.

“You’re pretty irresistible, I won’t deny it,” she says, giving me a playful nibble on the chin. “But even though I’m not your physical therapist anymore, I’m still the one responsible for keeping that leg in shape, so my professional bias is included in the package. By the way, it’s your turn to get up and make coffee. I already put in enough physical effort yesterday carrying you around on the couch.”

“Hey!” I protest, utterly indignant as I tickle her sides, making her squirm under the sheets and burst into a delightful laugh. “Let me remind you that I was the one who took control in the second round—after all, I am number nine on the Ravenhill FC roster, and I’ve got enviable explosive power.”

“You’ve got power to spare, wild one, but you’re a bit short on finesse,” she teases, nimbly wriggling free of my hands and sitting up in bed, revealing the perfect curve of her back. “Come on, get moving. If we don’t get a move on, you’ll be late to the facility, and Hugo’s going to hang you from a pine tree.”

At the mention of the training facility, the festive atmosphere in the bedroom undergoes a subtle shift. The reality of what we did yesterday at the gym—that kiss right in front of the entire team and coaching staff—begins to hang heavy in the air. I’m not afraid, not in the least, but I know full well that the front office doesn’t handle things with the same ease as we do in the locker room.

I sit up slowly, leaning my back against the headboard, and watch her as she puts on some clothes.

“Do you think the news has reached Julián yet?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light but unable to hide my curiosity.

Clara turns around, pausing halfway through pulling her hair into a makeshift bun. Her expression turns serious, professional, analytical.

“Julián can’t do anything anymore. You were within your rights to do that interview, and I… well, I completely ignored the fact that I’m no longer a member of the club and therefore can’t just walk into the training facility whenever I want,” she replies, coming over to my side of the bed to plant a tender kiss on my lips. “But don’t worry about that. Just focus on getting your knee back in shape and scoring goals.”

“No way,” I snap, grabbing her wrist gently but with unyielding determination. “If he says anything to you, I’ll go remind him that my contract has a termination clause that would give more than one sponsor a heart attack if I decided to exercise it.”

Clara smiles, running her knuckles across my cheek in a gesture full of tenderness.

“Come on, go to the kitchen before I pounce on your mouth and keep you from leaving here.”

The breakfast routine is pure domestic comedy. Her kitchen is small, with a minimalist design that isn’t meant for a woman who’s nearly six feet tall to move around freely without bumping her elbows against the cabinets. I end up burning the first batch of toast because I’m mesmerized watching Clara try to reach the bowls on the top shelf, standing on her tiptoes and displaying a flexibility that makes me lose my cool.

“Alicia, the toast is smoking!” she shouts, pointing at the toaster with a furrowed brow.

“It’s an avant-garde smoking technique that’s all the rage in Spain, Doctor—you just don’t understand haute cuisine,” I defend myself, hurriedly scraping the charred slices with a knife while bursting into laughter.

“What I do know is that if you quit soccer, you’ll starve to death as a waitress,” she mocks, snatching the knife from my hands and spreading the jam with exasperating slowness.

We sit down at the small kitchen table, sharing the space with a closeness that fills my chest with an unfamiliar sense of peace. It’s a strange but wonderful feeling. I’ve spent years living in hotels, in sterile rental apartments, jumping from one training camp to another, feeling deeply alone despite being surrounded by thousands of fans chanting my name every weekend. But here, sharing some burnt toast and a latte, I feel like I’ve found my place in the world.

“Clara,” I say suddenly, setting my cup down on the table and looking her straight in the eyes. She pauses, with the toast halfway to her mouth, sensing the seriousness in my voice. “This whole thing about having to coordinate our schedules—me coming here or you going to my apartment… it really gets on my nerves.”

Clara sighs deeply, setting the toast down on her plate, and her gaze grows thoughtful, filled with that maturity that always fascinates me.

“I don’t like it either. But that’s what couples usually do, isn’t it? Besides, now that they know we’re a couple, I highly doubt the press will stop hounding you and turning our relationship into a soap opera.”

“Well, screw the press,” I snap at her with that vehemence so typical of me, leaning toward her across the table. “It doesn’t matter how much they hound us. In the end, my life… I want my life with you. I want this, Clara. Every single day.”