Safe Distance #2
I feel a cheeky smile form on my lips all by itself—one of those smiles that, in my life, usually precedes a terrible decision.
There it is: that damn preconceived judgment.
The typical “I know exactly what kind of troublemaking girl you are.” I recognize that little game instantly.
I’ve been putting up with it for years from coaches, managers, and sports doctors who are convinced they can pigeonhole me before they’ve even exchanged two words with me.
And if there’s one thing in this world I enjoy more than scoring a spectacular chip shot in the ninetieth minute, it’s dismantling the damn smugness of people who think they know it all. Like her.
“Don’t give me that serious look,” I say in a soft voice, almost a coo, still holding her hand. “I promise I’ll be a good girl and I won’t give you any headaches.”
I can clearly hear Bruno let out a panicked sigh beside me. Clara, on the other hand, doesn’t take her eyes off mine for even a single millimeter. In fact, she tightens her grip before letting go of me.
“I’m not worried about headaches, Alicia,” she replies with astonishing calm, her gaze sweeping over my body without the slightest pretense. “I’m worried about players who think they’re above the club’s rules and end up destroying themselves out of sheer stubbornness and ego.”
The words land between us with the precision and sharpness of a Swiss Army knife. I slowly pull my hand away, smirking inwardly. This is getting interesting.
“Then you can breathe easy. I detest poorly enforced rules—the ones that make no sense. The ones that make medical and athletic sense, I follow to the letter.”
Clara arches a dark eyebrow with exquisite subtlety.
“Oh, really? And may I ask who decides which rules make sense here? You?”
“Normally, yes,” I admit with a boastful half-smile, subtly shifting all my weight onto my right leg—the good one—so as not to give anything away. “But hey, I’m completely open to you convincing me otherwise. If you can, that is.”
Bruno clears his throat so forcefully that it looks like he’s about to choke. The communications director looks up at the ceiling, visibly uncomfortable with the tension in the air, and interjects in a conciliatory tone that’s actually pretty funny.
“Clara… please. I’m absolutely certain that you and Alicia are going to make a great team. Her knee needs the best possible care, and you are, without a doubt, the best specialist we have in the country.”
Clara doesn’t take her dark eyes off mine, not even to blink.
“I hope so. Because in my department, I won’t tolerate my treatment guidelines being ignored.
Here, what my medical team and I prescribe is followed.
No complaints, no sulking, and no diva-like negotiations in the locker room.
If you feel a twinge, you tell me. If it hurts when you put weight on it, you tell me that, too.
And if you think you can skip recovery periods or high-intensity workouts just because one day you wake up ‘feeling good,’ you’re wrong. It doesn’t work that way with me.”
Her tone is so firm, so professional, and so absurdly authoritative that it turns me on like hell. I catch myself tracing the perfect line of her jaw and the way her pupils don’t give an inch in my presence. This woman’s got guts—I like that.
“Understood, boss,” I reply, though I notice my own voice hardens a little, marking my territory. “Although I’m warning you right now that I’m a pretty stubborn woman. It’s going to take some work to tame me.”
“I know that perfectly well,” she fires back without batting an eye.
“I’ve read your medical history and your reports from the last three years cover to cover.
Two meniscus surgeries, three setbacks from rushing back too soon, and a rather worrying—and stupid—tendency to downplay the pain in front of the coaches so you don’t lose your starting spot. ”
Low blow. That comment hits me right below the belt and stings, but not over my dead body am I going to let her see it affected me. I smile even more broadly, playing dumb.
“Well, well… I see you’ve done your homework, Dr. Valle. I’m incredibly flattered by all this attention.”
“It’s my job. I’m not paid to have fans, but to keep the players in the game.”
The communications director comes to the rescue, clearly relieved to be able to step in and change the subject before things really start to heat up.
“Well, I think that after such an… intense and productive welcome, it would be best if we started with the guided tour of the indoor facilities. Does that sound good to you all?”
The whole damn group seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Everyone except me. Because as we start walking toward the hallways leading to the indoor training fields, I feel Clara’s imposing presence just a few steps away.
And I hate with every fiber of my being the realization that my body is acutely aware of her every movement, her scent, and her footsteps behind me.
· · ·
During the indoor tour, the storm outside seems to die down a bit, but inside me there’s a hurricane.
I walk beside Bruno, who keeps nudging me warningly every few moments, but my attention is constantly and inevitably drawn to Clara’s silhouette.
I hear her explaining various technical details about the new hydrothermal recovery center to the assistant coach in a professional tone.
At one point, she steps forward and stands beside me as she points to some modern stainless-steel booths.
“This cryotherapy area is going to be absolutely key for you and for the longevity of your knee,” she says quietly, leaning in slightly so no one else can hear her.
“If you follow my recovery plan to the letter, I guarantee I can help you extend your career at the highest level for a few more years. If you decide to go it alone… well, we both know perfectly well how these kinds of stories end in women’s soccer.
With a premature retirement and a knee replacement before you turn thirty. ”
I come to a sudden stop in the middle of the hallway and turn to look intently into those eyes that have been driving me crazy for the past ten minutes.
“Are you always this blunt with new recruits, or is it just that you really like me?”
“I’m only direct when I think the player in question is worth the effort,” she replies without the slightest hesitation, shoving her hands into the pockets of her lab coat in a cocky manner. “And you’re worth it, Alicia. Even if you’re a walking headache and a rebel without a cause.”
A low chuckle, full of genuine amusement, escapes my chest. I love this woman.
“Well, well. A compliment wrapped in an insult. I love your style.”