Page 76 of Last Line of Defense

When the session ends, the players head back to the locker room amid laughter and playful tugs on each other’s jerseys. I stay seated in the stands for a few more minutes, enjoying the silence that returns to the soccer field, feeling an immense sense of peace wash over me. Tomorrow’s league debut no longer scares me; the club’s structures may be archaic and the offices may be full of cowards, but as long as these girls keep moving the ball with that freedom in their legs, the future is entirely ours.

I stand up, grab my jacket, and head down the stands to meet Alicia in the parking lot. The move awaits us, and I don’t plan on missing a single second of the most important game of our lives.

EPILOGUE

The Most Beautiful Way to Be Brave

Clara

There’s something deeply addictive about the roar of a packed stadium. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve heard it throughout my career. It doesn’t matter how many games I’ve experienced from the sidelines, the bench, or some remote section of the stands. There’s always something about that mix of anticipation, nerves, and collective hope that makes my heart race until I can feel it in my throat.

And this afternoon is no different. Or maybe it is. Because this time I’m not focused on an entire team. I’m focused on a single person. On Alicia.

From my seat in the box, I watch as the players finish their warm-up on the stadium’s impeccably manicured field. The late-summer sun bathes the stands packed with fans waving scarves, flags, and banners with an enthusiasm capable of moving mountains. The air vibrates with distant chants, and the smell of freshly cut grass mingles with the aroma of beer and the perfume of the people around me.

It’s been just over a week since my life took a turn I never could have imagined. But here I am, watching the woman I love get ready to play in the first official game of the season. The same woman who was on the verge of being destroyed by an injury. The same woman who spent months denying the pain, pretending everything was fine while her body screamed the opposite. The same woman who now smiles as she slips the interim captain’s armband around her arm with that determination that makes me fall in love with her all over again.

My heart swells with pride, but also with a dull, persistent fear. Because fear doesn’t disappear when you love someone. It just changes form—it becomes more cunning and profound. Alicia, who ignored the obvious signs of her injury for so long, turned a patellar tendinopathy—an injury that was relatively easy to recover from—into something much more complex because of her stubborn and proud nature. I still remember the first time I examined her in my office. Her arrogance, those heated arguments, the constant defiance in her gaze, and the electric tension crackling between us. It all seems like it belongs to another life.

Now I recognize each of her silences. I know when she’s nervous because she clenches her jaw. When she’s angry because she crosses her arms and looks away. When she’s insecure because she avoids holding my gaze, as if she fears I might read in her eyes everything she’s trying to hide. And precisely because I know her so well, this afternoon I’m having trouble breathing normally. I know how much this game means to her. It’s not just the start of the season. It’s a vindication. A response to the world. A personal victory. Proof that she’s still capable of doing what she does best: playing.

A few minutes later, the lineup appears on the giant screens. And when Alicia Puertas’s name is displayed among the starters, the crowd erupts in a deafening roar.

“Alicia! Alicia! Alicia!”

The chant sweeps through the stands like a gigantic wave that engulfs everything. I smile tenderly. Because, no matter how much she pretends fame leaves her indifferent, I know how much she needs to feel like a soccer player again. To feel strong again. To feel free again.

My phone vibrates in my hand. I pull it out with a smile already on my lips. A message from her.

Alicia: Don’t ask me what I had to do to get the coach to let me use my phone. Stop worrying. I can tell you’re tense even from here.

I laugh to myself, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I look up at the field. Alicia is standing with the rest of the team, more than fifty yards away, holding her phone, looking straight at me as if she’d sensed exactly what I’m thinking. I reply in a hurry, knowing she doesn’t have much time:

Clara: No way. You know I can’t help myself when it comes to you.

Her smile appears immediately—wide and radiant—and for a few seconds I forget where I am. I forget the stadium, the crowd, the reporters, and the rumors still hanging in the air. All that exists are her eyes, that smile I know by heart, and that woman who has turned my world upside down.

The game begins shortly after. The first few minutes are frantic. The opposing team presses high up the field, the tackles are hard, and the intensity is overwhelming. I can barely blink. Every time Alicia changes direction, my heart skips a beat. Every time she accelerates, I feel a jolt of tension run down my spine. Every jump, every sprint, every turn, every collision seems dangerous, ridiculous, exaggerated to me. But inevitable. Because loving someone means living with the fear of losing them.

Twenty minutes in, Alicia receives the ball near the sideline. She controls it masterfully, spins on her heel with that elegance that’s the hallmark of her game, and leaves one opponent in her wake. Then another. And she takes off. The entire stadium is on its feet. So am I.

I watch her pick up speed. I see how her knee responds with ease. How it bears the load. How her body is functioning exactly as it should again. And something inside me finally relaxes, as if I’d been holding my breath for months. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment, though I’m sure she wanted it much more than I did.

The play ends with a powerful shot that grazes the post. The stands erupt anyway. Alicia raises her arms to the sky, smiles with that mix of relief and euphoria, and keeps running as if she’d never been injured. As if the pain had never existed. As if all those months since she tripped over an opponent last season had been nothing but a nightmare from which she’s finally waking up.

The first half ends in a tie. And I’m exhausted. I haven’t moved a single yard from my seat, but I can feel every muscle stiff with pent-up tension. I get up to grab a soda, and that’s when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“Dr. Valle.”

I turn around slowly. I instantly recognize the sporting director. The same man who caught us in the elevator that day. The same one who was there the day I resigned. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Julián seems uncomfortable. I’m surprised, but determined to keep my composure.

“May I sit down?” he asks in a deep voice.

I nod. He takes a seat next to me, adjusts his suit jacket, and sighs deeply, as if he’s been rehearsing what he’s about to say for a while.

“I’ve made some mistakes, Clara.”

I blink at the sincerity in his words.